Page 4 of Trouble with the Mountain Man
"No proper drainage means water sits against the stones. Freeze-thaw cycles push them apart. Do that enough winters, and..." He gestures at the collapsed section.
"But you can fix it?"
"I can fix it." His certainty is absolute, reassuring. "Take time, but it'll be solid when I'm done. Probably outlast the house itself."
There's pride in his voice, quiet satisfaction in good work properly done. I find myself wondering what it would be like to have that confidence directed at other things. At me.
"I should let you get back to work," I say, reaching for the empty glass.
Our fingers brush as he hands it back, and the contact sends a jolt up my arm. His grey eyes darken, and for a moment, the air between us feels charged with possibility.
Then he steps back, breaking the spell.
"I'll need to cut power to the kitchen for a few hours tomorrow," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "Working close to the electrical box."
"No problem. I'll work from the coffee shop."
He nods and turns back to his excavation, dismissing me. But I catch him watching from the corner of his eye as I walk back to the house, and I can't help but smile.
Maybe this project will be more interesting than I thought.
four
Flint
Bytheendofthe first week, I've made good progress on the excavation and started laying the new foundation stones. I've also developed a serious problem.
Maple Webster.
She brings me coffee in the morning, iced tea in the afternoon, and genuine interest in my work that's as intoxicating as her smile. She asks intelligent questions about the process, remembers details from previous conversations, and treats what I do with a respect that most people reserve for more prestigious professions.
It's been a long time since anyone looked at me the way she does—like I matter.
And then there's her daughter.
Ally appears every day after school, chattering about her classes while I work. She's fearless around the construction site, respectful of my tools, and full of questions about everything from stone cutting to mortar mixing. Yesterday, she brought mea crayon drawing of our house with a rainbow over it and "Thank you Mr. Flint" written in careful seven-year-old handwriting.
I've had that drawing folded in my wallet ever since.
This morning, I'm setting stones for the new corner when I hear the distinctive chime of a video call from inside the house. Maple's voice, tight with stress, carries through the open kitchen window.
"She has stability. We have a home, she's in a good school—"
A man's voice cuts her off, tinny through the laptop speakers but clear enough to understand. "You call that stability? Living in a falling-down house you can't afford to maintain?"
I set down my trowel and move closer to the kitchen window, not caring if it makes me look like I'm eavesdropping. Because I am.
"The house is being repaired," Maple says, her voice strained.
"With what money? You're barely scraping by as it is."
"That's not your concern anymore, Derek."
Derek. The ex-husband, I realize. The father who walked away and left Maple to raise their daughter alone.
"Ally is my concern. And I won't have her living in unsafe conditions because you're too stubborn to accept help."
"Help?" Maple's laugh is bitter. "You mean control. You want me to move back to Vancouver so you can play father when it's convenient for you."
