Thompson's smile reaches his eyes. Real, not just polite. My chest loosens fractionally—first person in Copper Ridge besides the realtor who's looked at Ivy like she's a kid, not a problem to manage. "That's great, bug." I extend my hand to Thompson. "Thanks for keeping her entertained."
His handshake is firm. Assessing. Years of reading people in crisis situations. "Welcome to Copper Ridge, Captain. We're glad you're here."
The sincerity in his voice doesn't match the wariness I saw earlier. Maybe he means it. Maybe it's the professional courtesy everyone extends to new leadership before deciding if they're worth the effort.
Either way, the weight of expectation settles across my shoulders like turnout gear.
The house waits at the end of a quiet street—two-story, craftsman style, the kind of place real estate agents describe as "charming" when they mean "needs work." But it has a yard. Space for Ivy to run. A bedroom that isn't separated from mine by a thin apartment wall.
This house is supposed to represent stability. New beginnings. All the things I'm trying to build from the wreckage of a marriage that failed because I forgot how to be present.
"Is this OURS?" Ivy presses against the truck window hard enough to leave permanent nose prints. "For REAL?"
"For real."
"Do we have NEIGHBORS? Can I make friends? Are there kids? Do they like dinosaurs? What if they don't like dinosaurs, Daddy, that would be a PROBLEM?—"
"Bug. Breathe."
She inhales dramatically, holds it, releases in a whoosh that fogs the window. "Okay. I'm ready. Let's see the HOUSE."
An older lady from next door appears on her porch, waving. "You must be the new captain! I'm Rosa Delgado. If you ever need someone to watch that little one..." She smiles at Ivy. "I have grandchildren her age."
I file that away as potentially useful, wave, and nod to her.
The key feels heavier than it should in my palm. New house. New job. New chance to be the father Ivy deserves instead of the one I've been. The door opens on silent hinges. Fresh paint smell. Hardwood floors that don't creak. Space that doesn't echo with twelve years of Seattle and everything I left behind.
The interior smells like fresh paint and possibility—updated kitchen, windows that actually open without requiring acrowbar. The realtor left a welcome basket on the counter, complete with local treats and a note about "small-town hospitality" that probably came from a template.
Ivy explodes through the space like a tiny tornado, narrating her approval of each room at volumes that definitely violate noise ordinances. The stairs lead to bedrooms bigger than our entire Seattle apartment, a bathroom that doesn't require strategic maneuvering, space to actually exist without constant negotiation.
"This one's MINE." Ivy claims the room with the window overlooking the backyard.
Afternoon light slants across bare floors. Dust motes float in the beam. The room smells like paint and possibility—or maybe just paint. I'm not great with metaphors. "I'm gonna put my bed RIGHT here and my dinosaurs on ALL the shelves and maybe we can paint it green like a forest where dinosaurs would live?—"
"We'll talk about paint colors."
"Or blue like the ocean! Plesiosaurs lived in the ocean, Daddy. They weren't actually dinosaurs but they were AROUND during dinosaur times so it counts?—"
My phone buzzes. Unknown local number.
"Beck Delano."
"Mr. Delano! This is Jennifer from Mountain Realty." Enthusiasm levels suggest either exceptional coffee or concerning medication. "Just wanted to confirm—did you get moved in okay? Is the house everything you hoped?"
"Just arrived. House looks good."
"Wonderful! I'm so glad. Now, there's one tiny detail we need to discuss—nothing major, just a small administrative item?—"
Administrative items are never small.
"What detail?"
"Well, you see, the in-law suite attached to the main house? The one with the separate entrance?" Her voice climbs anoctave, the verbal equivalent of backing toward an exit. "It was listed before you arrived—standard practice, we always market all available units—and someone jumped on it immediately. Paid the deposit before we could pull the listing. Already signed the lease."
My hand tightens on the phone. “You rented part of my house. Without telling me.”
“Well, technically it's a separate unit---”
