“She would’ve liked him,” Nan says. My eyes snap to her and then follow her line to sight to Tucker.
I nearly choke. “Nan.”
“I may be old, but I ain’t blind. Millie always liked people who show up,” she continues. “And that boy? He shows up.”
I scoff. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“With the house, or with him?”
“Yes.”
Nan laughs so loudly that half the yard turns to face us. “Well,” she says, squeezing my shoulder. “Good thing neither of those things are finished yet.” She starts to step away and then pauses. “Oh, and Scottie?”
“Yeah?”
“She would be really damn proud of you.”
Nan says it with such certainty that I believe it. I smile because I can’t help it, and she pats my cheek once before turning back toward the chaos of the yard, already shouting at someone about proper shrub planting techniques.
I stand there a moment longer.
The house doesn’t feel empty and hollow anymore.
It feels…in progress.
And maybe that’s enough for now.
CHAPTER 23
WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS NOW?
Tucker
Two full days, and the overgrown weeds are gone, the driveway isn’t covered with green moss, and the hedges around the house are trimmed instead of trying to become one with the house.
It actually looks like it’s turning into a home instead of a cautionary tale of neglect.
I got the vibes today that the producers didn’t expect we could finish the yard in such a short time. Truth be told, if we didn’t have the help of the town, I’m not sure we would have. The vibes I get from Andrea are still off. There’s this deep feeling in my gut she would rather see this season be a failure than a success…or aNailed Itas the show calls it. But by the end of the day, the looks shifted to something of wonder.
They didn’t expect our community to show up the way they did.
They didn’t expect to get the shots they did so that viewers would fall in love with Scottie and this project.
But they did. They are. They will.
Bluestone Lakes is more than just a community—we’re family. When someone’s in need, we do what we need to help.When word spreads, people come. It’s what the producers didn’t say, but I heard anyway:the yard alone could’ve eaten the schedule alive if we let it.
But it didn’t.
It’s done.
We bought Scottie breathing room.
And that part matters more than anything.
By the time the last van pulls away, the house feels quiet. It reminds me of the time before all of this started where this property was my peace. My safe place to sit and think. In a way, it still is. Even when dozens of people are hammering away or painting walls, it’s still the peace I’ve always come here for—it’s still the place I can hear myself clearly.
I step across the yard, dragging leftover lumber toward the side of the house. It doesn’t need moving, but my hands feel restless, and movement keeps the thoughts from getting too loud. I reposition them in neat stacks where we will need them for the next project we tackle.
