"Sorry we're late," I say, and I can feel the heat creeping up my neck. "We, uh, lost track of time this morning."
Seamus doesn't even try to hide his smile, and when he takes my hand as we walk toward the building entrance, I know Dr. Vince has figured out exactly why we're late. But she's too professional to comment, just launches into her presentation about the building's current condition and the restoration possibilities.
The “SOLD” sign is gone. Construction barriers line the sidewalk.
Under the boarded windows and weathered brick, I can see the possibility.
"The exterior is in better shape than we initially thought," Dr. Vince explains, pulling up photos on her tablet. “Brick just needs cleaning. The original windows are still here. And this—” she points up at the terra cotta detail — “is going to be stunning once it’s restored.”
I squeeze Seamus's hand, and when I look at him, he's not looking at the building or Dr. Vince's tablet. He's looking at me. Watching my reaction with that intensity that used to make me nervous but now just makes me feel seen.
Inside, it smells like dust and old plaster. The ceiling sags. The tile floor is hidden under peeling linoleum.
"I know it looks overwhelming," Dr. Vince says, clearly reading my expression. “But it mostly just needs restoration and code updates.”
She shows us the estimate.
I wince.
“This is base work,” Dr. Vince says. “If you want original details restored—tile, woodwork, fixtures—that’s extra.”
She says it like a warning.
Seamus doesn’t blink. “Restore all of it. No shortcuts.”
I blink at him.
“You’re covering all of it?”
He shrugs. “Of course.”
Dr. Vince continues the tour. She's thorough and knowledgeable, pointing out original features worth preserving and modern necessities that will need to be added.
"Mr. O'Malley," Dr. Vince says, and I realize she's been trying to get his attention. "Did you want to discuss the exterior plaza concept you mentioned in your email?"
Seamus nods. “Yeah. I want you to see something.”
He turns his phone toward us.
A rendering opens—light, open space, the old building centered instead of crowded out.
He zooms in. “There’ll be a small courtyard. Benches. Planters. Somewhere people can actually gather.”
Another swipe.
“And here—” his voice softens slightly, “a gazebo. For reading. Art classes. Whatever you decide to do with it.”
I stare at the design, and my eyes are filling with tears because this is so far beyond what I imagined. This isn't just preserving the building—it's creating a whole community space around it. Making the storefront the centerpiece rather than an afterthought grudgingly preserved.
Dr. Vince nods thoughtfully, making notes on her tablet. "This concept—it's brilliant from a preservation standpoint. You're not just saving the building, you're giving it context and prominence."
"The gazebo," I say, finding my voice finally. "That was your idea?"
He looks almost embarrassed, which is adorable on a man who normally projects complete confidence. “I thought you deserved an actual garden.”
Dr. Vince pulls up some additional renderings that show the gazebo in more detail. It's simple but beautiful—wooden beams, climbing vines, benches tucked inside. A pocket of green in the urban landscape, protected but accessible. My own impossible garden.
"We could do programming out there in good weather," I say, ideas already forming. "Outdoor story time for kids. Painting classes. Community meetings. Anything we need more space for."
