Page 17 of Knot on the Market

But she doesn't move, and neither do I.

The moment stretches between us, charged with something I'm not ready to name. Finally, she breaks eye contact and moves toward the counter, grabbing a dish towel and wrapping it around her hair with hands that aren't quite steady.

"So," she says, focusing intently on the towel instead of looking at me. "How bad is the damage?"

I pick up the broken handle. "Not terrible. Need a new cartridge, some washers. Basic repair."

"I meant the porch, but yes, now add that to the list too."

"What list?"

She gestures at the house around us with something that might be frustration or exhaustion. "Things I don't know how to fix. The door handle that fell off yesterday, the window that won't open, the porch that's slowly collapsing, and now this."

Her tone carries the bone-deep weariness of someone who's been handling everything alone for longer than three days.

"Takes time," I say. "Can't expect to figure out sixty years of problems overnight."

"Most people call contractors for everything," I add, setting the broken handle on the counter. "Even the simple stuff."

"Will you show me?" she asks suddenly, and there's something almost vulnerable in the request. "How to fix it, I mean. I know you probably have better things to do, but I want to learn. I need to learn."

The request hits me harder than it should. Most people want me to fix their problems, not teach them how to fix their own. But there's something in her voice, determination mixed with uncertainty that makes me want to say yes.

"I can show you," I hear myself say. "But we should get you dried off first. And I still need to finish checking your porch."

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.

"Go change," I say. "I'll finish the porch assessment. Then we can talk about what you're dealing with."

When she disappears upstairs, I let out a breath and adjust my jeans so she doesn't see how much she affected me.

By the time she comes back downstairs in dry jeans and flannel, I've got the kitchen cleaned up and the broken faucet temporarily fixed with supplies from my truck.

I walk her through what I found. The porch needs work. Foundation settling, compromised supports, and rot in two of the main beams.

"Fixable," I say. "But it needs doing right."

Relief floods her face. "I was worried you'd say the whole thing needed to be torn down."

"Bones are solid," I say. "Just needs someone who knows old construction."

"And you understand how they work."

"I do." I meet her eyes. "Question is whether you're serious about learning, or if you're looking for someone to fix everything while you watch."

Her chin lifts slightly, and for the first time since I met her, I catch a glimpse of whatever steel kept her working in Hollywood for years.

"I'm serious," she says, and something raw flickers across her face. "I can't be the person who runs when things get hard. Not again."

There's something in that last part that tells me there's more to her story than River mentioned.

"All right then." I look around the kitchen, at this house that's too big for one person, at this woman who's trying so hard to build something new from something broken. "See how you do with the basics before we move on to structural work."

"And if I'm hopeless at it?"

"Then we'll figure out a different approach." I meet her eyes. "But something tells me you're not as hopeless as you think."

She steps closer, close enough that I catch her scent again, green apples and determination and something that might be hope.

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