Clara Monroe had always hated goodbyes, yet here she was, standing in the driveway of her late grandmother's house with a set of rusted keys digging into her palm. The late September air carried the bite of salt and pine, and the wind tugged at the hem of her too-thin city coat.
I'll list it by Thanksgiving, she told herself, squaring her shoulders. In and out.
But the moment she stepped onto the creaking porch, the scent of beeswax and old books rushed over her, and her throat tightened. The house hadn't change still the same butter-yellow clapboard, the same crooked shutter on the second floor, the same brass knocker shaped like a mermaid. Her grandmother had refused to fix any of it. "Perfect is boring, darling," she'd say, waving her paint-stained hands.
Clara swallowed hard and turned the key.
Eli Walker was halfway up a ladder at the hardware store when the Boston woman walked in. He knew she wasn't from here not just because of the sleek black car idling outside, but because of the way she frowned at the aisles like they'd personally offended her.
"Need help?" he called down.
She startled, then fixed him with a look so sharp he nearly missed a rung. "I need a Phillips screwdriver. And a hammer. And " She pulled out her phone, scrolling. "something called wood filler?"
Eli bit back a laugh. "Fixing up the Monroe place?"
Her eyes narrowed. "How did you know?"
"Small town," he said, climbing down. "And you've got her nose."
Something flickered in her expression grief, maybe, or annoyance before she smoothed it away. "Just point me to the tools."
Eli grabbed a basket. "Tell you what. Let me walk you through it, or you'll end up with the wrong stuff and a hole in your wall."
She hesitated, then sighed. "Fine. But I'm paying in cash."
"Noted," he said, grinning.
The house fought her.
Clara swore as the ancient faucet in the kitchen sprayed her for the third time. She'd spent two hours trying to unclog it before giving up and attacking the loose floorboard in the hallway instead. Now, her hair was damp, her jeans were streaked with dust, and the damn wood filler had dried lumpy.
A knock at the door.
Eli stood on the porch, holding a toolbox and a paper bag. "Brought reinforcements."
She crossed her arms. "I didn't call you."
"Hazel did." He nodded toward the sidewalk, where a little girl with braids and a gap-toothed grin waved. "She saw you through the window and said you looked…" He paused.
"Like a raccoon trapped in a drainpipe?" Clara supplied.
"Her words, not mine." He held up the bag. "Also, sandwiches. You look like you forgot to eat."
Clara's stomach growled traitorously.
They ate on the porch steps turkey on rye for her, PB&J for Hazel, who chattered about her school's upcoming fall festival. Eli fixed the faucet in five minutes flat.
"You're good at that," Clara admitted grudgingly.
He shrugged. "You're good at blueprints." He nodded to the sketches scattered across her coffee table her half-hearted attempts to modernize the house.
She stiffened. "You went through my things?"
"Hazel did. She said your drawings were pretty." He wiped his hands on his jeans. "But you're gonna knock down that wall?"
"It's inefficient."
"It's where your grandma hung the mistletoe every Christmas."
Clara's chest ached. She hadn't remembered that.
Eli stood. "I'll come by tomorrow to patch the floorboard. No charge."
"Why?"
He glanced at Hazel, now chasing a leaf down the sidewalk. "Because old houses deserve patience."
As they walked away, Clara realized she'd forgotten to mention the listing deadline.
And for the first time in years, she didn't care.
Clara woke to the sound of hammering.
She groaned, burying her face in the pillow her grandmother's pillow, still faintly scented with lavender before the noise registered. Not a dream. Not her downtown Boston loft with its soundproof windows. Someone was actually hammering at she squinted at her phone 7:23 AM.
She stumbled downstairs in yesterday's clothes, yanking open the front door to find Eli on her porch, toolbox at his feet and a coffee carrier in hand.
"You," she said, voice rough with sleep, "are a menace."
He had the audacity to look amused. "Morning, sunshine. Brought caffeine." He held out a cup. "Black, two sugars. Figured that's how you take it."
She glared but snatched it anyway. The first sip was perfect. Damn him.
"You're early," she muttered.
"Sun's up. Day's wasting." He nodded toward the hallway. "Floorboard won't fix itself."
Clara exhaled, defeated. "Do you always show up unannounced?"
"Only when I'm wanted."
She choked on her coffee.
Hazel arrived an hour later, her backpack dangling from one shoulder and a paper bag clutched in her hand. "Dad forgot lunch," she announced, marching into the kitchen like she owned the place. "Also, I brought you a muffin. Blueberry. They're the best kind."
Clara blinked. "That's... surprisingly thoughtful."
Hazel beamed. "I know." She plopped onto a stool, kicking her legs. "Are you really gonna sell this house?"
The question hit like a bucket of cold water. Clara set down her coffee. "How did you"
"You left the papers on the table." Hazel pointed innocently. "The big red 'URGENT' stamp is kinda hard to miss."
Clara winced. The realtor's documents listing agreements, comps for the neighborhood had seemed so logical in Boston. Here, they felt like a betrayal.
"It's just not practical to keep it," she said carefully.
Hazel tilted her head. "Do you want to?"
Clara opened her mouth. Closed it.
A thud came from the hallway, followed by Eli's muffled curse. Hazel grinned. "Dad's bad at eavesdropping."
By noon, the floorboard was level, the leaky kitchen faucet no longer sprayed like a firehose, and Clara had against her better judgment agreed to let Eli tackle the mistletoe wall.
"It's load-bearing," she insisted, arms crossed as he studied the blueprints she'd grudgingly spread on the table.
"Nope." He tapped a pencil against the drawing. "See this? It's just a partition. Your grandma added it in the '70s."
Clara frowned. "Why?"
Eli's expression softened. "To hang things." He walked to the wall, running a hand over the uneven surface. "Photos, holiday garlands... mistletoe."
She stepped closer without thinking. The plaster was pockmarked with tiny holes ghosts of nails long gone. A lifetime of memories in a single wall.
Her throat tightened. "I didn't know."
Eli's shoulder brushed hers. "You left young."
She had. College at eighteen, then straight into the grind of her firm. Visits home had been short, rushed between deadlines.
Hazel's voice piped up from the doorway. "If you knock it down, where will you kiss people at Christmas?"
Clara's face burned. Eli coughed loudly.
"Hazel June Walker," he said, "go outside."
Giggling, she bolted.
They worked in silence after that Clara sanding the edges of the floorboard, Eli reinforcing the wall's frame. It wasn't until Hazel burst back in, cheeks pink from the wind, that the tension broke.
"The fall festival's next weekend!" she declared, thrusting a crumpled flyer at Clara. "You have to come. There's apple cider and a pie contest and"
"Hazel," Eli cut in gently, "Ms. Monroe's busy."
"Clara," she corrected automatically. Then, to Hazel: "I'm not much of a pie person."
Hazel gasped, horrified. "That's illegal in Maine."
Eli snorted. Clara bit her lip to keep from smiling.
"Fine," she said. "But only if your dad enters the pie contest."
Eli's head snapped up. "What?"
Hazel's eyes lit up. "DEAL."
That night, Clara lay awake, listening to the wind off the water rattle the old windows. The house still smelled like sawdust and Eli's stupidly good coffee.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her firm: Deadline for the Vancouver project moved up. Need you back Monday.
She tossed it onto the nightstand without replying and rolled over, staring at the faint outline of the mistletoe wall through the darkness.