“I’m so happy for you,” Kathleen told Isabel. “You deserve to be happy.”
“We all do,” Isabel said, her gaze moving around the table. “That’s what I’ve learned. We all deserve to be happy, no matter what we’ve been through or how old we are.”
Susan nodded slowly. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. About my business, and about whether I’m just staying busy to avoid dealing with loneliness.” She paused, then added with a small smile, “It might be time for some new adventures.”
“Would that include moving to Montana?” Lynda asked hopefully.
“Maybe,” Susan admitted. “I used to think security meant controlling everything. Now I’m wondering if real security means trusting that good things can happen when you stop trying so hard to manage them.”
Kathleen felt tears prick her eyes as she listened to her friend. They were all learning the same lesson in different ways—that happiness was possible at any age, and that love came in many forms, often finding you when you least expected it.
“What about you, Kathleen?” Isabel asked gently. “Are you ready for some adventures of your own?”
The question hung in the air, and Kathleen thought about Patrick. About the way her heart sped up when she saw his truck parked outside the café, and how he made even the most mundane tasks feel important.
“I think about my ex-husband sometimes,” she said slowly, surprising herself by voicing thoughts she’d kept private. “David and I were so young when we got married. We thought we knew what love was, but we were really just playing house, trying to be the people we thought we should be.”
She took a sip of wine, gathering her courage. “I was never as happy with him as you are with Frank, Isabel. Not even in the beginning. We were compatible and we worked well together, but there was never that... spark. That feeling like you’ve found your person.”
“Do you think you might have found it now?” Lynda asked quietly.
Kathleen felt heat rise to her cheeks. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s terrifying to even think about.”
“Why terrifying?” Susan wanted to know.
“Because I’m sixty-six years old, and I feel like a teenager when I’m around Patrick,” Kathleen admitted. “Because I’ve spent so many years being independent, being strong, being the woman who doesn’t need anyone. What if I’m wrong about what I’m feeling? What if I’m just lonely and projecting something that isn’t there?”
“And what if you’re not wrong?” Isabel asked gently. “What if this is your chance at the kind of happiness you’ve never had before?”
The server appeared to refill their wine glasses, giving Kathleen a moment to compose herself. Around them, the restaurant continued its gentle hum of conversation and laughter, but their corner table felt removed from it all, a sacred space where four women could be completely honest with each other.
Kathleen looked at her friends. “When we were teenagers, we were so sure we’d have our lives figured out by the time we were twenty-one.”
“Maybe we’re late bloomers,” Susan said with a sigh. “Prince Charming was waiting for us to become the women we were meant to be.”
Kathleen felt something shift inside her chest—a loosening of the careful control she’d maintained for so long. “I think it’s time I found out if I’m a late bloomer.”
Isabel raised her glass. “I’ll make a toast to that. Here’s to Kathleen finding her happy ever after.”
As they lingered over dessert and coffee, sharing stories and dreams and gentle encouragement, Kathleen was grateful for her friends. Tomorrow, Isabel would marry Frank in a celebration of the love they’d found later in life. And if Kathleen had the courage, she might discover what possibilities were waiting for her, too.
Chapter 9
Patrick woke before dawn on Saturday morning. His internal clock refused to acknowledge weekends when there was somewhere he needed to be.
The coffee maker gurgled to life in his small kitchen as he thought about everything he had to do. Kathleen’s foundation needed attention, and he was eager to get started on the preliminary work that would give them both a clearer picture of what they were dealing with.
He’d spent most of Friday evening sketching out his approach to the repairs, double-checking his measurements and calculations. Jerry’s assessment wasn’t wrong about the structural issues, but Patrick had seen enough old houses to know there were usually better solutions than completely rebuilding walls and floors.
Victorian homes were built by craftsmen who understood their trade—they just needed someone willing to work with their original design rather than against it.
The drive to Kathleen’s house took him along the lake road, where morning mist rose from the water in ethereal spirals. Over the last seventy-three years, Patrick had learned to appreciate these quiet moments before the day’s demands took hold.
His grandsons had given up asking him when he was retiring. As far as Patrick was concerned, the day he stopped working would be the day he was carried out of his home in a pine box. There was something about the combination of physical work and problem-solving that kept him feeling useful, even necessary. And as far as he was concerned, that was worth more than the lifestyle he’d left behind in Manhattan.
Kathleen’s Victorian house came into view, its weathered shingles and ornate trim silhouetted against the pale sky. Even in its current state of disrepair, the house possessed a dignity that spoke to Patrick’s craftsman’s soul.
Houses like this weren’t just shelter—they were statements about permanence, about faith in the future. Someone had built this home intending it to last generations.
