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“Oh yeah.”
A good Day One, Sloan congratulated herself as she readied for bed. She’d eaten what counted as three meals, done some strength training, had walked, when you added it all up, just under a full mile. And she’d made close to half a scarf.
Thirteen days to go, she thought, until she got the all clear.
She slept deep and dreamless until dawn slid silently across the eastern sky.
Rising, she welcomed Day Two.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sipping his first cup of coffee, Nash Littlefield watched the sun burn red across the lake. Or his view of it through pines and skeletal hardwoods.
He enjoyed the brilliant drama of it, the contrast of that drama with the almost preternatural quiet.
From where he stood, he heard only the roar of the fire in the hearth, the whisper of winds that snuck through the failing weather stripping of windows he planned to replace.
Even his well-built condo hadn’t masked the sounds of the city he lived with, lived in all of his adult life.
And now he lived with, lived in the quiet.
With the distance and those ancient, inefficient windows shut, he couldn’t hear the quacking or honking of waterfowl. If he wanted that, he could gear up and take a short hike.
That short hike wouldn’t take him to a restaurant, a bar, a shop but to a lake that earned its name with its reflected mountains and sky.
He could’ve afforded one of the lakefront houses with their better views and access, their up-to-date fixtures and amenities.
But he had, maybe for the first time in his life, exactly what he wanted.
The challenge of an old place, with good bones, that needed him to bring it to life. And the solitude it afforded. The convenience to town when he wanted that.
He had, imagine it, the possibility of making a living doing something he loved rather than something he’d been expected to do.
He considered he’d started that by tackling the old workshop, buttoning it up, organizing tools—the ones that came with the house, the ones he’d had, and, best of all, the ones he’d bought with his new business in mind.
He’d been good at the expected—investments, managing accounts, making money out of money, gauging the market. He’d even enjoyed it. But he hadn’t been happy. Not really happy in the corner office he’d earned, or in his sleek, stylish condo with its very fine view of the city.
He’d had a woman he’d cared for, and who had cared for him. But not enough, just not enough to make it stick for either of them.
Particularly not when he’d decided to change his life.
If he’d stayed, they might have stuck at least for a few years. But he wouldn’t have been happy. If they’d started a family, he’d have stuck, no question there.
He knew what it was to be the child of those who didn’t stick.
But standing here, in the big, drafty mess of a house, he knew he’d found his place.
And waking here, crossing the creaky floors, shoving wood into the fire to cut the chill, he knew himself happy.
As he’d known it when he’d turned in his resignation, when he’d sold his condo, when he’d gotten his contractor’s license.
Now he’d make his home, and earn his living with his hands. Something he’d always wanted.
And he felt more than happy. He felt—and yes, for the first time—free.
No more designer suits and carefully knotted ties, no more weekly trims to keep his unruly waves in check. If he didn’t feel like shaving? So what?
So he stood there with his oak-brown hair waving at the collar of a white, insulated shirt, a couple days’ worth of stubble on the hard planes of his jaw and cheeks, brown eyes on the drama of a new day’s birth, and felt complete satisfaction.