Chapter 8 - THE HEARTH RECLAIMED
By late February, the heavy winter began to soften.
The ice on the bay windows started to melt, sending steady, rhythmic drips onto the brick porch below.
On a Friday evening, I sat in the living room reading a novel by the fire.
The door to the lower wing opened, and Ryan walked into the room.
He didn't slouch. He wasn't wearing his arrogant fleece vest or carrying a glass of my scotch. He wore a simple flannel shirt and jeans, his hair trimmed neatly, holding a wooden toolbox in his right hand.
"Margaret?" Ryan asked quietly, standing by the edge of the rug.
I lowered my book over my glasses. "Yes, Ryan?"
"The latch on the pantry door in the kitchen was sticking this morning," he said, gesturing with the toolbox. "I noticed the brass hinge was loose. Mind if I take a look at it?"
I looked at my son-in-law.
In six weeks, Ryan had lost fifteen pounds. The soft, puffy look of a man living on unearned luxury had vanished, replaced by the lean, focused demeanor of a man who was working ten hours a day framing houses for a general contractor in Massillon to pay his court-ordered trustee obligations.
He wasn't a corporate mogul anymore. He was a carpenter again—the skilled, hardworking young man Henry and I had liked when Emily first brought him home eleven years ago.
"The hinge is on the top right, Ryan," I said gently. "There’s extra brass screws in Henry’s workshop if you need them."
Ryan nodded. "Thanks, Margaret. I’ll make sure it’s tight."
He walked into the kitchen.
A few minutes later, the steady, satisfying sound of a screwdriver turning against brass echoed through the quiet house.
Emily walked out of the kitchen a few moments later, carrying two mugs of hot cocoa. She set one on the side table beside my chair and sat down on the sofa across from me.
She looked rested. The dark circles beneath her eyes were gone, her skin was clear, and for the first time in three years, when she looked at her husband working in the kitchen, her posture was relaxed.
"He’s doing better, Mom," Emily whispered, looking toward the kitchen archway.
"He’s working, Emily," I said softly. "Men do better when they work for what they have."
"He asked me last night if we could start saving for a down payment on a small house in Jackson Township," she added, a soft, hopeful smile appearing on her face. "A small three-bedroom fixer-upper. He said he wants to build the kitchen himself."
May you like
I took a sip of the hot cocoa, feeling the warmth settle deep in my chest.
"That sounds like a fine plan, Emily," I said. "A very fine plan."
