Chapter Twenty-One

Joe

I sit at the kitchen table, bills, invoices and plans spread out like a losing poker hand. My coffee’s gone cold, but I keep sipping anyway. Habit- never waste coffee.  I stare at the numbers, trying to make sense of the decision I already made.

I’m keeping the house.

Allen and Harry are  already paid. Thank God. The new kitchen cabinets are scheduled to arrive next week. That part’s locked in and paid for too.

I run the numbers again—slow, methodical. If I do the finish work myself and leave the extra bedrooms and bathrooms untouched for now, I can pull it off. Barely.

I scratch a note in the margin: Hold off on kitchen tile. Prioritize plumbing.

Then I backtrack. Chase and Oliver. They’ll want to stay over sometimes. I can’t have them sleeping in a half-done room with exposed studs and drop cloths. I circle one of the bedrooms on the floor plan and write: Paint. Patch. Make it decent.

It’s not just about the house anymore. It’s about showing up. Being the kind of man who makes space for family—even if it’s just a clean room and a working light switch.

I lean back, rub my jaw. The cabinets will go in easy. I’ve done this type work before. The finish work will take time, but I’ve got that. What I don’t have is an excuse anymore.

I open the drawer and pull out the paint swatches and stack them in a pile to take with me.  Izzy’s promised to help me pick colors.  I smile at the idea.  I’ll have to tell her that Chase likes blue. Oliver’s into dinosaurs.  

Excited to get going, I do a quick KP-civilian style, grab my keys and head out the door.

I pull into Miss Alice’s driveway and kill the engine. The place is quiet—roofers gone, Allen and Harry wrapped up for now. Just a few touch-ups left down the line. I unlock the gate and step into the backyard.

The rosemary’s thriving. The orange tree’s dropped a few  fruits. I grab the hose and give everything a good soak, moving slow, letting the rhythm settle me. The air smells like damp soil and sun-warmed wood.

Mr. Buttonwillow stands watch from his usual spot in the flower bed by the back  porch—ceramic, chipped, and dignified. I walk over toward him. “Morning, sir.”

He doesn’t blink, of course, but I swear he’s judging my watering technique.

I crouch near the flowers and pull a few weeds—quick work, just enough to keep things tidy. Miss Alice would’ve had me out here with a trowel and a lecture if she were still around. I smile at the thought.

The house feels different now. Not empty, exactly. Just waiting.

I rinse my hands at the spigot, grab the folder of paint samples from the truck, and head next door.

I walk up to Izzy’s gate and find it latched, just like always. I call out, voice steady but loud enough to carry.

“Izzy? It’s Joe. Brought the paint samples.”

There’s a pause. Then a bark—sharp, quick, and close. Not a warning. More like a greeting with too much enthusiasm.

I step back instinctively.

The gate creaks open a moment later, and Izzy’s face appears, smiling but slightly flushed. “Sorry. She’s new. Still learning boundaries.”

“She?”

Izzy steps aside, and out bounds a pit bull—brindled, scarred, and absolutely radiant with joy. She barrels toward me like I’m her long-lost soulmate.

“Whoa—hey there.” I brace myself, but she doesn’t jump. Just presses her whole body against my legs, tail thumping like a drumline.

Izzy laughs. “Grace, this is Joe. Joe, meet Grace.”

“She’s got a lot of feelings,” I say, scratching behind her ear. She leans harder, eyes half-closed like I’ve just solved all her problems.

“She’s been calm all day,” Izzy says. “Until you showed up. I think she’s smitten.”

Grace noses my hand, then sits—still pressed against me, still vibrating with joy.

“Well,” I say, “I’ve had worse first impressions.”

Izzy gestures toward the porch. “Come on up. Let’s look at those colors.”

Grace trots ahead like she owns the place. I follow, paint wondering what I’ve just signed up for.

Izzy  stops at her door, holding Grace gently by the collar. “ Let’s sit out here. Okay?”

She still hasn’t let me in.

Grace has ideas of her own. The second Izzy lets go, she barrels into me like I’m made of steak and sunshine. Her whole body wiggles, tail thumping against my leg like a drum.

“Well, damn,” I say, laughing despite myself. “She always this friendly?”

Izzy grins. “ She’s only met you, so I’m not sure. But she likes you, apparently.”

I scratch behind Grace’s ears. “She’s a lover, huh?”

“She is. But she’s got a bark that’ll rattle your ribs. You should’ve heard her when the delivery guy showed up.”

I glance at Izzy. “So… what made you get a dog? I mean, now?”

She leans against the porch railing, arms crossed but not defensive. “I realized I was lonely,” she says. “Not just quiet-house lonely. The kind that sneaks up on you. I wanted company. Something alive in the house that wasn’t just memory.”

Damn, Izzy’s getting better.

 “She seems like  a good choice.”

“She’s been through some stuff. Like me. Like you.”

I look down at Grace, who’s now flopped at my feet like she’s known me forever. “She reminds me of a dog Matt and I had growing up. Thunder. Big black lab with a bark that could shake the windows. That’s how he got the name.”

Izzy smiles. “Thunder. That’s a good one.”

“He was a shadow. Ran next to our bikes, swam in the pool with us, slept at the foot of my bed. Smart as hell. Loyal, too. We never had to call him twice.”

“What happened to him?”

I pause, then shrug. “Old age. He went easy. Still miss him, though.”

Grace lifts her head and noses my boot. I reach down and rub her chest. “This one’s got that same look. Like she’s already decided we’re hers.”

Izzy watches us for a beat, something soft in her eyes. “She has good taste.”

I clear my throat. “So. Paint samples.”

“Right,” she says, pushing off the railing. “ I’ve changed my mind . Come on in”

She opens the door, and I follow her inside. The air smells like spices and something warm—maybe soup, maybe bread. The place is tidy but lived-in. Books stacked on the coffee table. A pair of boots by the door. A quilt folded over the back of the couch, same blue as the one on the floor by the fireplace.

Grace trots in and flops down  on her quilt, like she owns the place.

Izzy moves toward a shelf near the fireplace. “I haven’t really shown anyone around,” she says, almost apologetic. “The only other person who’s been in here was Miss Alice.”

“Well, I’m honored you trust me enough to share this with me.”

She blushes and gestures to a small cluster of photos. I step closer.

There’s one of her and an older woman—Izzy younger, hair longer, both of them laughing at something off-camera. “Is this Miss Alice?”

“Yeah. That was five years ago.“

Another shows a man in uniform, arm slung around Izzy’s shoulders. He’s got kind eyes and a crooked smile. Next to that, a little girl in pigtails, mid-spin, caught in motion with a popsicle in one hand and a stuffed rabbit in the other.

I don’t say anything just put the picture back in  its exact spot.

Izzy watches me, then looks away. “That’s Steven. And that’s Mollie. She was four.”

 “Beautiful family.”

“She was a firecracker,” Izzy says, her voice cracking. “Steven used to say she got it from me. I think she got it from both of us.”

I glance around the room. “You’ve made it feel like home.”

“I’m trying,” she says. “Some days it works.”

She heads into the kitchen. “You want coffee? I’ve got soup on the stove. And I made bread this morning. It’s still warm.”

“Homemade bread?” I raise an eyebrow. “You trying to impress me?”

She smirks over her shoulder. “If I were trying to impress you, I’d have made pie.”

I chuckle and follow her in. “Soup and bread’ll do just fine.”

 

 

Chapter Twenty-two
Izzy

I’m elbow-deep in the tomato bed, coaxing a stubborn root ball out of the soil when Grace lets out a sharp bark and bolts across the yard like she’s been shot out of a cannon.

“Squirrel,” I mutter, yanking the trowel free. “Of course.”

Grace zigzags past the raised beds, ears flapping, tail a blur. The squirrel—gray, twitchy, and clearly unimpressed—leaps onto the fence and scolds her from a safe height. Grace responds by spinning in a circle and launching herself toward the compost pile.

I sit back on my heels, laughing. “You’re not catching that thing, you lunatic.”

She skids to a stop, tongue lolling, eyes wild with joy. Then she takes off again, full zoomies—looping around the garden like a  sugar-crazed toddler in a bounce house.

I’m laughing so hard I forget the mud under me. When I tip sideways, it’s not graceful. My hip hits the ground with a squelch, and suddenly I’m wearing half the garden on my overalls.

“Fantastic,” I say, flopping onto my back. “I’m a walking compost heap.”

Grace trots over, panting, and licks my cheek like she’s proud of me. I wipe my face with the cleanest corner of my sleeve and sit up just in time to see the cat.

He’s perched on the fence post like royalty, tail flicking, eyes narrowed. Grace barks once—just a hello, I think—but His Majesty is not amused.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “She’s harmless.”

The cat hops down, saunters over with the disdain of a monarch inspecting a peasant’s garden. He sniffs the air, gives Grace a wide berth, and sits just out of paw’s reach.

“You’re not even supposed to be here,” I tell him. “But I’ll allow it if you behave.”

He blinks slowly, then turns his back to me. Rude.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a treat. “Bribery?”

He glances over his shoulder, then pads closer, snatches the treat from my hand, and resumes ignoring me.

“Little brat,” I mutter, but I offer another treat anyway.

Grace flops beside me, tail thumping. The cat glares at her like she’s a war criminal.

I lean back against the garden bed, muddy and happy. The sun’s warm on my face, the tomatoes smell like summer, and despite the chaos, this moment feels like home.

Grace flops beside me, tail thumping against the dirt like a drum. The cat glares at her from his perch on the edge of the raised bed, clearly offended by her very existence. I offer him another treat, which he snatches with the same dramatic disdain as before.

I lean back against the raised bed, muddy and breathless, and realize something strange is happening.

I’m happy.

Not the kind of polite, surface-level contentment I’ve faked for years. This is real. It’s in my chest, light and fizzy. It’s in my cheeks, sore from laughing. It’s in the way the sun hits the garden just right, and Grace’s goofy grin, and the cat’s ridiculous attitude.

I blink up at the sky, and a memory floods in—unexpected, vivid, and warm.

I was six. Maybe seven. I’d tried to catch frogs in the neighbor’s pond and slipped right in. Came home dripping, covered in mud from head to toe. My hair was plastered to my face, my overalls weighed a ton, and I smelled like swamp.

Mom didn’t yell. She laughed. Called me her mud princess. Wrapped me in a towel like I was royalty and made me grilled cheese while I dripped all over the kitchen floor.

I laugh out loud now, startling the cat. Grace perks up, tail wagging faster.

“Mud princess,” I say, grinning. “Guess I’m reclaiming the title.”

I look down at my filthy overalls, streaked with garden soil and compost, and I don’t care. I feel good. I feel alive. I feel like myself.

I’m still grinning, still muddy, still basking in the afterglow of zoomies and squirrel drama, when I hear it.

“Help!”

It’s faint, but sharp. Male voice. Urgent.

I freeze.

“Help!”

I scramble to my feet, heart thudding. Grace perks up, ears alert, tail stiff. I run to the gate, scanning the street. No cars. No neighbors. Just Joe’s truck parked out front.

Oh God. It’s Joe.

He’s in the house. Alone.

I unlatch the gate and hesitate. My boots crunch on gravel, but I don’t move forward.

That house.

I haven’t stepped foot inside since Miss Alice died. I’ve passed it, looked at it, dreamed about it—but I haven’t gone in. Not once. Not even when Joe started fixing it up.

My feet won’t move. My breath catches. The porch, the windows, the door—it’s all the same and completely different. I can still see her there, apron dusted with flour, waving me in with a pie cooling on the sill.

Can I do this?

Grace whines beside me. Then she nudges my leg—firm, insistent. A muddy little shove.

I look down at her. “You think I should go?”

She whines again, tail wagging once.

And then I hear it. Soft. Familiar. Impossible.

Go. He needs you.

Miss Alice’s voice. Not loud. Not spooky. Just… there. Like a memory with breath.

I swallow hard. My hands are shaking, but I grip the gate and push it open.

“I’m going,” I whisper. “I’m going.”

Grace trots beside me as I cross the yard, heart pounding, mud drying on my overalls. I don’t know what I’ll find. I don’t know what I’ll have to do.

But I know this: I’m not the same girl who couldn’t walk through that door.

I’m the mud princess. And I’m not afraid.

 

 

Chapter Twenty-three
Joe

Pain hits like a hammer. Sharp, hot, and immediate.

I’m on the floor, twisted sideways, the ladder tipped over behind me like a crime scene. My ankle’s already swelling, and something deep in my leg feels wrong. Not just bruised—broken.

I try to move and nearly black out.

“Help!” I shout, voice cracking. “Izzy!”

I don’t know if she’s close enough to hear. I don’t know if anyone is.

The house creaks. The fridge hums. I’m alone.

I shout again, louder this time. “Help!”

Then—I hear the gate squeak open. The door. Footsteps on the stairs.

She’s here..

Izzy bursts into the hallway, mud streaked across her overalls, hair wild, eyes wide. She drops to her knees beside me, breathless with Grace at her back.

“Oh my God, Joe—what happened?”

“Ladder,” I manege. “Ankle’s bad. I think it’s broken.”

She looks at it and goes pale. “Okay. Okay. We need help.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say, trying to sit up. Pain shoots through me like lightning. “Just give me a minute.”

“No,” she says, voice firm as she pushes me back down to the ground. “You’re not okay. You need an ambulance.”

I see it hit her—the house, the memory, the weight of everything. She hesitates, eyes flicking toward the door. Her breath catches.

“Izzy,” I whisper. “It’s okay.”

She doesn’t move. Grace whines and nudges her leg. Then—soft, like a breeze through the hall—I hear it too.

Take care of him.

Miss Alice.

Izzy ‘s face takes on a look of determination. “I’m calling.” She looks around the room. “Where’s your phone?”

“The kitchen counter.”

 She runs out of the room and in less than a minute is back with the phone.   She dials 911. Her voice is steady, but her hands shake.

“Hi, yes—we need an ambulance. Middlefield Lane. He fell. Possible broken ankle. Please hurry.”

Grace nudges my arm to get my attention. I manage, “Hello Grace.”

Izzy grabs Grace’s collar. “I’m taking her home- I’ll rush right back. I don’t want to take any chances with the EMT scaring her or vice versa.”

All I can do is grunt, “Okay. Hurry.”

She rushes back upstairs, breathless from running and puts one hand on my shoulder. “Everything’s gonna be okay, Joe.”

 When the paramedics arrive, she doesn’t flinch. She helps them lift me, talks through the pain meds, rides in the ambulance like she’s done it a hundred times.

I watch her from the gurney, heart pounding. She’s scared. But she’s here.

At the hospital, she calls Matt for me.

“Hey,” she says. “We’re in the ER. Joe broke his ankle. He’s getting a cast.”

She listens, then smiles faintly. “Yeah. I’m okay. Just muddy and tired.”

When she hangs up, she sits beside me, her hand wrapped around mine.

“You did good,” I whisper.

She squeezes my fingers. “So did you.”

The cast tech finishes wrapping my leg and tells me to stay put while it sets. Like I’m going anywhere.

Izzy’s curled in the chair beside me, arms wrapped around her knees, mud still streaked across her overalls. She’s quiet, but her eyes keep flicking toward me like she’s checking to make sure I’m still breathing.

“You didn’t have to come,” I say softly. “But I’m damn proud you did.”

She looks up, startled. “Of course I came. You yelled for help.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve frozen. Could’ve panicked. Could’ve stayed behind that gate.”

She shrugs, but her voice is tight. “I almost did.”

I reach over, rest my hand on hers. “You didn’t. That’s what matters.”

Her eyes blinking fast she tells me, “I didn’t think I could walk into that house again. But I did. I knew something was wrong with you and it pushed me forward.   And I’m glad I did.”

I squeeze her fingers. “Me too.”

The moment hangs there—quiet, warm, a little muddy—until the door bursts open and Matt strides in still in his dentist scrubs.   I can’t help but smile at his outfit- bubblegum pink and covered with toothbrushes and smiley faces.

“You look like a walking sticker chart,” I say, grinning through the pain.

Matt glances down at himself and shrugs. “Pediatric dentistry. Bribery and distraction are half the job.”

Izzy snorts, trying to stifle a laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

He steps closer, eyes scanning the cast, then flicking to Izzy. “You must be Izzy,” he says, extending a hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Izzy stands, awkward, brushing at her overalls. “Sorry—I’m a mess. I fell in the garden. There was a squirrel. And zoomies.”

Matt laughs, warm and easy. “You’re fine. Anyone who helps this stubborn idiot get to the hospital is a hero in my book.

Izzy smiles, cheeks flushed. “Thanks.”

Matt pulls up a chair beside me, still radiating bubblegum cheer. “You really went for it, huh?”

 “ the ladder didn’t like me today.”

He shakes his head. “You’re lucky she was there.”

I glance at Izzy, who’s watching the cast tech finish up. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I really am.”

 

Chapter Twenty-Four
Izzy

Matt pulls into my driveway- well, as best he can with the dumpster hogging all the room. The porch light casts a soft glow across the gravel as Grace’s barks greet us.

I laugh, “ I guess she knows we’re back.”

Matt turns to me. “You want help getting Joe inside?”

I shake my head. “I’ve got it. Thanks for the ride.”

He doesn’t move to get out. “You sure?”

I glance at the house, then back at him. “I’m working on being better about people. I really am but I’m not there yet. Can you give me a little more time?”

His expression softens. “Of course.”

Joe shifts beside me, trying not to groan as he adjusts his leg. “She’s letting me in, though. So, I must be special.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re injured. That’s different.”

Matt laughs. “Take care of him. He’s a terrible patient.”

“I’ll manage,” I say, opening the door. “Thanks again.”

Matt waves and drives off, and I help Joe hobble up the steps. I can hear Grace scratching at the kitchen door.

Inside, I set Joe up on the couch—pillow, quilt, TV tray dragged from the corner. “Comfy?”

“Yeah, this is so nice of you, taking me in like this.”

“Of course. I wasn’t going to let you go to your apartment alone. That would be wrong.”

He adds, “Plus Miss Alice would be pissed.”

We both laugh but mine catches in my throat. Miss Alice would have never let someone go home alone when hurt. Neither will I.

The backdoor rattles as Grace bangs against it and interrupts with whining and impatient barks.

“I better go get her before she breaks down that door.” I say as I turn toward the kitchen.

 Grace rushes in as soon as the door creaks open, greeting me like I’ve been gone for a year or so. When she realizes that Joe’s in the other room, she takes off at full speed almost taking the tv tray down as she jumps up beside him, tail wagging so hard the couch shakes. After the wild hello she curls up and puts her head on his thigh like she’s claiming him.

Joe leans back with a sigh. “This is way nicer than the ER.”

I smile. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

The house settles around us—quiet, warm, familiar.

“You hungry. I am.”

I don’t wait for an answer -head to the kitchen and start pulling ingredients from the pantry. Canned carrots, peas, potatoes. A jar of chicken I pressure-canned last fall. Flour, butter, milk.

Joe hobbles in, leaning on the wall for support. “You sure you don’t want me to help?”

“You’re not allowed near knives tonight,” I say, rolling out dough. “Doctor’s orders.”

He chuckles and settles onto the stool. “Oh yeah, stupid pain meds. Fair enough.”

I stir the filling, the scent of thyme and rosemary filling the kitchen. The oven hums. Grace snores in the living room.

Joe watches me, quiet for a moment. Then he says, “You seem different.”

 “I feel different.”

“Braver?”

“Yeah,” I say, pressing the crust into the dish. “Alive. Like I’m finally waking up.”

He smiles. “I’m glad.”

I slide the pot pies into the oven and lean against the counter. “What about you?”

Joe looks down at his cast, then back at me. “I’ve decided to keep Alice’s house. Finish it. Move in.”

I blink. “Really?”                                                          

“Yeah. It’s not just a project anymore. It’s home. Or it will be.”

My heart thuds in my chest. “She’d like that.”

“I think so too.”

The timer beeps. I pull the pies from the oven, golden and bubbling.

Joe grins. “Smells like comfort.”

I hand him a plate and sit beside him on the couch. Grace shifts to

 make room, tail thumping, her eyes wide begging for a bite.

We eat in silence for a few minutes but it feels a bit strange. I grab the remote and turn on the news. “ Let’s see what happened today. I wonder if your accident made the news? “

He elbows me and snorts, “Wiseguy.”

“A wiseguy? Moi?”

Joe grins at me with a mouth full of pie.

Miss Alice. I did it.

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Five
Izzy

I wake before the sun, blinking into the soft gray light filtering through the curtains. For a second, I brace for the usual weight, the ache in my chest, the fog in my head—but it doesn’t come.

I feel… rested.

More rest than I’ve been in a long time. My limbs are loose, my breath easy. No nightmares. No tightness in my throat. Just quiet.

I lay there for a moment, listening to Grace snore at the foot of the bed. Is it her? Is it Joe? Or maybe both?

Or maybe—just maybe—I killed a few of my demons yesterday.

I smile, stretch, and swing my legs out of bed. The floor’s cool under my feet, but I don’t mind. I rush through a shower, towel off, pull on jeans and a soft flannel, and pad into the kitchen with a kind of purpose I haven’t felt in ages.

Coffee first. Always coffee.

As it brews, I crack eggs into a bowl, slice up leftover potatoes, and toss them into a skillet with butter and rosemary. The scent fills the room, warm and earthy.

I glance toward the living room. Joe’s still asleep, leg propped up, mouth wide open. Grace has curled up beside him like a furry bodyguard. The quilt’s slipped off his shoulder, so I tiptoe over and tuck it back around him.

Back in the kitchen, I talk softly, like I used to.

“Miss Alice,” I whisper, stirring the eggs. “It feels good to have someone around. Even if he’s grumpy and broken.”

The air shifts—just a little. Like brushing my cheek.

Good, she says. Not out loud, but I hear it anyway. You’re not meant to be alone forever.

I nod to the right- Miss Alice’s direction.  “I know.”

 The sun’s up now, casting gold across the counter as I set the table- for two. I take a deep breath and let it fill me.

Today feels different.

And I’m ready for it.

I hear him before I see him—slow footsteps, a soft grunt, the shuffle of a cast against the floor. I glance over my shoulder. Joe’s leaning on the doorframe, hair sticking up, face pale.

“You’re up,” I say, flipping the potatoes. “How’s the leg?”

He shrugs, trying for casual. “Fine.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Okay, not fine,” he admits, limping toward the table. “But I didn’t want to miss breakfast. Smells too good.”

“Sit,” I say, pointing to the chair. “And take a pill.”

He hesitates but I can see the pain in his eyes. “I’m trying to hold off.”

I set the spatula down. “Joe.”

He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I’ve had a problem with them before. Pain pills.”

I pause, let the skillet hiss in the silence.

“Sweden,” he says, eyes on the table. “Got hit by a car. I spent two weeks in the hospital, but I hurt for months. Took too many pills. Didn’t even realize it at first. Then I did. Went cold turkey. It was hell.”

I slide a mug of coffee in front of him. “You don’t have to do that again. Just one pill. With food. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

He looks up, searching my face. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” I say, setting the eggs beside the potatoes. “You’re not alone this time.”

He reaches for the bottle. Grace pads in and flops beside him like she’s backing me up.

As he swallows the pill, he chuckles. “You know, I had a nurse in Sweden who said my name the same way you do. Stern but caring. ‘Joe.’ Like she was scolding a puppy and hugging it at the same time.”

I laugh. “Sounds like she had good instincts.”

“She also threatened to tie me to the bed if I didn’t stop trying to walk on a broken hip.”

“Smart woman.”

He grins. “You’d have liked her. She looked like Miss Alice in that picture over there.” He points at the fireplace in the living room. “Except taller. And Swedish.”

I plate the toast, pour my coffee, and sit across from him. The sun’s climbing higher now, casting gold across the table.

 Joe takes the pill, then a bite of eggs, and lets out a low hum.

“Okay,” he says. “This is worth waking up for.”

I smile. “Told you.”

He grins, and for a moment, the pain slowly fading from his face.

 

 

 

 

C