Page 61 of The Contractor's Rose
Rose blinked, like she’d forgotten where she was. “It’s … good. We’re almost done. Floors are in, paint’s finished. Most of the replacement inventory has arrived. I can’t wait for this to be all in the past.”
Stella nodded. “It’s been a long haul.”
“It has,” Harry said. “And a lot of money. I don’t evenwant to total what’s gone into that place. Especially since we’re never at the office anymore—it just sits there. Feels like a waste.”
Rose didn’t move, didn’t flinch. But I felt it—her leg tensed under my hand. Her posture shrank by degrees and the light dimmed in her eyes. She didn’t need him to say more. She already heard what he meant.
I squeezed her thigh gently. Then I spoke.
“She’s continued to grow something important there,” I said, looking at Harry, my voice quiet but sure. “That place isn’t just drywall and foundation. It’s hers. Every nail, every choice. She took something that was always special to her and made it hers, and it means something. It’s more than worth it.”
Harry blinked, surprised I’d spoken at all. “I’m not saying it doesn’t matter to her,” he said. “But it’s a building. The shop could have moved and saved us all the trouble. We could have let the building go.”
“She didn’t want to move it,” I said. “Because it mattered where it was. Because that building—on that block—is a part of her story. I think that deserves respect.”
Rose pushed back suddenly from the booth. “Excuse me,” she said quietly. “Just going to run to the restroom.” She stood quickly, not making eye contact with anyone, and disappeared into the hallway near the kitchen. I shifted to follow her, but Harry’s voice stopped me.
“Look, I’m not trying to be the bad guy here,” he said defensively. “We’re just worried she’s letting her emotions cloud her judgment. It’s just a building.”
Teagan scoffed. “Jesus Christ.” I wanted nothing more than to second those words, but instead I bit my cheek so hard the taste of pennies hit my tongue.
Stella rubbed at her temples, sighing long and slow.
“I’m going to wash my hands before the food comes,” she said, sliding out of the booth.
As she passed me, she touched my shoulder—light, barely there—and gave me a look. A smile, soft and sad and knowing. A smile that silently said,I see it and you’ve got half of us.
THIRTY-TWO
ROSEMARIE
I bracedmy hands on the edge of the marble sink in the bathroom, watching the way my fingers curled—tight and trembling—against the cool stone. Looking up into the mirror, my face was pale, jaw set too hard. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
The door opened gently behind me. Mom’s heels clicked once against the tile before pausing behind me.
“You okay?” she asked softly. I didn’t answer. Just stared down at the sink like it might offer me a place to disappear. She moved beside me, not crowding, just … being present. Her reflection joined mine in the mirror—composed, poised, eyes searching.
“Your dad’s … under a lot of pressure right now,” she said after a long pause. “He had a meeting this afternoon. It didn’t go well. Something about the Glen Ridge property appraisal being adjusted last minute. He’s not handling it great.”
“That’s not my problem,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “None of that is my problem.”
Mom inhaled through her nose, then let it out slowly. “I know it’s not. I’m just saying, maybe don’t take everything he says tonight so?—”
“So personally?” I cut in, turning to face her. “Mom, itispersonal. Every single time he makes one of those comments, every time he rolls his eyes or acts like my bookstore is some sentimental money pit, he’s not talking about a client. He’s talking about me.”
Her face softened, a wrinkle of concern between her brows. I wasn’t done.
“I know you both love me,” I continued, voice trembling now. “I know you’ll show up with a checkbook when things fall apart. I know you’ll say you’re proud. But it’s like you love me from a distance. Like you’re investors, not parents.”
“Rosemarie—”
“No, let me finish.” I pulled back from her hand when she reached for me. “You’re present when something’s broken. When I need help. But what about the rest of it? What about being there when I’mtrying? When I’m doing something I’m proud of that doesn’t involve needing to be saved? I feel like I have to be in a crisis for either of you to notice. And even that is starting to get fickle.”
The silence that followed was deep and immediate. Heavy, like it absorbed the air between us. Mom looked down at her hands. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”
I shrugged, blinking back the sting behind my eyes. “I didn’t really let myself feel it. Until the flood.” I took a deep breath, knowing that my next words may cut deep and give away too much. “The pipe burst and you guys didn’t even come. You sent Gavin … andhecame.”
She nodded slowly, then reached up and gently tucked a loose curl behind my ear. The motion made me want to crymore than anything else. Not because it hurt—but because it wastender.
