Ethan. That means our rent could go up because of the market and Ethan. Isaiah said it softer the second time. We're fine. Let me worry about the math.
You worry about the multiplication tables. Ethan held his gaze for a moment. Then he nodded and went back to the paper. But Isaiah saw it. That look.
The one that said, "I'm 10 not stupid. " The one that said, "I notice more than you think. " The one that every time Isaiah saw it reminded him so much of Sandra that it knocked the breath out of him for just a second. He did the dishes after dinner. He thought about numbers. He thought about the $800 that should have been 14. He thought about the lumber he'd bought on credit and the bill that would come due in 30 days.
He thought about the truck and the defroster and the list of things that needed to not break for just a little longer. Then he stopped thinking about all of it and went to sit on Ethan's bed while Ethan finished reading and they talked about nothing. Baseball, a kid at school named Marcus who'd said something funny at lunch, whether or not a hot dog was technically a sandwich, and Isaiah listened to his son talk and thought that this right here was the thing nobody could put a dollar amount on. This right here was the thing he was actually working for. He didn't sleep great that night.
He rarely did anymore. But he was up at 5:30, dressed and caffeinated by 6:00, and on Harlan Ridge Road by 7:15 with his toolbox in the truck and his notebook in his jacket pocket. The Carter estate was not what he'd expected, which was fine. He'd learned a long time ago that expectations were just disappointments wearing a disguise. He'd expected something manicured, something that announced itself.
Because people with money out here in his experience tended to buy the big property and then spend considerable effort making sure you knew it was the big property. What he found instead was a long gravel driveway lined with old oak trees that had been there for a hundred years and would be there for a hundred more. And at the end of it, a house that was large without being aggressive about it. Stone and wood. Porches that looked like they got used.
A garden to the left that was clearly still in progress, not in a decorative way, but in the way of someone who actually grew things and intended to keep growing them. He pulled up and cut the engine. The fence was immediately visible from the driveway. 300 ft of post and rail running along the south and east borders of the property, and a section of it, maybe 40 ft, had given up the fight the night before. Posts down, rails scattered the whole stretch, collapsed inward like something had just exhaled and let go.
The wood was gray in the way of old wood, and even from the truck, he could tell that the collapse wasn't just about last night's storm. That fence had been losing the battle for a long time. He got out of the truck and walked toward it, and he was crouching down to get a look at the base of the nearest standing post when he heard the front door of the house open behind him. You're early. He stood and turned.
Amelia Carter was not what he'd expected, either. She was maybe late 30s, early 40s. Tall. Natural hair pulled back, practical rather than styled. She wore a fleece vest over a collared shirt and jeans and boots that had actual mud on them, which told him she'd already been out that morning.
She was holding two mugs of coffee, one in each hand, and she walked toward him with the purposeful stride of a person who didn't take small steps. She held one of the mugs out. He took it. Thank you. You found the problem before I got out here, she said.
It wasn't a compliment, exactly. More like an observation she approved of. Hard to miss. He nodded toward the collapsed section. Storm didn't take it down.
The storm just finished what was already happening. She looked at the fence. That's what I thought. When's the last time someone did any maintenance on it? She pressed her lips together.
The man I bought this property from 8 years ago told me the fence was in excellent condition. Isaiah said nothing. I have learned, Amelia said, that people often describe things as being in excellent condition when what they mean is that the problems are not yet visible to the naked eye. That's about right. So, what are we actually looking at?
He'd already been walking the line before she came out, and he gestured for her to follow him. She did, matching his pace, listening without interrupting while he talked through what he was seeing. He explained the rot patterns, the way water had been getting into the post bases, the difference between the sections that could be reinforced and the sections that needed to be replaced entirely. He crouched and showed her where the wood had gone soft, pressed his thumb into a rail, and let the wood take the impression. She crouched beside him, not behind him.
Beside him. "How long will this take? " she asked. "Done right, three, maybe four days. Depends on what I find when I pull the bad sections. " "And the cost? " He looked at her directly. "I'll write you a full estimate before I start anything.
Labor and materials both itemized. If the scope changes, I tell you before I change it. No surprises. " She held his gaze for a moment. "The last man who came out told me he'd have a quote to me in 3 days. When you want to start? " "Yesterday. " "I can start this morning. " Something in her expression shifted, not a smile exactly, but a release of something she'd been holding.
"Then get to work, Isaiah. " He drove to the hardware supplier in Millbrook, 40 minutes round trip, and was back by 9:30 with the first load of materials. Cedar posts, rails cut to length, hardware sealant, post set concrete. He'd learned years ago to overbuy slightly on the first trip because the fence always turned out to be worse than the initial inspection suggested. Wood had a way of hiding the depth of its own damage until you actually started pulling things apart. He worked alone.
He preferred it that way. Some contractors liked crews, liked the noise and the company, and the rhythm of multiple people on a job. Isaiah worked better in the quiet. It let him think. It let him really look at what he was doing.
He was 40 minutes into pulling the first collapsed section when he heard footsteps in the grass behind him. He turned. A girl stood about 20 ft away watching him. 15, maybe 16. Tall, like her mother.
She had earbuds in one dangling one in, and she was holding a thick novel against her chest with both arms like a shield. She was looking at him with an expression that wasn't unfriendly, exactly, but wasn't warm, either. More like evaluating. The same way her mother had looked at the fence. "You the contractor? " she said.
"Isaiah Brooks. You must be Grace. " She seemed mildly surprised that he knew her name. "My mom said someone was coming. " "She didn't mention you, too. " "What did she say? " He went back to pulling the collapsed rail section free of the ground. "That you were here. " Grace took a few steps closer. "That's not really saying anything. " "No, I guess it isn't. " She stood there another moment watching him work.
He didn't try to fill the silence. He'd found that teenagers, in particular, filled silences on their own terms and resented having it done for them. "Why'd the fence fall? " she asked. "Because it was rotting from the inside and nobody caught it in time. " "That's kind of a metaphor. " she said. He glanced up at her.
"I'm just a fence guy. " The corner of her mouth moved. Not quite a smile. "Sure you are. " She went back inside. Chug. He broke for lunch at noon a sandwich he'd packed that morning, eaten sitting on the tailgate of his truck.
Amelia appeared at the back door of the house at 12:15 and called out to offer lunch, and he thanked her and held up his sandwich, and she looked at it for a moment like she was going to say something, and then she nodded and went back inside. At 1:15, he was setting the first new post when his phone buzzed. Text from a number he recognized with a sinking feeling. Danny Marsh. A client who'd hired him 2 weeks ago to repair some soffit damage on his rental property.