“You can add a second layer of shingles.”
She freezes.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
For a second she just stares at me. Then she laughs. A loud, relieved sound that fills the room. Her laugh catches me off guard. Something honest in it. Something that doesn’t calculate its effect before it happens.
“Oh my God,” she says, dropping onto the couch. “I thought you were going to tell me the whole roof had to come off.”
“Not yet.”
She points a finger at me.
“See, this is exactly the kind of information I needed before I bought twelve tools and a bag of concrete.”
“You don’t need the concrete.”
She sighs.
“I had a feeling.”
I glance toward the yard through the window.
The slope behind the cabin catches my eye. Good sunlight. Decent drainage once the runoff is redirected.
“You planning to do anything with the back lot?” I ask.
She follows my gaze.
“I was thinking about a garden.”
I nod slowly.
“That could work.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“You’re serious?”
“The soil’s good.”
She leans forward like I just told her she won the lottery.
“You can tell that already?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
I shrug.
“You look at land long enough, you learn what it’s capable of.”
“Well, Troy Bennett,” she says, “sounds like I might need a teacher.”
I meet her gaze. And the thought crosses my mind before I can stop it. Teaching her anything is going to be trouble. Wanting to ,,, might be worse.
