He nodded, as if the math finally checked out.
I said, “Sorry about your folks. Wish we could have got something in the deal for you.”
He shook his head, slow. “There’s nothing left for them to get. Eleanor was the only reason they kept pushing. With her gone, they don’t have any leverage.”
He said it flat, the way you say something about someone else’s weather. Not a wound, not anymore.
I watched him for a minute, then took out the folded plans from my jacket and set them on the table between us.
He looked at them, then at me.
I said, “You want to see what’s next?”
He didn’t answer, but I saw the answer in his face.
It was enough.
Liam took the folded plans with both hands, careful not to crease them worse than I already had. He spread them flat on the table, palm smoothing each page with the kind of methodical patience that made you believe, for a second, that the whole world could be made to behave if you just took enough care.
He read the top sheet, then the next, eyes flicking from left to right and back again. He traced the outline of the boundary, fingertip hovering just above the paper, following the dotted lines with a focus so total he didn’t even register Emilio letting out a sleep-whine and then going right back under.
I waited.
He worked his way through the bundle, line by line, until he hit the page with the actual floor plan. He studied it, lips pressed together, then flicked his eyes up at me.
“What’s this bump-out on the east wall?”
“Mudroom,” I said. “With a deep sink, for you and the mess-makers.”
He huffed. “It’s enormous.”
“Got to be. You think I’m scrubbing the kid every time he finds a puddle?”
He tilted his head. “It’s almost as big as the pantry.”
“That’s deliberate,” I said, and pointed at the spot. “I did the math.”
He looked back down, running the numbers in his head. I could see it happening: columns, rows, a ledger of pros and cons. He went quiet for a second, then asked, “How much is this going to cost?”
“Nothing you don’t have already,” I said. “Rawley’s covering the lumber, I’ll get the crew for the rest. If you want it.”
He sat with that.
I let him.
After a while, he picked up the pencil that had rolled off his notebook and started annotating the plans, quick corrections in the margin: “laundry?” by the mudroom, “double-insulate” in three places, and a tiny “view?” near the living room window line.
He glanced at me, pen poised. “You want it to face east or south?”
I didn’t have to think. “South.”
He nodded, wrote it in. “Sunlight. Good.”
He kept making notes, sketching tiny boxes and arrows and adding numbers I would never have thought to add. I leaned on my elbows and watched him work.
When he finished the first pass, he sat back, pencil held between two fingers. “Why here?” he asked. “Why not closer to the main house?”
I said, “So you’d have to want to come back every time. Not just show up because you heard me yelling for help.”
