Leah showed him her plan to seal up the holes and cracks around the walls and floor. “At least the areas I can get to,” she said, pointing toward the ceiling and the long-abandoned hayloft above them. “Critters and cold drafts can obviously still get in up there. But even I know”—she patted her bad leg—“not to get myself on a ladder. You probably should though, at some point. Have you checked up there recently for bats?”
Jesus.
They settled into work, a surprisingly comfortable quiet between them: Leah working with her sealants, Emerson finally getting out the cleaning supplies he’d lugged out here a while back. He was working on wiping down the windows when Leah spoke again.
“What’s your favorite part?” she asked. “About owning this place.”
Emerson thought about it. His gut instinct was to sayeverything, but he knew that wasn’t completely true.
“Spring,” he said. “Early spring, when things are just starting to pop out of the soil. Obviously this time of year, the harvest, is good too”—but hectic, and stressful, he thought—“but when you see the earth starting to make life again.” He scrubbed at a stubborn spot on the window he was working on. “That feels like a miracle every time, you know?”
“Oh, I do,” Leah murmured. “I do.” And then, after a few peaceful beats, “What’s your least favorite part?”
“Never being able to take a break.”
Emerson stared at his own reflection in the window. The answer had seemed to tumble out of his mouth unbidden, a surprise to himself. He would’ve normally said something about finances, about that spreadsheet on his laptop that was sure to give him an ulcer someday. Invoices, the administrative stuff he always worried about fucking up.
But—that had been one of Jayden’s complaints, too, hadn’t it? That they hadn’t taken a vacation since buying the farm. That Emerson refused to let them.
Maybe, in the fifteen-minute span he’d had this morning between deciding to go to the movies and running into Leah Yaeger, he’d started to feel…excited about the idea of it. Taking a break.
“That’s gotta be hard,” Leah said.
Emerson grabbed a new rag, wiped down the crumbly windowsill.
“Part and parcel,” he said, and Leah made a small hum.
When he heard her shuffling across the floor several minutes later, he turned, watching her limp to a new wall.
“Please don’t work too hard on my behalf,” he said. She’d already stayed far longer than he’d expected. She shot him a warning look and flapped her hand.
“Oh, don’t you start in on me too!” But she laughed, softening her own irritation. “My boys give me enough guff about my body and my pain levels. But it’s my damn body, my damn pain. I know when to stop when I’ve had enough.”
Emerson held up his hands. “Fair enough.”
And in another thirty minutes, Leah stayed true to her word.
“All right, Emerson King,” she said on a big puff of air. “That’s my limit for today. Still lots to do, though. I’ll keep this stuff here; you use whatever you need. Maybe I’ll come back in a few days, see how you’re doing.”
“You don’t—” Emerson frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. He felt overwhelmed at all she had already done. He needed to express his gratitude somehow, but Leah waved him off before he could continue.
“The boys are on a fishing trip. I’ve been used to their fishing schedule my whole life, but more and more these days…” She wiped her hands on a small towel. “Find myself getting bored. So trust me, helping a neighbor with an old barn isn’t any hardship for me. Especially when that neighbor’s making Luca so happy.”
Emerson froze.
“You think he’s happy here?”
She waited to answer long enough, gathering things into her tote bag, that embarrassment settled deep into Emerson’sbones. He could’ve just saidhappy to hear itand moved right along. That’s what a normal boss would’ve done. Instead, he’d made himself sound…invested.
“I know he hasn’t been here long,” Leah finally said as she threw her tote bag over her shoulder. “But Luca’s always carried a bit of a rain cloud over him. Ever since he was a boy.”
Emerson thought of the charming man who’d struck up a conversation with him at the bar and had a hard time believing this. But—there had been a bit of a melancholy about him, hadn’t there? The way he’d saidI’m in a weird placethat first night.Emerson had just been too wrapped up in his own misery to fully parse it.
And then there was the way he’d talked about the book he’d written, face more pained, body language more uncomfortable than Emerson had ever witnessed.It makes me kind of miserable.
“We’ve all always known he didn’t love being out on the boats,” Leah continued. “But I stopped asking him a long time ago about other avenues of life he might’ve wanted to explore, because he always got so cagey whenever I pushed.”
“His book,” Emerson said without thinking.
