Chapter Thirteen
Joe

The roofers show up at 7:02 a.m. Two minutes late. Not a big deal, but it sets the tone. There are four of them, all dressed in bright yellow t-shirts with the company logo on the back. Neon bright. -visible from the ground and the air. Maybe that’s the point.

By 7:15, they’re up on the roof, stomping around like a herd of elephants pulling off the old shingles and tossing them to the ground below. It’s loud, dusty  and reeks of tar.   I’ll need to apologize to the neighbors when this is all over. And poor Izzy, all these strange people.

 By 9am, they’re firing nails into new shingles, the compressor wheezing like it’s got asthma.  I try to ignore its loud din and get started on my project for the day- the back porch.

Before I even cut my first board, the electrician rolls in.

Harry’s a young guy, new to the trade and anxious to make a good impression.  He’s got a clipboard and a Bluetooth headset and keeps calling me “boss.”

“I’m not your boss,” I mutter, but he doesn’t hear me. Or pretends not to.

During the chaos, Allen arrives.   I know he’s here because of the loud banging coming from upstairs. Damn it.  He just walked into the house without checking in with me first. I’m not comfortable with that so I head inside intending to ask him to check in on arrival.

 But I never make it upstairs. As soon as I step on the front porch I’m hit with incoming.

The roofers start yelling about a missing ladder, and Harry wants to know where I want the new breaker box.

I point. I nod. I answer questions. I grit my teeth.

Then to add to my chaos, Matt pulls up  in his minivan. Oh God, what’s he doing here? I speak under my breath, “Miss Alice-please no more people . Please.’

Matt yells from the curb,  “Morning, sunshine, ” grinning as he grabs a pair of work gloves off his backseat.

“You picked a hell of a day to visit.” I’m glad he’s here.

He looks around. “Looks like a construction site.”

“It is.”

Matt walks up the porch and gives me a man hug. “Took the day off. Figured you could use some help.” He steps back and raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”

I brush him off with an easy response. “I’m fine.”

He follows me into the dark interior of the house.” Looks like you’re making progress.”

Before I can answer, I catch Harry’s drilling into the wrong stud. “Hey—stop. That’s not where the junction’s going.”

The guy shrugs. “Wasn’t marked.”

“I told you yesterday and we just discussed it ten minutes ago.”

Matt whistles low. “You’re wound tight.”

“I’ve got six people working on this house and it’s a circus.”

Matt leans against the wall. “You ever think maybe you’re trying to control too much?”

I shoot him a look. “You ever think maybe I have to?”

He doesn’t push. Just watches me for a beat. Then says, “I thought you could use an extra hand but maybe it would be better if I gave you some space?”

Stop being a jerk to Matt. He came all this way to help. I pause and take a calming breath.  “Help, please.”

He smacks me on the back . “Good answer, I’ll help you with the back porch. I’ll hold the boards while you drill.”

I exhale. Just a little. “Thanks. Thanks for coming.”

We get to work, all the while sending brotherly jabs and jokes back and forth.

But the boards go in straight. And for a minute, that’s enough.

By noon, the house feels like a hive.

The roofers are still hammering. Harry’s in the crawl space now, shouting something about wire clearance. Allen’s got half the bathroom torn apart and is muttering about outdated pipe fittings. Matt and I finish the porch steps just as a delivery truck pulls up with the new water heater—two hours early.

I sign for it, barely glancing at the clipboard. My hands are covered in sawdust and sweat. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t sat down. I haven’t stopped.

Matt tosses me a bottle of water. “You’re gonna pass out if you don’t take a break.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”  He stands with his hands on his hips in a perfect dad pose.

I  stick my tongue out at him , but I’m already moving toward the bathroom. The plumber’s got tools spread across the hallway like he’s setting up camp. I step over a wrench, nearly trip on a pipe.

“Can you keep this clusterfuck contained?” I growl.

He looks up, unfazed. “It’s a job site.”

“It’s my house.”

He shrugs. “Then you should’ve hired fewer people.”

I walk away before I say something I’ll regret.

Outside, Matt’s rinsing down the porch. He glances up. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m managing.”

He doesn’t argue. Just says, “You know, it’s okay if it’s not perfect.”

I stop and bang my fist against the wall.  “It’s not about perfect. It’s about control.”

Matt nods slowly. “And what happens when you lose it?”

I don’t answer. Because I already know.

 Things fall apart. People get hurt. People die. My fault.

My mind flashes to Kevin. He was only twenty-four – new to CI- new to danger.  I sent him off to follow the perp. He has a  trusting smile on his face as he waved goodbye. He never returned. I had assured him the coast was clear. It wasn’t. We didn’t find his body for two days. My fault.

I need out of here.  “Let’s go get some lunch.”

Matt doesn’t say anything. Just grabs his keys and follows me to the truck.

We drive in silence for a few blocks, windows down, the smell of sawdust still clinging to our sweaty shirts. I feel it in my lungs. In my bones.

We end up at a diner on the edge of town. Nothing fancy. Vinyl booths, cracked , sticky menus, coffee that tastes like burnt toast. But it’s quiet. And right now, quiet feels like a luxury.

We order burgers. Fries. Matt gets a milkshake because he’s still twelve at heart and I go with a coke since the coffee smells awful.

I finally relax enough to sit back and stretch my shoulders. “I didn’t realize how tense I was until I stopped moving.”

Matt dips a fry in ketchup. “You’ve been tense since the day you bought that house.”

I grunt. “It’s a lot.”

“It’s not just the house.” Matt slides in between bites.

I respond with a shake of my head. He’s right, but I’m not ready to unpack it all in a booth with mustard on the table.

He doesn’t push-just eats-letting the silence do the work.

After a while, I share, “I keep thinking if I fix everything—every board, every wire—it’ll feel better.”

Matt wipes his hands. “And does it?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

He nods. “Maybe it’s not about fixing. Maybe it’s about rebuilding.”

I look out the window.

 Rebuilding?  The house? Izzy? Me?  Maybe all three.

 

Chapter Fourteen

Izzy

 

Joe has been busy as a bee all day.  I’d catch glimpses of him- always hurrying with a frown on his face or shouting orders. I swear I saw steam coming out of his ears at one point.  Poor Joe.

I have the perfect spying spot.  See, Joe isn’t the only CI person around here. From the left-hand corner of my deck, shaded  by the tangles arms of an old wisteria , I can see most everything at Miss Alice’s. I dragged over an  old Adirondack chair and  a small table for my iced tea -ready for action.

I was so glad Matt showed up, Joe needed him today. I loved watching the two of them work on Miss Alice’s back porch. I laughed so hard I bet they heard me when Matt threw sawdust on Joe’s head.  But it worked- Joe actually laughed and for a moment his tension floated away with the sawdust.

A feeling I haven’t felt in years creeps over me-jealousy.  “Miss Alice,  I wish I was brave enough to go over there but with all those people. Not happening. “

My right ear tingles, as if brushed by a passing breeze.  “Invite him into your yard.”

“Invite him in? Maybe if he doesn’t stand too close, I could try it. “

“Be brave, Izzy,”  

Tomorrow. I’’ be brave tomorrow.

 

The idea of letting Joe into my yard had me tossing around in bed all night. After a while, it was just futile to stay in bed so I got up, dressed and made my coffee extra strong.

  It’s my favorite time — before the world wakes up, before the noise starts. The sprinklers whisper across the lawn, and the smell of wet earth mixes with the steam from my coffee. I watch the purples and pinks of the sunrise from my back deck and take a moment to honor my family.  I  look up  and whisper, “Steven, Molly, I  love and miss you both so damn much.  And baby boy, I love you, too. “   I finish my coffee, don my overalls and get to work.

 I meant to stop early. I really did. I wanted time to brush my hair, change my shirt, maybe even put on a little lip gloss. But I got lost in the rhythm — pruning the lavender, fluffing the marigolds, rearranging the gnomes.

The gnomes were Alice’s idea. She told me  gnomes protect nature and act as guardians and that I definitely needed at least one. We collected many over the years. Each one has a name and his own story.  After Miss Alice died, I moved all of hers over to my garden expect her favorite, Mr. Buttonwillow. I left him over in her, now Joe’s, garden. He has done an admirable job taking care of the place. And bringing Joe here.

Joe! I forgot!

 I glance at the porch clock. 8:52.

“No, no, no,” I mutter, dropping my gloves. My braid’s frizzing, my shirt’s streaked with compost, and I’ve got dirt on my nose.

“Miss Alice, why didn’t you warn me?”

My right ear tingles.

“Be brave, Izzy,” I whisper.

I wipe my hands, smooth my braid, and walk to the side gate — the one that faces Joe’s yard.

I hesitate. Then unlatch it.

Just a crack.

I don’t step out. I don’t call his name.

But I leave the gate open.

If he notices, he’ll know.

“ I did it, Miss Alice- my invitation. When he walks through, he’ll see my gnomes — lined up like little sentries, waiting to welcome someone new.”

From my hiding place on the deck, I watch him sanding the porch rail over and over. I’m anxious for him to see the open gate but all he does is work.

After sitting and waiting over thirty minutes, impatience takes over.

I try sending him a telepathic message. “Come on Joe. Look at the gate”

Nothing.

Noise- I need to make some noise . That will get his attention.

Alice whispers, “Throw pebbles at the gate.”

“You’re right.”  I gather a few pebbles from the walkway  their surfaces smooth and cool. I throw them one by one at the gate. I laugh as only two out of ten actually hit the gate with a light clinking sound.  “Damn shame, I used to play softball in high school and now I can’t even throw rocks.”

 

Chapter Fifteen

Joe

 

Needing a drink and a break, I set the sander down and head inside for a cold bottle of water. The electricity isn’t working yet so I have a large cooler filled with ice and water set up for myself and the workers.

I call down the hall, “Hey Harry, how soon till the electricity works in here?”

“About two days, Joe. It’s going smooth now.”

“Great.”

Back outside, I sit on the top step and crack open my water.

Clink. The barely there sound draws my attention.

What was that? It sounded like it came from Izzy’s.

Clink. There it is again.

 And then I see it.

Izzy’s back gate — the one that’s always latched — is open.

Just a crack.

I set my water down and walk toward it, wiping my hands on my jeans. The morning air is warm, and the scent of mint and wet soil drifts through the slats.

“Izzy?” I call gently.

No answer. But a breeze stirs the wind chimes, and I hear the faint clink of ceramic.

I push the gate open.

Her yard is… alive.

Gnomes, in a rainbow of colors, stand in tidy rows, each one nestled among flowers. A tiny wheelbarrow filled with marigolds. A birdbath with fresh water. The grass is trimmed, the beds weeded, the fruit trees pruned.

It’s not just beautiful. It’s loved.

I take a step closer, keeping my eyes down, careful not to crowd her. “Gnomes, like the one in my yard.”

“Yeah. Your gnome is Mr. Buttonwillow, he was Miss Alice’s first gnome and favorite. I left him in her yard to protect it “

Just as I thought, she’s the one that took care of my backyard. “It was you, huh?”

 She laughs,  “ Yeah, it was me. Alice and I started it. I just… kept it going.”

“Thank you for the beautiful yard you left me.”

She giggles,  “ It was Miss Alice’s idea.”

I look up and salute the sky. “Thank you Miss Alice.”

I turn and lift my eyes in her direction. Izzy stands on her deck, hands clasped, eyes wide.  

She’s a beautiful woman. A long blonde braid  touched with silver and white lays over her shoulder. Her eyes, a pale shade of blue, are surrounded by well earned lines. Her mouth and nose fit her face perfectly.  And there is a wonderful smudge of dirt running down her right cheek.

“Matt thought it was magic,” I say. “I thought it was elves.”

She smiles — small, but real. “Close.”

She nods, then gestures to the garden. “You can look around. If you want.”

I do. Slowly. Reverently.

And for the first time since I bought this house, I feel like I’ve stepped into something sacred.

It takes a while to see all of her garden, but I don’t miss anything—not even the compost heap tucked at the far back of the yard.

This place is her life.

I climb the steps slowly, the weight of what I’ve just seen settling into my chest. Izzy hasn’t moved from her spot on the deck. She stands quietly, hands still clasped, watching me with those pale blue eyes that seem to hold more than she ever says aloud.

I stop a few feet away, careful not to intrude on whatever space she needs. “This place,” I say, my voice low, “it’s more than beautiful. It’s brave.”

Izzy tilts her head slightly. “Brave?”

“Yeah. To keep loving something after so much loss. To keep tending it. To keep showing up.”

She looks down at her hands, fingers tightening. “I don’t know if it’s brave,” she murmurs. “Sometimes it just feels like survival.”

I don’t push. I let the silence stretch between us, let the breeze carry the scent of mint. It feels different, like the garden behind her has changed something in me.

Then she looks up. “It was March. Seven years ago.”

She’s going to be brave. I don’t say anything, just stand and wait.

“My husband, Steven. Our daughter, Molly. I was six months pregnant with a baby boy.” Her voice is steady, but I see the shimmer in her eyes. “A drunk city worker ran a red light. Hit us broadside. Steven and Molly died instantly. I lost the baby the next day.”

My throat tightens. I don’t know what to say, and I sure as hell don’t want to say the wrong thing.

“Oh, Izzy…”

She shakes her head gently. “Most people don’t know what to say. Or they say too much.”

“I won’t say too much,” I tell her. “But I will say this — I think you’re extraordinary.”

She gives a small, sad smile, and the dimple in her left cheek appears. “I don’t feel extraordinary. I feel like a woman who buried her whole world and didn’t know what to do next.”

I feel a slight push on my back, like Miss Alice is nudging me forward.

I step closer, just enough to let her know I’m here. “And yet you made this.” I gesture out over the garden. “You kept going. You made beauty out of grief.”

Izzy nods, eyes glistening. “Miss Alice helped. She was the first person who didn’t treat me like I was broken. She gave me a shovel and a packet of seeds and said, ‘Start here.’”

I look out over the garden again—the rows of gnomes, the wheelbarrow of marigolds, the fruit trees. “She knew what she was doing.”

“She did,” Izzy says softly.

Izzy’s eyes drift toward the garden, but I can tell she’s not seeing gnomes or marigolds anymore. She’s somewhere else entirely.

“She was a handful,” she says, her voice soft but laced with warmth. “Bright. Sassy. Girly-girly to the core. Pink everything. Glitter. Tutus over jeans. She used to say she was ‘fashion-forward.’”

I smile. “Sounds like she ran the house.”

“She did,” Izzy says, laughing quietly. “One time, she got mad at Steven for not letting her have ice cream before dinner, so she marched into the living room, hands on her hips, and declared, ‘You are no longer my favorite parent.’ Then she turned to me and said, ‘Congratulations, Mommy. You win.’”

I laugh, and Izzy’s smile widens.

“She was four,” she continues. “And she had this magic wand — plastic, sparkly, probably from the dollar store. She’d wave it around and ‘cast spells’ on people. One morning, she tried to turn Steven into a frog because he wouldn’t let her wear her princess dress to preschool.”

“Did it work?” I ask.

“She said it did. She told her teacher, ‘My daddy’s a frog now, but he still drives me places.’”

We both laugh, and for a moment, the heaviness lifts.

“She was funny,” Izzy says, her voice catching just slightly. “And opinionated. She once told me my shoes were ‘too grown-up and not sparkly enough.’ She wanted me to wear glitter heels to the grocery store.”

“What an amazing little girl.” I say.

“She was,” Izzy whispers. “She really was.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For sharing her with me.”

Izzy nods, brushing a strand of hair off her cheek. “She’s always with me. In the garden.”

I let that settle between us. Then I take a breath and step just a little closer.

“And Steven?” I ask. “What was he like?”

Izzy’s eyes flick to mine, surprised maybe, but not guarded. She leans against the railing, her fingers loosening.

She plays with her braid. “He was steady,” she says. “not much of a talker, but when he did speak it was in a deep bass voice, you listened because you trusted him to tell the truth. 

She laughs and shakes her head. “And on the rare occasion he sang-he sounded like Barry White.”

It is more obvious with each word how much she loved this man. He was one lucky dude.

A pretty blush appears on her face. “He was a handsome man- I admit, that’s what drew me to him that first day.  Broad shoulders, bright brown eyes, brown hair that was a little too long, and muscles you could see through his uniform. “

She reaches in her pocket and pulls out a worn, dented-up pocketknife. “He always carried this-never left home without it.”

Spent eight years as a Marine medic then came home and became an EMT.”

She pauses, her gaze drifting. “He had this way of making people feel safe. Not just in emergencies — in life. He’d sit with someone after a call, even if it meant missing dinner. Said sometimes what people needed most wasn’t a bandage, but someone who didn’t leave.”

I nod, picturing him. “Sounds like a good man.”

“He was,” she says. “He was ten years older than me. Thought I was too young at first. But I knew. I knew the moment he handed me a cup of coffee and didn’t say a word while I cried over a failed exam. He just sat there. That was Steven.”

Izzy smiles faintly. “And he was the best father. He called Molly ‘his little hurricane.’ Said she blew through rooms and left glitter in her wake.”

I chuckle. “That tracks.”

“She adored him,” Izzy says. “And he adored her. He’d let her paint his nails pink and wear tiaras while they watched cartoons. He never cared what people thought. He just loved her.”

Her face grows solemn tone, her hands tighten into fists. “He was driving that day. He always drove. Said he liked to keep us safe.”

I reach out, resting my hand lightly on the railing beside hers. “You don’t have to say more.”

Izzy nods, her eyes glistening again. “I know. But sometimes… it helps.”

Izzy’s voice falters, and then the tears come — quiet at first, just a shimmer, then a slow, steady stream down her cheeks. She doesn’t try to hide them. Doesn’t apologize.

She just lets them fall.

And something in me cracks.

It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s just… a shift. Like a door I didn’t know was locked suddenly creaks open.

I feel it in my chest — tight, aching. I’ve been closed up like a damn clam for years now. It’s like I locked all the noise, chaos and loss into boxes I never intended to unpack.

Kevin’s death in Australia.  

Cheryl’s abduction and rape in Somalia.

 Bobby’s  gruesome death on TV in  Libya.

My own close call in Venezuela.

 I told myself I was fine. Told myself I was done with all that.

But watching her cry — watching her be brave enough to feel it — I realize I haven’t let myself feel anything real in a very long time.

She doesn’t flinch from her pain-maybe it’s time I didn’t hide from mine.  I  have twenty years of death. Treachery. Evil.  Losses. It’s not smart to hold it all in – especially if I want to be whole moving forward.

I hesitate for a moment.

 Should I do this? Yes, damn it. We both need it.  

I step closer, slow and careful, and reach out. My hand finds hers on the railing. I don’t say anything. I just hold on.

Her fingers curl around mine, and she doesn’t let go.

We stand there like that — two people who’ve lost too much, holding on to something small and steady.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone.

 

 

Chapter Sixteen

Izzy

The moment Joe lets go of my hand, panic sets in.  I have to get out of here right now.  I can’t break down in front of him. Not completely.

All I can manage is, “ I’m going inside now,” before I rush inside- not giving him a chance to answer.

The door clicks shut behind me, and I press my back to it, trying to breathe. But it’s already happening. That slow collapse into despair. The kind that starts in your chest and spreads until you’re nothing but ache.

Joe knocks on the door. “ Izzy, I’m leaving. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Good .He’s  going.

 My legs won’t hold me up. I slide down to the floor, knees pulled tight, and let it come. I couldn’t stop it now if I wanted to.

 I’m here — in the dark, in the quiet, in the  abyss of my memories of my family.

I whisper, ”Miss Alice, stay with me please. I need you.” 

My eyes close and I’m there again.

I woke in a cold hospital room attached to a series of machines that beeped lightly every few seconds.  The room was empty of anything personal or homey. Blank. The window blinds were pulled tight. Was it day or night? I couldn’t tell.
Voices drifted in from the hall but there was no one in  my room.

Flashes of our car, a truck and a collision flash across my mind.

A nurse in pink scrubs, her badge stamped with a happy face, walks in and smiles.  “Good, you’re awake,” she says.  She checks my machine then takes my hand.

She didn’t say it right away. But I could tell by the softness in her eyes that she had bad news to deliver.
My throat was itchy and hoarse, but I managed, “Just tell me.”
She said, “I’m so sorry.”
And I knew.

No Steven. No Molly.  No baby kicking inside me.

 

I sold the house  Steven and I called home.  I couldn’t stay there.  
Too many rooms. Too many echoes. Too many memories.
For some reason, Karma shined bright for me and led me to this place- a new house and a little old lady that would put me back together.

 The house was small, a perfect size for  one person with a huge backyard. It sat next to a well-kept house with a  purple cushioned porch swing.  The neighborhood was quiet. Perfect.  I paid cash for the house that very day.

Marty’s song wakes me with a cascade of notes, some melodic, some dissonant. Marty is the neighborhood mockingbird famous for his melodies and pestering ways.  Evening shadows stretch across the room- the clock reads 6:30.

I wasted the whole day. I chide myself, “ Get up, Izzy, you’ve been down long enough.”

My legs protest as I stand and look out the window above my sink.

Joe’s truck is gone and Miss Alice’s house is dark.

 Good.  I can’t handle anyone right now.  “Except for you, Miss Alice.” I  say as I run my hand down her picture hanging on my wall.

My stomach lets out a series of loud growls. I’m starving.

The kind of hunger that sneaks up after a day spent in grief and silence. I  open the fridge, and grab the leftover pasta from two nights ago. Cold, but edible. I toss it in a pan with a splash of olive oil, a handful of cherry tomatoes and a heaping portion of parmesan cheese. It sizzles as it heats through- warm, fragrant, familiar.

I eat standing at the counter, fork in one hand, the other braced against the sink. The house is quiet except for Marty’s distant song and the occasional creak of settling wood.

Joe’s voice drifts back to me — low, steady, kind.
“You made beauty out of grief.”

I set my fork down and close my eyes. That moment on the deck… it was more than kindness. It was connection. Real. Alive.

I whisper, “Miss Alice, you were right. I needed a friend. And he showed up.”

I imagine her nodding, that knowing smile on her face. She always said karma worked in mysterious ways. Maybe Joe was part of mine — not just a neighbor, but a gift. A reminder that not everyone  has to be a memory.

But then it hits me.

Joe’s fixing up Miss Alice’s house.
To sell it.

I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth.
No.
He can’t leave.
Not now. Not when something good is finally growing.

I rinse my plate, dry my hands, and stare out the window into the dark.
Miss Alice gave me a shovel and a packet of seeds.
Maybe it’s my turn to pass something on.

I have a mission now.
Get Joe to stay.