The joists were old growth, dense grained, the kind of lumber they didn't mill anymore. Whoever built this house had built it, right? Is it salvageable? Emily's voice came from somewhere above and behind him. He'd forgotten she was still in the house.
He slid out from under the cabinet and sat up. She was standing in the kitchen doorway with two cups of coffee. He had no idea where she'd gotten them and didn't ask. She extended one, he took it. Yeah, he said.
More than salvageable. Whoever built this knew what they were doing. It's been neglected, not damaged. There's a difference. What's the difference?
She asked. He wrapped both hands around the cup. Neglect is usually fixable. Damage sometimes isn't. Neglect means someone stopped paying attention.
Damage means something went wrong that nobody could prevent. He paused. Or something that went wrong that someone should have caught and didn't. She was watching him with that careful evaluating look she'd had at dinner, but it was less guarded now, less managed. "You're talking about more than houses," she said.
He looked at her evenly. "I'm talking about houses." She held his gaze for one beat too long. "Right," she said. She looked down at her coffee. My father wants the farmhouse restored to what it was originally, not modernized.
Restored, he said, and I'm quoting, he wants it to feel like it remembers itself. Marcus let that sit. That's a good way to put it. He said he has his moments. Emily said, "And for a fraction of a second, the control slipped again, and she was just a woman talking about her father with love and exasperation in equal measure, the way people talk about the people who shaped them completely." Marcus saw it.
He didn't say anything about it. He finished his coffee, stood up, and went back to work. By the time he left that morning, he had 12 pages of notes, a preliminary materials list, and a project timeline. Emily had walked every room with him. She had a good eye, and she used it.
And by the second hour, they'd stopped being polite and started being efficient, which Marcus had always thought was a better kind of respect. at the truck. She said, "I'll have my father's office send over the formal paperwork." "That's fine," Marcus said. He opened the door. "Marcus," he turned. She was standing with her hands in her jacket pockets, and for a moment, she looked exactly like what she was, a person who was trying to say something honest and wasn't entirely sure how.