The prettier the house got, the closer Isaac was to leaving. Maggie noticed it, too. One window done, then the other. Every finished job was a reminder that the goodbye was getting closer. One night, after the boys were asleep, the two of them ended up sitting on the porch talking.
Little Rose was asleep in her father's arms, and without Maggie asking, Isaac started talking about his wife. He told her how he met Rose at a church picnic back in Kentucky. How she used to tease him because he'd measure the same board three times before cutting it, scared of getting it wrong. She used to say, "Isaac Hail, "If you measure that thing one more time, it's going to rot right there on the saworse," he said. And he laughed quietly at the memory.
Maggie smiled. "You know what's strange?" He said. Some days I spend the whole afternoon working, laughing with Sam, and it's not till night that I realize I didn't think about her once all day. And then the guilt just hits me like a truck.
Maggie didn't tell him he had to move on. She didn't tell him life goes on or any of those things people say. She only asked him one thing. Did she like her coffee strong? Isaac looked at her, surprised by the question.
Real strong, black, no sugar. She said, "Sweet coffee was ruined coffee." And he laughed again, remembering her. It was the first time Maggie had heard him talk about his wife and smile in the same breath. They went quiet.
Too close. The porch light fell across his face, and Maggie realized it had been a long time since she'd wanted to be near someone like that. He leaned in just slightly. She didn't pull away. That was when Jesse started crying inside.
A hungry cry there was no ignoring. Maggie got up fast, straightened her sweater, and went into her son with her heart pounding. The moment passed. The next morning, without a word, Isaac started working on the last thing left, the kitchen door. It was an old door, heavy solid oak, warped from years of damp.
It stuck against the frame, dragged at the bottom, and in winter it let the cold pour in. Isaac looked at that door and knew he could fix it in a day. Replace a hinge, plain down the bottom, adjust the frame, done. But he took two days. He worked slowly, measuring, sanding, measuring again, plain a little, test it, plain a little more.
Maggie noticed. She knew the rhythm of his work by now. She knew that job didn't take 2 days, but she didn't say a thing. Sam noticed, too, and he didn't say a thing, either. As long as that door didn't close, Isaac still had a reason to stay.
On the morning of the third day, there was nothing left to plane. He set the last hinge, drove in the last screw, and tested it. The door swung smooth and shut with a soft, perfect click, flush against the frame, not a sliver of daylight around it. He opened it, closed it again, opened it, closed it. It was perfect.