Chapter Ten

Joe

Hooah! Success. I got us out of that god-awful knothole fiasco and even though I can’t see her face, I know she’s smiling. She actually sounds happy. Keeping it light and funny works. Good job.

Should I press for a reciprocal story? Or at least some personal information? Hell Yes, but I’ll be gentle. Yeah, I already know her story, but I want her to tell me in her own words. She needs to get it all out.

Keeping my voice light and sing- songy, I try, “Ohhhhh Izzy, turnabout’s fair play- Tell me, do you have a family? “

I cross my fingers and hope she’s brave enough to give me something.

 Across the fence, the ice rattles in her glass. She whispers-barely audible, “I’m a widow.”

I pump both fists in quiet victory and whisper to myself, “She did it.”

Now, be careful.  Don’t push. Just be glad you got an answer.

“Damn.” I respond and sigh loud enough for her to hear. “I never know what to say at times like this. I’m sure you’ve had your fill of prayers and condolences, so I won’t do that. “

“Thanks. You have no idea. Words didn’t help then, and words won’t work now either.”

“I get it. What if I offer to fix your squeaky front window and take your trash to the curb?”

She bangs her hands against the fence as she laughs. “Perfect.”

That’s enough for one day.

 ‘Listen, I’ve got to get back to work.” I lift the empty glass over the fence and get a quick glance at her hand. She has long slim fingers- like a piano player. Pretty.

 Her shadow, visible under the fence, disappears. “Me. Too. I’ve got a nasty job to finish-composting my vegetable plot.”

“Yeah, that does sounds nasty and smelly. Good luck.”

She calls from a few feet away. “Talk again soon.”

Great, she wants to do this again. Win number two on Operation Izzy.  “Thanks for the talk, the tea and the delicious cookies.” I say with a final knock on the fence.

“You’re welcome.” A second later she adds, “Oh Joe.  Wednesday is trash day.”

 

I’m starting on the primary bathroom. It’s too small for what I have in mind. I want a fully loaded Spa Retreat- with refined European elegance. Yes, I’m adding a bidet.  European living has spoiled me. Bidets are wonderful and why more homes in the USA don’t have them is silly. Clean butts. Saved trees. What’s not to like?

“Hey Miss Alice, hope you don’t mind me changing things round a bit. The house has great bones, I’m just adding to its beauty- from standard issue to five-star command.”

Allen, the plumber knocks on the wall outside the bathroom. “Hey Joe, ready to tell me what you want me to do in here?”

I hand him my roughly drawn plans.

“So, you’re adding a bidet, huh? That’s not something I see every day around here.”

“Yeah, I know. European living ruined me—in the best way.”

Allen chuckles, “You want the fancy kind with heated water and air dry, or just the basics?”

 “Heated everything. I want this thing to feel like a five-star spa.” I point at the plans.” As you can see, I’m upgrading the whole setup—double vanity, standalone shower, soaking tub- a spa retreat.”

 “I’m just adding some flair.  This house deserves it. And so does the next person who lives here.”

 “Sounds like you’re on the right track” Allen takes a moment to look around the room.  “Alright, I’ll draw up an official blueprint and get the city permits. I might need to reroute some plumbing to fit the bidet and second sink. Could cost extra.”

Of course, everything costs extra.  “Do what you gotta do. Just make sure it’s quiet. I don’t want it sounding like a jet engine every time someone flushes.”

“We’ll need to move that one wall back too.” I point at the backwall.

“Got it.” Allen adds a note to my handwritten plan then gives me a mock salute as he turns to go. “Silent flush, spa vibes, and tactical elegance. You’re a man with a vision.”

“Damn right. Let’s make it happen.”

Now the wall. The sledge hammer’s heavy but feels good, too. It’s been a while since I did any heavy work with my arms. The first strike sends a large cloud of dust and plaster into the room. Damn it. I sneeze. My eyes water.

 Such a rookie move.

Rushing to the hall, I grab my safety glasses and mask off the sawhorses I’d set up.  Dad would be laughing his ass off. He’d say, “Safety first, dumbass.”

I want to blame Izzy for my stupidity because I was thinking of her when I took that swing, but I know better. One time in dad’s workshop.-I must have been ten years old. We were making a dog house for my grandmother’s new dog. I forgot my safety glasses and got a splinter in my eye.  A trip to the emergency room, one pirates patch, and a week of broom duty to make sure I learned my lesson.

It was my own mistake.

I opened the window to air the place out and got back to work. Lucky for me, the wall came down easily.  

 I sit down on the front steps. With the bathroom on hold for Allen’s plumbing, it’s time to contact  roofers since that needs to be done before the next rain. I don'…..

I don’t get to finish that thought. My phone buzzes in my pocket—three missed calls from Matt and one from Hal the electrician. Matt probably wants to remind me about Chase’s birthday next Tuesday. This will be the first birthday I’ll celebrate with the little guy. I’ve always been away on some mission. I wasn’t even there for the boy’s births. They don’t even know me.

I’ll call them back later, the roof’s more important. I google through a few local contractors, but they all look the same: stock photos of smiling guys in hard hats and five-star reviews that feel bought. I pick one at random and leave a voicemail.

Back inside, the air still tastes like drywall. I grab the broom and get back to work. Thoughts of Izzy being brave enough to tell me she was a widow puts a smile on my face.

The broom scrapes across the floor, catching bits of plaster and old tile. I dump the dustpan into the contractor bag and tie it off. The house exhales with me—lighter now, like it’s shedding its past one wall at a time.

I step out back to check the fence. Izzy’s side is quiet. Her garden’s still blooming, even in October. She’s got those tall sunflowers that lean like they’re eavesdropping. I wonder if she’s out there, maybe reading  in that old wicker chair that sits near her shed. I imagine her there —book in hand, legs tucked under her like a cat.

I lean on the fence, listening. Nothing but the wind and the distant hum of traffic. I think about knocking. Just once. Just to say hi. But I don’t. Not yet.

Instead, I head back inside and sketch out the next phase of the Spa  Retreat. Heated floors. Ambient lighting. Maybe even a towel warmer. I want this place to feel like a sanctuary—for whoever ends up here. Maybe even for me.

The phone buzzes again. Hal’s text: Need to talk wiring before you close up the walls.

I reply: Tomorrow morning. Bring coffee.

Then I sit on the edge of the tub frame and stare at the open wall. Behind it, pipes and wires and the bones of the house. Behind that, Izzy’s garden. And somewhere in between, the part of me that’s still trying to figure out what comes next.

The next morning, Hal, the electrician, shows up with coffee and a toolbox that looks older than both of us. We walk the perimeter of the bathroom, tracing lines in the air where wires will run and outlets will live. He talks specs and voltage. I nod and pretend I’m following, but I’m really listening to the noises coming from Izzy’s—plastic bumping, scraping against something solid, then wheel clatter.

OMG, is it garbage day?

After what feels like forever—after we painstakingly map out every inch of the electrical plan for the entire house—Hal heads off to the permit office.

Good. He’s gone.

I rush out the back door and glance toward Izzy’s.

Blue, black and green trash bins sit outside her gate. There’s a note and a brown paper bag taped to the top of the blue one.

Remembering her last note, I grin. “I wonder if she wants me to paint these bins, too?”

The note is only two words: trash day. A big smile crosses my face. She wasn’t letting me forget my promise. Inside the bag—cookies. Chocolate chip. Definitely homemade. Sweet.

I drag the bins to the curb. As I turn to head back, I catch movement behind Izzy’s front curtains.

I see you spying on me, Izzy. Don’t worry.

A promise is a promise.

 

Two days later, I pull up in front of the house. “I haven’t been here in two days,” I mutter. With plumbing and electrical on hold, I spent time at my apartment— which was a total mess. I did laundry, groceries,  changed my sheets and dusted. It’s cleaner and more organized now, but it still won’t pass a white glove inspection , that’s for sure.

Guilt at not seeing Izzy has me trying to sneak in quietly. But pulling the plywood off the front door isn’t exactly stealthy.

I didn’t abandon you. Don’t worry.

The sun’s out, but the breeze carries that damp October warning—rain’s coming. I jot down measurements, angles, notes about flashing and gutters. I can’t put it off any longer. The roof needs to be done ASAP.

Out back, I start calling roofers, determined to find someone who can squeeze me in this week.

Then I hear it—a door creaks open across the fence line.

Izzy steps out onto her deck.

I wonder if she knows I can see her from my back porch.

She’s holding a small box, wearing a faded blue sweater that looks like it’s been through a few good stories. Her hair’s pulled back, loose strands catching the light.

Her lips are moving.

I bet she’s talking to Miss Alice.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter eleven

Izzy

 

I know he saw me just now on my back porch and it didn’t freak me out. Who knew?

“Hey, Miss Alice, help me understand. Is it Joe? Am I getting better? Or am I just lonely?”

I huffed at my own silliness and answered myself: “All three.”

Now stop the crazy talk and get to work. First stop, the shed—for my overalls.

I’m sowing heirloom seeds today—treasures I saved from last winter’s harvest of hardy crops. I start by loosening the soil with my hand fork, working in compost to give the bed a little love. Each seed gets tucked into a shallow furrow, spaced just right, then gently covered and watered in. These aren’t just seeds to me—they’re living memories, passed down season after season.

As I label each row and pat the earth, I feel like I’m planting more than a garden—I’m planting continuity, flavor, and a little bit of history.

I’d just started on my row of Green Forest lettuce when there was a loud knocking on my garden fence.

Joe.

Excited, I called out, “Joe, is that you trying to break down my fence?”

His laughter warmed me from the inside all the way up to my cheeks.
“Yeah, it’s me. Your neighborhood pest.”

Joe’s voice drifted over the fence, low and steady. “You talk to her a lot.”

I paused, hand still in the soil. “You mean Miss Alice?” “Yeah,” he said. “I figured, since I’m working on her house, I should know more about her.”

“Sure,” I said. “She was the best of everything — neighbor, mentor, friend. Gave me my first seeds. Taught me how to listen to the garden.”

Listened to me cry. Talked me down from hurting myself.

Joe didn’t respond right away. I heard the scrape of his boots on gravel.

“She used to say plants don’t just grow — they remember. That if you treat them right, they’ll carry your stories.”

I pressed a seed into the furrow, covered it gently. “These heirlooms? They’re hers. I’ve planted them every season since she passed. Still feels like she’s here, whispering over my shoulder.”

Joe cleared his throat. “She left a good mark. That house… it’s got a soul.”

I smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “So does the garden.”

He chuckled to himself. “Do you have any idea why she painted the living room fireplace purple?”

Laughing, I pushed off the ground and brushed off my overalls.
“Her favorite color. The whole room was lathered with it. She even had a velvet,  Royal purple, tufted sofa velvet that sat  on  a flower garden rug with lavender, purple, and pink blooms.  that’s for sure.”

“She definitely had her own taste .” Joe  responds.

“Alice told me purple was a special color, almost magical. It was worn by royalty down through the ages because it meant strength  and authority. But  to her it meant determination.”

“Quite the woman.”

“ I bought this house six months after Steven died.”

Am I really going to  tell him this?

Alie whispers, “ Do it. Open up a little.”

“You okay over there Izzy?” 

“Yeah, it’s just I don’t talk about this but, don’t laugh, Alice told me to open up to you. “

“I’d be honored to hear more but only what you feel comfortable telling me.”

I see it like it was yesterday.

 “The day I moved in, Alice arrived at my door pushing a  full wheelbarrow covered with  a drop cloth. She was dressed in faded  blue overalls over a purple t-shirt, and a purple bandana holding back her head of white curls. She brought  tea, cookies, a rose bush and the flowers that still live  by my front door- welcoming gifts. I was a mess, almost a basket case and in no mood for company. Well, that little lady pushed her way right inside my house and proceeded to take over.”

Joe’s voice drifted over the fence, low and thoughtful. “She sounds like someone who knew how to show up.”

“She did,” I said, brushing dirt from my palms. “Not just with plants. With people.

There was a pause, then the soft creak of his boots shifting on gravel. “I think I felt that. The first time I walked into her house, it didn’t feel empty. It felt… paused.”

I smiled to myself. “She’d like that.”

The breeze stirred the lavender. I could almost hear her humming—some old folk tune she used to sing while pruning roses.

Joe cleared his throat. “You said she told you to open up to me. Why?”

I hesitated, fingers trailing through the soil. “She said you’d understand. That you carry your own stories in your bones. That maybe, if I shared mine, we’d both feel a little less alone.”

He didn’t speak right away. Then, softly: “Smart lady.”

I looked at the fence. Weathered wood, ivy curling through the slats. A barrier, but not a wall.

“She didn’t ask if I needed help. She just knew.

 

Chapter Twelve
Joe

 

She’s braver than she thinks.

Talking about Steven like that—just dropping it into the air like it’s not the heaviest thing she’s carried. I didn’t expect it. Didn’t expect her to say Alice told her to open up to me, either.

I shift my weight, boots crunching the gravel. I want to say something that doesn’t sound like pity.

Shea adds, “She didn’t ask if I needed help,” Izzy says. “She just knew.”

“She sounds like someone who knew how to show up,” I say.

“She did,” she replies. I hear her brushing dirt off her hands.

I let the quiet sit for a moment. Then I speak.

“I didn’t get the privilege of knowing her,” I say. “  But I feel her presence  in  that house, like the walls remember.”

Izzy doesn’t say anything right away, so I keep going.

“I lost someone too,” I say. “His name was Kevin. We were on a CI team together. Close.  Like brothers.”

I trace the edge of the fence with my thumb. “ We were oversea.  In Libya. Things went sideways. He didn’t make it.”

Still no interruption. Just the sound of her garden—a bird somewhere.

“I almost quit after that,” I add. “Didn’t see the point. Everything felt… off. Like I was walking around with half my chest missing.”

Izzy lets out a breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I guess I’m telling you because… I get it. The way grief sticks to things. The way it shows up in the soil and the paint and that damn purple fireplace.”

She laughs softly. “She loved that fireplace.”

“I figured,” I say. “I tried to paint it. Stopped halfway. Felt wrong.”

We sit in the quiet again. Not awkward. Just full.

“She’d be proud of you,” I say. “For planting. For talking.”

Izzy laughs again. “She’d be bossing us both around.”

“Probably telling me to fix the porch faster.”

“She hated that  rickety old porch.”

We both laugh. It’s easy. Easier than I thought it’d be.

I’m going to be brave and ask he about her husband.

“Izzy,  I’d like to know more about Steven. You open to telling me?”

I hear her take several deep breaths .

Maybe she’s not ready.

Just when I think she’s going to walk away, she starts talking. “ I met Seve when I was in college. I was in a chemistry class when one of the other students had an accident and the professor called 911.  Steven was the EMT that showed up that day with the firemen. I flirted. So did he. He asked me out on a date. We were together after that.”

“Sounds like a romance novel.” 

She huffs and adds, “With a tragic ending. I’ve been alone now for seven years.”

Thanks for the note—that’s really helpful. Let’s keep Joe’s voice grounded, direct, and emotionally honest without drifting into poetic territory. Here’s a revised continuation of his chapter, picking up right after Izzy says, “I’ve been alone now for seven years.”

 

Seven years. That’s a long time to carry something like that.

I lean into the fence a little, arms resting on the top rail. “I’m glad you told me,” I say.”

“The only person who knew the whole story was Alice,” she says. “But it felt right sharing some of it with you.”

“He sounds like he was a good man.”

“He was,” she says. “Kind. Steady. Funny, when he let himself be.”

I nod. “Sounds like someone worth knowing.”

She doesn’t respond right away, and I don’t push it. I’ve learned not to.

“I think about Kevin a lot,” I say. “Not just the day we lost him. The dumb stuff. The way he used to whistle off-key. The way he always carried two lighters, even though he didn’t smoke.”

Still quiet on her side, but I know she’s listening.

“I used to think talking about him would make it worse,” I say. “But it doesn’t. It keeps him close.”

“Yeah,” she says. “That’s what Alice used to say. That remembering someone out loud is how you keep them alive.”

“She was right.”

We don’t say much after that. Just let it sit. No need to fill the space.

After a minute, I say, “If you ever want to talk about Steven again, I’ll be here.”

She doesn’t answer right away, but when she does, it’s soft. “Thanks, Joe.”

I nod, even though she can’t see it. “Anytime.”

Damn it. I almost forgot .

“Oh Izzy, before you get back to work, can I borrow your lawnmower? I need to mow the backyard.”

“Of course you can.”

“Appreciate it. Mine finally gave up last week. Started smoking like it was on fire.”

Izzy chuckles. “Sounds dramatic.”

“It was. I thought I was going to have to call the fire department. Figured I’d rather borrow yours than risk becoming a neighborhood story.”

She laughs again, and it’s nice—easy. Like we’ve earned this moment.

“I’ll leave it by the gate after I finish trimming the roses,” she says.

“Take your time. Backyard’s not going anywhere.”

I turn toward the house, gravel crunching under my boots again. The porch still groans when I step on it. I make a mental note to fix that board tomorrow.

Inside, the air smells like sawdust and old paint. I glance at the purple fireplace. A can of paint sitting on the hearth. “Don’t worry Miss Alice, I won’t pint it. Promise.

I grab a cold bottle of water from the fridge and head out back. Time to mow. Time to keep showing up.