Page 34 of This Love is Under Construction

“That’s… surprisingly mercenary,” I say, im pressed by his business acumen. “I thought this was going to be some sentimental speech about believing in love.”

Walt snorts. “I leave the sentimental speeches to Marge. I’m a businessman.

But—” he leans forward, voice dropping slightly, “—if completing your house also happens to knock some sense into Owen Carver’s thick skull about both his personal and professional potential, that’s what we call a positive externality. ”

“A what now?”

“Economic term. Beneficial side effect of a transaction.” Walt’s eyes twinkle with unexpected mischief. “Learned it from one of those business podcasts. Point is, this town’s been waiting a long time for someone to give Owen Carver a reason to use that design talent for more than birdhouses.”

I’m starting to realize that my supposedly secret mission is perhaps the worst-kept secret in Maple Glen history. “Does everyone in this town know about Owen’s hidden design aspirations?”

“Course we do,” Walt says matter-of-factly. “Known that boy since he was building elaborate block towers in my store while his dad shopped for supplies. The Carver men have always been craftsmen, but Owen’s different. Sees things others don’t. Just needed the right push.”

“And you think I’m that push?” I ask, suddenly feeling the weight of community expectations.

“You bought a disaster house while drunk at auction and turned it into a social media sensation,” Walt points out. “If that’s not disruptive energy, I don’t know what is.”

Before I can respond to this dubious compliment, the bell above the door jingles as more customers enter—except they’re not customers, they’re Maggie Carver and a woman I recognize as Mrs. Peterson from the library book club.

“Perfect timing,” Marge says, waving them over. “Penny, you remember Maggie, Owen’s sister? And Mrs. Peterson has that beautiful garden with the handmade pottery installations. ”

“Um, yes, hi,” I say, increasingly confused by this impromptu gathering. “What’s happening right now?”

“Community support rally,” Maggie announces cheerfully, joining us at the counter. “Marge texted that you’re finally making your move, and we’re here to help.”

“My move?” I repeat weakly.

“The business plan for my brother’s design career that you’re using as a grand romantic gesture,” Maggie clarifies with the bluntness that apparently runs in the Carver family.

“Which, by the way, is exactly the right approach. Owen responds to practical solutions, not emotional appeals. Charts and graphs are basically his love language.”

I look between the assembled faces, all watching me with varying degrees of encouragement and amusement. “So you’re all… what? Here to help me convince Owen to start a design business with me?”

“I’m here about the custom pottery elements for your window seat,” Mrs. Peterson says. “I specialize in built-in planters that complement architectural elements. I’ve been trying to get Owen to collaborate for years.”

“And I’m here because I’ve been telling my stubborn brother to revive his design work since he came back from Boston,” Maggie adds. “Also, I have access to the family financial records and can tell you exactly what kind of transition plan would work for Carver & Sons.”

Walt clears his throat. “The hardware store can serve as a showroom for material samples and design consultations until you set up a proper office.”

“And the B&B has that sunroom that’s perfect for client meetings,” Marge chimes in. “Plus, I know every potential tiny house customer within a hundred-mile radius through my hospitality network.”

I look around at these people—virtual strangers a few months ago—now offering their businesses, expertise, and community connections to support not just my renovation but a potential future I hadn’t even articulated until this morning.

“I don’t know what to say,” I manage, genuinely moved. “This is… a lot.”

“It’s Maple Glen,” Walt says simply, as if that explains everything. And somehow, it does.

For someone who’s spent her life feeling like she never quite belonged anywhere, the sudden realization that I’ve accidentally built a community around me is overwhelming. These people aren’t just helping with a renovation or a business plan. They’re investing in my staying.

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it more than they can possibly know. “All of you. I don’t know if this will work—if Owen will even consider it—but having your support means everything.”

“Oh, he’ll consider it,” Maggie says with sisterly confidence. “Especially coming from you. He’s been sketching variations of your window seat for weeks. In Owen-language, that’s practically writing sonnets.”

The conversation shifts to logistics—Walt outlining material delivery schedules, Mrs. Peterson showing pottery samples on her tablet, Maggie offering insights into the family business structure.

I take notes, ask questions, and try to absorb the surreal reality that an entire town seems to be conspiring to help me build not just a house, but a future.

By the time we finish, I have more support than I ever imagined possible and a clear path forward. The only remaining question is whether Owen is ready to walk it with me.

The tiny house is quiet when I arrive in the late afternoon—no sign of Owen’s truck or Finn’s enthusiastic greeting. We’d left things tentatively positive yesterday, with Owen agreeing to continue the renovation, but many words still unspoken between us .

The repaired birdhouse sits on the window seat where I placed it, catching the golden late-afternoon light streaming through the newly installed windows.

I set down my materials—the business presentation saved carefully on my laptop, Walt’s supply list, Mrs. Peterson’s pottery samples—and survey the space with new eyes.

Not just as my future home, but as the potential first project in a portfolio of custom tiny house designs.

A showcase for what we could create together.

With renewed purpose, I change into work clothes and get started on the tasks I can handle alone.

Owen has left meticulous notes about the next steps—detailed enough that even my limited construction skills can follow them.

I begin with the trim work around the window seat, measuring twice (sometimes three times) before each cut, taking satisfaction in the precision that once seemed unnecessarily fussy but now feels like respect for the materials.

As I work, I find myself slipping into the focused flow state I’ve watched Owen enter countless times—that quiet absorption where time dissolves and only the task exists.

The physical labor becomes a kind of meditation, each completed section a tangible sign of progress. Not just in the house, but in myself.

I’ve spent my life flitting between interests, places, relationships—never fully committing, always keeping one foot out the door. But here, covered in sawdust and focused on making perfect mitered corners for a window seat I fought to include, I’m fully present. Fully invested. Fully home.

Hours pass this way. The house darkens with the setting sun until I finally switch on the work lights to finish the section I’m determined to complete.

When I step back to assess my work, I’m surprised by both the quality and the satisfaction it brings.

It’s not perfect—Owen would definitely spot flaws—but it’s solid. Functional. Mine.

I clean up the tools with the careful attention Owen has instilled in me over months of working together, then settle onto the partially completed window seat, my journal open on my lap.

The house feels different in these quiet evening hours—less a construction site and more a sanctuary.

A place becoming itself, just as I’m becoming myself within its walls.

In my journal, I write:

Tiny House Rule #12: No pretending this is just about the house anymore.

The words stare back at me, simple but profound. This journey hasn’t been about real estate or renovation or even finding a place to live. It’s been about finding myself—the version of me that’s capable of staying, of building, of loving without the safety net of an exit strategy.

Tomorrow, I’ll present Owen with a business plan that could change both our futures.

I’ll offer data and market analysis and financial projections.

But beneath all the practical details will be the real proposal: that we build something together.

That we take a risk on each other. That we stop hiding our true selves behind practical exteriors.

I close my journal, watching as the last light fades beyond the windows. The repaired birdhouse sits beside me, its visible seams telling the story of damage and healing. Of choosing to fix rather than replace. Of imperfect beauty that’s stronger at the broken places.

I’d spent my life running away from permanence. Now I was about to ask a man who’d never wanted to leave to take the biggest risk of all—on me.