Page 5 of This Love is Under Construction

I should call my dad. He’s left three increasingly concerned voicemails since I texted him about my “investment property.” As the more practical of my parents, he’s probably having a quiet coronary thinking about his daughter blowing her life savings on a whim.

With a sigh, I dial his number.

“Penelope.” He answers on the first ring, using my full name. Never a good sign. “Please tell me this house situation is some kind of elaborate joke.”

“Hi, Dad. Nice to hear from you, too.”

“I’m serious, Penny. You spent your entire savings on a property you’d never seen? In a town you’d never been to? What were you thinking?”

It’s a fair question. One I’ve been asking myself daily. Hourly.

“I wasn’t,” I admit. “It was impulsive and stupid and I’ve regretted it approximately every thirty seconds since.”

A long sigh. “Well. At least you recognize that. What’s your exit strategy?”

“I talked to a real estate agent this morning. She said I’d lose most of what I paid if I sold now.”

“And the renovation?”

I close my eyes, hearing Owen’s voice in my head: Roof’s a total loss. Foundation’s shot.

“Significant,” I say. “But the auction included a renovation package with labor at cost, so that helps.”

“Is there a contract? Have you read it?”

Leave it to my dad to ask the one question I’ve been pointedly avoiding.

“Not... in detail. ”

“Penny.” His tone slides from disappointed to deeply parental. “You need to understand exactly what you’ve committed to. These things have clauses. Penalties.”

“I know , Dad. I’ll read it tonight.” I pick at a loose thread on the quilt. “How’s Diane?”

He allows the subject change, updating me on my stepmother’s latest garden club win and my half-brother’s college apps. We slide into neutral ground—weather, my sister’s new job, the neighbor’s terrible dog—until, inevitably, we circle back.

“Just... be careful, Penny. I know you have a habit of jumping in and then?—”

“Moving on when it gets hard?” I finish for him. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

But it is. And we both know it.

I’ve spent my life starting things I don’t finish. Places I don’t stay. Relationships I abandon the second they require more than I feel like giving. It’s the reason I was great at PR—I could become whatever the moment needed, then shed the version of me that no longer worked.

“I should go,” I say. “Need to stop by the hardware store before it closes.”

After we hang up, I dig through my bag for the folder from the auction. The renovation contract is there, thick with legal language I absolutely did not read during the champagne haze of bidding night.

I make myself read it now.

The “labor at cost” part is legit—but materials are billed at market rate. There’s a six-month timeline. If Carver & Sons finishes early, they get a completion bonus. There’s also a clause about my obligations: I’m required to stay engaged, make timely decisions, and pay on schedule.

And if I abandon the project? I still owe for all completed work—plus a cancellation fee.

In other words: I’m on the hook. Whether I see it through or not.

I fall back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. Somehow, the woman who has built her entire adult life around avoiding commitment has just legally and financially committed herself to a decaying house in a town full of strangers.

My phone buzzes with a text from Abby.

How’s small-town life? Any eligible lumberjacks yet?

I type back:

Town has nicknamed my house “The Sequin Shack” and expects me to fail by fall. Contractor thinks I’m a joke. I’m financially trapped in renovation hell. But the pie’s good.

She replies within seconds:

So... a normal Tuesday for you? Seriously though—you’ve got this. If anyone can turn a disaster into an Instagram-worthy comeback, it’s you. Remember the charity gala you saved after the venue flooded?

I smile despite myself. That night had been chaos—three inches of water, ruined decor, a client mid-breakdown. But I’d pivoted. Branded it a blue carpet event. Made it about water conservation. Got more press than we ever would have otherwise.

Maybe I can do the same here. Maybe this isn’t the end of something—it’s the start.

With a flicker of something like determination, I change into clean clothes and head downstairs.

If I’m stuck in Maple Glen for now, I might as well meet the locals.

Starting with Walt at the hardware store.

Maple Hardware looks like it was plucked from a Norman Rockwell painting—faded red awning, bell that jingles when you open the door, and narrow aisles packed floor to ceiling with everything from hammers to fishing tackle. The place smells like metal, sawdust, and something vaguely chemical.

A man who can only be Walt stands behind the counter—white-haired and wiry, with glasses perched low on his nose and suspenders holding up pants that haven’t seen a tailor this century. He looks up as I enter, eyes narrowing with recognition.

“You must be the Sequin Shack girl,” he says without preamble.

I wince but offer my hand. “Penny Winslow. And it’s called Penny’s Place now.”

I decided this on the walk over. If my house is going to have a nickname, I’m rebranding it myself. PR instincts die hard.

Walt shakes my hand with more strength than expected. “Walt Henderson. Marge said you might stop in.”

“She mentioned you had salvage materials?”

“Might.” He studies me over his glasses. “Depends what you’re looking for. And how long you’re planning to stick around.”

The challenge is clear. I square my shoulders. “Long enough to finish what I started.”

A flicker—approval, maybe—crosses his face. “Owen sent over his assessment. Foundation’s toast. Roof’s worse. Place basically needs rebuilding.”

“You’ve seen the assessment?” I ask.

Walt snorts. “I see everything involving building in this town. Been supplying the Carvers since Owen was knee-high to a grasshopper. Good family. Talented. Bit cursed, though.”

“Cursed?” I repeat, because obviously.

“The Carver Curse.” He nods like that should explain everything. “Three generations of men who start more projects than they finish. Owen’s granddad was the same—brilliant hands, scattered focus.”

“And Owen?”

Walt’s eyes twinkle. “He fights it harder than most. Takes after his mother—stubborn as hell. But the curse finds a way. Always does.”

“What does that mean for my house?”

“Means you’d better be interesting enough to keep his attention.”

I blink. What.

He turns, motioning for me to follow. “Got some reclaimed flooring you might like. Special order. Guy skipped town. Been in storage ever since.”

I follow him, still chewing on interesting enough to keep his attention like it’s a line from a prophecy.

“Is that why people think I won’t last until fall?” I ask. “Because of the curse?”

Walt glances back. “You heard that, huh?”

“Hard not to when people say it two feet away from you at The Griddle.”

He has the decency to look mildly sheepish. “Small town. No secrets.” He stops beside a stack of honey-colored planks. “Maple. From an old barn in Vermont. Enough to cover four hundred square feet.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say, running my fingers along the smooth edge. “But probably out of budget, considering the structural stuff.”

“Probably,” he agrees. “But I’ll make you a deal. You stay through Christmas—prove the busybodies wrong—and it’s yours at cost.”

I blink. “Why would you do that?”

Walt studies me. “Been here sixty-three years. Seen people come and go. The ones who run at the first sign of trouble? Not worth the plywood. But the ones who stay…” He shrugs. “Those are the ones who make Maple Glen what it is. ”

It’s a test. The whole town is watching to see whether I run or stay. And I know which type I’ve always been.

“Deal,” I say, holding out my hand.

He shakes on it, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Owen’s stopping in tomorrow. Supply run for your place. Initial stabilization. You might want to be here—around ten.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.” I pause. “Can I ask something else? About Owen.”

“Depends on the question.”

“Barbara from the realty office said something about the Carvers and... unfinished projects. That part of the curse?”

Walt sighs, leaning on a shelf. “Owen’s dad had a stroke three years ago. Bad one. Owen came back, took over the business. Put his own stuff on hold.”

“He was doing custom work in Boston, right?”

“High-end design. Had plans. Was going places.” Walt gives me a look. “But some people don’t run when things get hard, city girl.”

The words hit harder than they should.

“I should get back to the B&B,” I say, suddenly hyper-aware of how easily this stranger sees through me. “Thanks for the floor offer. I plan to earn it.”

Walt nods. “We’ll see.”

As I reach the door, he adds, “Owen’s particular about his work. Doesn’t tolerate fools or flakes. If you want this renovation to happen? Show up. Pay attention. And for God’s sake—wear proper shoes.”

I glance down at my boots. Sturdy in LA. Laughable here.

“Noted,” I say, and head out, his warning echoing behind me like a benediction.

Back at the B&B, Marge makes good on her promise of “proper tea.” It involves a teapot, loose leaves, and tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off. We sit in her cozy kitchen, and she fills me in on gossip I haven’t earned—but gratefully accept.

“The Hendricks place has a story,” she tells me, pouring tea into mismatched cups that still somehow go together. “Built it for his daughter. She moved to Portland before it was finished. Place sat empty for years.”

“Until the auction company bought it?”

Marge nods. “Northwest Community Housing Initiative. Sounds sweet, right? But it’s business. They buy cheap, bundle it with a ‘service package,’ then sell it at auctions to out-of-towners.”

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “No offense.”

“None taken. I literally didn’t know better.” I sip my tea. “So I’m not the first sucker.”

“Third in five years. But you might be the first with a fighting chance.” She eyes me over her cup. “You’ve got a look.”

“A look?”

“Like someone who’s used to proving people wrong.”

I laugh. “I’m more used to convincing people they’re right. PR is basically professional agreement.”

Marge smiles. “That’s not the same as believing it yourself, is it?”

Before I can answer, she adds, “Walt says you met his floor challenge.”

News travels fast.

“Word gets around.”

“Like wildfire. By breakfast, everyone will know you plan to stay through Christmas.”

“Great,” I mutter. “No pressure.”

“Pressure makes diamonds, dear.” She stands, collecting our dishes. “Your room has a desk if you need it. Wi-Fi password’s welcomehome. All lowercase. No spaces.”

Back upstairs, exhaustion crashes into me like a truck. I curl up in the window seat, laptop balanced on my knees, intending to check email. Instead, I stare out at Marge’s garden, lit golden in the evening light.

One week ago, I was in my LA apartment, scrolling Tyler’s engagement post, feeling like a stranger in my own life.

Now I’m in Maple Glen. Committed—financially and otherwise—to a collapsing house, a moody contractor, and a town betting on me to fail.

I pull out the notebook I always carry—habit from my PR days—and open to a fresh page.

Tiny House Rules

Don’t buy houses while drunk.

No power tools after 10 p.m.

I stare at the list. Then add:

Prove them wrong.

Because the truth is, I’m tired of being the one who leaves. Tired of running when things get hard. Tired of being the punchline in someone else’s cautionary tale.

Outside, the rain has stopped. The light over the garden glows warm, soft, and promising.

Maybe this house won’t be the end of me.

Maybe it’ll be the first thing I don’t walk away from.