Page 15 of Knot on the Market

The second thing is her eyes. Wide and green and filled with nervous determination.

"You must be Callum," she says, extending her hand. "I'm Lila. River said you could help me figure out what I'm dealing with on my front porch."

Her handshake is firm, deliberate, but her fingers are soft against my callused palm.

"Depends on what's wrong with it," I say. "Structural problems? Surface rot?"

She pulls out a notebook and opens it to pages covered with careful sketches and neat measurements. The drawings are detailed enough to show she crawled under there and tried to understand what she was looking at.

Most people either pretend they know more than they do or expect me to handle all the thinking. She's clearly out of her depth but taking it seriously.

"I tried to measure the support structure," she says, and there's something almost defensive in her tone. "But I'm not sure I understood what I was looking at. I've never done anything like this before."

The slight edge in her voice tells me she's expecting to be dismissed or talked down to. Like maybe that's happened before.

"These are good," I say, studying her work. "You got the joist spacing, beam dimensions. Even noted the foundation points."

Her shoulders relax like she's passed some test she didn't know she was taking. "I may have gotten some spider webs in my hair in the process."

Despite myself, I almost smile. She drew pictures. Actual pictures of rotting wood and foundation issues. With measurements. Most people won't crawl under a porch to understand what they're dealing with.

"That's what it takes. Most people won't get under there to see what they're dealing with."

"So you'll help me figure out what I need?" Her chin lifts slightly, like she's bracing for rejection. "I mean, I know you're busy, but I'm willing to pay for a consultation. I just need to understand what I'm looking at before I... before I decide how to handle it."

There's something in that pause that suggests she's not just talking about construction. And the way she phrases it—how to handle it—tells me she's not looking for someone to take over. She wants information so she can make her own decisions.

"I should come take a look," I say, closing the notebook and handing it back to her. "See what we're dealing with before we talk materials."

"Are you sure? I know you're busy." She tucks the notebook against her chest, protective. "I don't want to impose. Maybe you could just tell me what to look for, and I could?—"

"Address still 41 Maple?" I interrupt gently.

She nods.

"I'll be there around three."

Relief floods her face, followed by something that might be gratitude or surprise, like she's not used to people saying yes when she asks for help.

"Thank you," she says. "I really appreciate it."

At three o'clock, I load my tools into the truck. The house looks better than it did six months ago, but I can see the porch problem from the street, the whole left side dips noticeably.

I'm crouched under the porch, examining where one of the main beams has separated from its post, when I hear it.

A sharp curse from inside the house, followed by what sounds like a pipe exploding, then frantic splashing and a muffled "No, no, no, no?—"

I drop my measuring tape and head for the front door.

"Lila?"

"Don't come in here! I'm fine! Everything's fine!"

The increasing volume of water hitting the floor suggests otherwise.

I kick off my boots and head toward the kitchen anyway.

What I find stops me cold.

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