“About all of it. The finances, the timing, whether we're crazy for even considering this.” She squeezed his hand. “He knows real estate. He knows this area. And he's always been honest with me, even when I didn't want to hear it.”
“Do you think he'll try to talk us out of it?”
“I don't know. Maybe. But I'd rather hear his concerns now than make a mistake we can't undo.”
Christopher nodded slowly. “Okay. Let's talk to him now.”
They found Crawford in the living room, settled into his favorite recliner with a book open on his lap. Ciara sat on the sofa nearby, knitting something soft and yellow that Becca suspected was destined for Eloise. The television played quietly in the background, some nature documentary about coral reefs that neither of them seemed to be watching.
Crawford looked up when they entered, his reading glasses sliding down his nose. His hair grayer than brown, he had the weathered look of a man who had spent his life on the water, skin tanned and hands calloused from years of hauling kayaks and repairing boat engines.
“Eloise down?” he asked.
“Finally,” Becca said. “It took some convincing.”
“She's got your stubbornness.” Crawford smiled and set his book aside. “What's on your minds? You both have that look.”
“What look?” Christopher asked.
“The look that says you want to ask me something and you're not sure how I'll react.”
Becca glanced at Christopher, then back at her father. She had never been able to hide anything from him. Even as a teenager, when she had tried to sneak out or cover up some minortransgression, he had always known. It was unnerving and comforting in equal measure.
“We want to talk to you about a house,” she said.
Crawford's eyebrows rose. “The one Devon showed you? The Westbrook place?”
“You know about it?”
“Devon mentioned it. Said you two seemed interested but overwhelmed.” Crawford gestured toward the sofa. “Sit down. Tell me what you're thinking.”
They sat, Becca beside Ciara and Christopher in the armchair across from Crawford. Ciara set her knitting in her lap and gave Becca an encouraging smile. She had been part of the family for two years now, and Becca had grown to love her quiet warmth, the way she supported Crawford without overshadowing him.
“The house is perfect in some ways and a disaster in others,” Christopher began. He explained what they had seen. The location, the views, the dock. The water damage, the outdated kitchen, the bathrooms that needed to be gutted. The price, which was low for waterfront on Captiva, but still substantial when combined with the renovation costs.
Crawford listened without interrupting, his expression thoughtful. When Christopher finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
“I knew Harold Westbrook,” he finally said. “Not well, but enough to say hello at the hardware store. He was a good man. Loved that property, loved his wife. When Eleanor died, something went out of him. He stopped caring about the house, stopped caring about much of anything. His kids tried to help, but they live up north and couldn't be here often enough to make a difference.”
“Devon said something similar,” Becca said.
“The house deserves better than what it's become.” Crawford leaned forward in his chair. “And you two deserve a home that'syours. Not a guest room in your old man's house, no matter how much I love having you here.”
“We love being here, even if we have to fly back and forth for work,” Becca said quickly. “I know we didn’t have a choice. It’s impossible to look at houses online. Chris and I needed to get a feel for any property that could be our potential home. You can’t do that by only looking online. You and Ciara have been so generous.”
“Generous has nothing to do with it. You're family.” Crawford's eyes moved to Christopher. “Both of you. But a young family needs their own space. Their own walls to paint, their own yard to mow, their own kitchen to burn dinner in.”
Christopher laughed. “I don't burn dinner. Becca does.”
“Hey,” Becca protested, but she was smiling.
Crawford stood and walked to the side window, looking across the street to the pier. The lights from the dock reflected on the dark surface, dancing with each small wave. He stood there for a long moment, his back to them, and Becca felt a flutter of anxiety. Was he going to tell them it was a bad idea? That they were being foolish? That the house was too much, too risky, too broken to be worth saving?
“Your mother would have loved that house,” Crawford said quietly.
Becca's breath caught. Her father rarely spoke about Julia, not because he had forgotten her but because the memory was still tender, even after all these years. The disease of cancer had been cruel in its slowness, its relentlessness. By the end, Julia had been skin and bones before her body stopped breathing.
He turned to face them, and Becca saw something in his eyes that made her heart ache. Not grief, exactly. Something softer. Something like hope.
