“You’re not asking. I’m offering. Think of it as my way of saying how much I appreciate your friendship.”
Kathleen felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. Having someone she trusted handle the repairs would make everything so much easier.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
Patrick nodded. “I’ll draw up a proper estimate and timeline for you by next Wednesday. But if it’s okay with you, I’d like to start clearing out the basement tomorrow. That way, I’ll be able to give you a better idea of what it will cost.”
“That would be amazing. Thank you.” And for the first time in weeks, Kathleen was less worried about her house.
Chapter 8
Later that night, the Shoreline Bistro in Polson buzzed with gentle conversation and the soft clink of wine glasses.
It was the kind of upscale restaurant that Kathleen and her friends had once considered too fancy for young moms stretching grocery budgets. Now, in their sixties, they could afford such luxuries—and more importantly, they understood how precious these moments together were.
“To Isabel,” Kathleen said, raising her glass of wine, “and to Frank, who clearly has excellent taste in women.”
“Hear, hear,” Susan and Lynda chorused, their glasses meeting Isabel’s with a gentle chime.
Isabel’s cheeks flushed pink, though whether from the wine or the attention, Kathleen couldn’t tell. “You’re all being ridiculous,” she said, but her smile was radiant. “I can’t believe I’m getting married on Sunday.”
“I can,” Susan said, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied expression. “You’ve been glowing for weeks. Even when you video called me, I could see how happy you were.”
Lynda nodded, cutting another piece of her salmon. “You look the way I remember you looking at camp when you received a letter from that boy back home—what was his name? The one with the motorcycle?”
“Danny Morrison,” Isabel laughed. “Oh my goodness, I haven’t thought about him in decades. He had that terrible mustache.”
“It was terrible,” Kathleen said with a chuckle. “But his motorcycle made up for it. It’s funny what impressed us when we were teenagers.”
“And now look at us,” Susan said, gesturing around the table with her fork. “Isabel’s marrying a wonderful man, Lynda’s found Matt, and we’re having a meal in a restaurant that will cost more than we used to spend on groceries for a week.”
The conversation flowed as easily as the wine, decades of shared history creating a comfortable rhythm. They talked about Isabel’s dress and laughed about Lynda’s reluctance to wear anything other than a pantsuit. Susan regaled them with stories from her catering business, and Kathleen relaxed in a way she rarely did anymore.
“Do you remember,” Isabel said, setting down her wine glass, “that night at camp when we made that pact? We must have been seventeen.”
Kathleen smiled at the memory. “The summer romance pact. We swore we’d all find our Prince Charming by the time we were twenty-one.”
“And if we didn’t,” Lynda continued, “we’d meet back at Sapphire Bay when we were old and gray and become eccentric spinsters together.”
“Well, we’re certainly old and gray,” Susan said, touching her silver hair self-consciously.
“Speak for yourself,” Isabel said with a grin. “I prefer distinguished with silver highlights”
They dissolved into the kind of helpless laughter that only old friends could share, the kind that made other diners turn and smile at them. When they finally composed themselves, a comfortable silence settled over them.
“I never thought,” Isabel said quietly, “that I’d find love again. Not like this. Not at my age.”
“What do you mean, ‘your age’?” Lynda demanded. “You’re not dead yet.”
“You know what I mean,” Isabel said gently. “After James died, I thought that part of my life was over. I was grateful for what we’d had, but I’d accepted that those feelings belonged to my past.”
Kathleen understood completely. After her divorce, she’d built such a careful, controlled life. The idea of opening her heart again had seemed not only risky, but impossible.
“What changed?” Susan asked. “What made you willing to try again?”
Isabel considered the question, twirling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. “Frank makes me feel like myself again. Not the widow I became, or the careful version of myself I created to survive—but the woman I was before I forgot she existed.”
The honesty in her friend’s voice made Kathleen’s chest tight with emotion. When she spent time with Patrick, she glimpsed parts of herself she’d thought were gone forever. The woman who laughed easily and believed in possibilities.
