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Marge smiled not unkindly.

“It’s a poor substitute for Paige’s. Have you been able to try hers?” Owen shook his head. “Ah, well, soon enough,” she stated, patting him on the hand with a crumb-filled hand. He liked this woman, saw an older version of Paige in her steadiness. He also didn’t mind hearing he’d be invited back to more family dinners.

“How has she been?” he asked Marge. She took the plates from him and sighed as she loaded the sink with warm, soapy water.

It looked like a Thanksgiving feast had happened. His stomach agreed.

“She’s been good. The surgery went well, no complications, and she has an appointment in two weeks for a follow-up before radiation. She’s been resting, but every time she wakes up, she asks Alan about you. If he’s seen you, how your fence is working, if the horses are okay after the rain. You’ve made quite an impression on her.” Marge smiled broadly, a compliment of the highest order.

Owen smiled, but he didn’t feel the happiness that usually came with talking about Paige. She was still sick, still healing from the fall and the surgery, and he’d listened to her, staying away when he should have beat down doors to get to her.

“I shouldn’t have stayed away,” he admitted to Marge.

She put a soapy hand on his again and squeezed.

“You couldn’t have come until she was ready. She needed to realize her mistake on her own and come around to it. My little girl may have inherited my stubborn streak.” Marge shrugged, her smile never waning.

“Mayhave?” Alan joined them in the kitchen, a jovial smile on his face that made him look remarkably like a real-life Santa with his white beard and cherry-red cheeks.

Marge nudged him with her hip when he slid in beside her, kissing her shoulder. He was shorter than his wife, but they made a perfect pair.

“All right, son. Time for you to earn your supper.”

Marge slapped her husband on the arm, a more intimate smile belying her affection for him. Owen put his hands on his hips.

“How can I help?”

“You will not make our guest help out around the house, Alan Connors,” Marge commanded, her voice firm.

“I will, too,” Alan retorted, but his voice didn’t carry quite the weight his wife’s did. “I want him to take a go at the shutter.”

“Oh, well then. Be my guest,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “If you can take care of it, there’s a to-go pie with your name on it.”

Owen was intrigued. He liked a project that challenged him, he just didn’t see how a measly shutter and window could offer him that. He’d had a bear break through his fence, for crying out loud. He wasn’t worried about a couple slats of broken wood. The pie would be good for breakfast.

“You’re on,” he told Marge. “I’ll grab my hammer from the living room and meet you on the back deck, Alan.”

He donned his utility belt and headed out, surprised by the coolness in the air. It was still warm enough for rolled sleeves, but Owen could sense autumn approaching quicker now. Even Brad shuddered as he walked out. A slight scent of smoke wafted in the air from a lightweight’s wood stove.

“Almost fall,” he commented.

“It is. Cooler than a few days ago even.”

“It’ll snow before we know it, and all those hot days won’t be anything but a nice memory.”

“At least you get to work indoors in the winter,” Owen observed.

“Yeah, but I go to work in the dark and come home to the same, so it leaves a bit to be desired. And that’s not taking into account the grading of shitty student papers,” Brad joked.

Owen agreed about desiring more. He preferred to work outside, even with weather cold enough to shrink the parts of him he didn’t want to think about shrinking.

“Quit your whining and let’s get this shutter taken care of, boys,” Alan joked, coming up behind the men with his own version of a tool belt that looked like he could have headed to combat, not just fixed an old downed shutter on a barn.

“So, neither of you have been able to nail this thing down? Pun intended,” Owen added, a smug smile playing on his lips.

“You joke now, but this thing’s wily. Even had Mitch himself come look and he couldn’t make heads or tails of it.”

“Mitch?” Owen asked.