the library in which we sat wouldn’t change. Nor would the living room or dining room. “She felt strongly about keeping the integrity of the original house, at least here at the front. Because I kept asking, she drew up one version that opened these rooms too, but it didn’t work. She was right about that.”
I drew back to see his face. Unable to resist his unique brand of soft and firm, I brushed a thumb over his lips. “She?”
“Andrew Russ’s wife, Jillian. You know her.”
I did. She did the design for the Spa renovation that had been done two years ago. “Does she know we were married?”
“No. But I did tell her you were the love of my life.”
“Edward.”
“It’s true,” he said, without remorse. “I could tell she likes you, so it was a motivator. And she likes the house. She’s young, only a handful of years out of design school, so when she pushed for traditional over modern, I had to listen. What do you think?”
“I think she’s right.”
Eyes back on the screen, he clicked again. “Look what she’s done upstairs. With the bump-out, the two bedrooms there are larger. Each will have bigger closets and its own bathroom. Right now, they share a small bathroom down the hall. She wants to turn that into a utility room with a chute to the first floor laundry.” To point out the last, he clicked back a page and indicated the tiniest of the rooms along the hallway on the left. “What do you think?” he asked again.
“It’s brilliant.”
“Would your mother want to stay here?”
I drew back again. His eyes were expectant. “My mother.”
“She’ll come visit, won’t she?”
I felt an inkling of unease—but what had I thought? Of course, he was renovating the house with the idea that I would be here. On some level, I knew that. He had been very clear about his feelings for me, and there was only one direction those feelings would lead.
The reality, though, had a few thorns. “Edward—”
“Wait,” he cut me off and, squeezing my shoulder, returned to the screen. “It gets even better. Here’s the new garage. The old one is detached, but from what I hear of winters here, I don’t want anyone walking outside.” Anyone. He had deliberately said that, but being vague didn’t ease my qualms. “Jillian suggests adding an attached three-car garage that would be accessible through a mudroom off the kitchen.” When I looked at him, his expression was all innocence. “For resale value. Everyone here wants a three-car garage. I mean, isn’t that where they store the snowplow for the pickup, the riding lawn mower, and the canoe?”
I had to laugh—again laugh—at the image. He had nailed it.
And resale value certainly made sense. But I knew Edward. He was assuming I would be parking there.
Again I said his name. Again he rushed on, as eager as Lily would be showing me a sponge-art masterpiece from school.
“The pièce de resistance?” He pulled up a whole new page. Pointing the cursor to a small sketch in the upper left corner, he said, “The current carriage house.” He moved the cursor to the center of the page. It showed a structure that was reminiscent of the first, but gentrified. “Raze the old and build this. It could have a guest apartment upstairs, like if Liam had to stay here, which would not be my first choice. Your brother may be a great chef, but he can also be a pain in the butt. Downstairs,” he clicked to the next page, “a pottery studio.” I heard the ta-da in his voice and would have stopped him then and there if he hadn’t already been moving the cursor from one spot to the next. “Work tables, a potter’s wheel, storage bins, sink. This end could be outfitted for finishing—tables, glazing supplies, and a kiln. Or two.” He was cautious at the end, looking at me now with those striking silver eyes.
“Edward,” I breathed.
“Kevin helped design it.”
“Edward.”
“This is a first pass. You can redesign it yourself. Redesign the entire house yourself.”
“Edward,” I pleaded, cupping his bearded jaw. Our eyes held through a silence, until I finally asked, “What are you doing?”
“Planning our future,” he said without a blink, a swallow, a breath.
“Now? Right now? With everything else that’s going on?”
His arm went more fully around my shoulder, drawing me that little bit closer. “Yes.”
“How? We don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, let alone next week.”