LINDA
Linda stood in the middle of the sun lounge and turned in a slow circle.
The room had come together beautifully. Three days of work, and Heart House's back sun lounge had become a proper recovery suite for her uncle.
The hospital bed sat against the long inner wall, where the morning light wouldn't hit George's face too early. A small bedside table and reading lamp stood within easy reach. The big armchair Uncle George had owned for thirty years sat in the corner by the window, repositioned now so he could see the bay from it while he sat. The two oatmeal sofas and matching armchair from the living room had been moved to the back of the lounge near the glass doors, creating a small seating area for visitors. One of the round tables that had sat in the corner of the sitting room had been set close to the seating area so Uncle George could play cards or do his crosswords from his armchair.
Out on the deck, Linda had set up a low wicker chaise lounger and a small side table. A pot of pink hibiscus stood beside it. The plan was for George to sit out there in the warm afternoons, withthe bay glittering beyond the deck railing and a cold glass of iced tea in his hand. The wheelchair ramp Martin's contractor had built into the threshold meant he could roll himself out without help.
The hammering from the front of the house had not stopped all morning. The team was finishing the last two ramps, one at the front steps and one at the side gate. Linda could hear them through the open French doors at the back of the lounge, along with the faint cheerful chatter of four children and a dog on the front lawn.
"Miss Heart?" Brock called from the doorway.
Linda turned. Brock stood there with his clipboard in his hand, and Stuart just behind him.
"Brock, please. It's just Linda," Linda corrected him gently.
"Okay, Linda," Brock agreed with a smile. "We've finished the walkthrough. Everything's in place. We'd like to show you the layout we're proposing for the therapy room."
"Of course," Linda answered.
She followed the two men down the short hallway to the small room beside the full bathroom. The space had originally been the changing room her mother had built thirty years ago, so the family could rinse off the beach sand without tracking it through the rest of the house. Eleanor had thought of everything. There was a bench along one wall, hooks above it for towels and swimsuits, and an open passage straight through to the showers and the big bath on the other side of the doorway.
Five years ago, after her mother had passed and Tom had moved permanently into the apartment above the bakery, no one hadused the changing room or the sun lounge much. The room had quietly become a storage space. The hooks had been hung with old beach bags. The bench had been piled with stacks of folded towels and the assorted boxes Linda's mother had labeled and stored there.
Linda and the two male nurses had spent two full days clearing it out. The bench was gone. The hooks were gone. The boxes had been sorted, the precious ones moved up to the attic, and the rest donated. What stood in the room now were the early pieces of George's therapy equipment. A set of parallel bars that Brock had ordered for the early walking exercises. A small treadmill, a padded therapy mat, a wall-mounted handrail for balance work, a stationary bike, and a simple wooden chair beside it with arms, which Brock had said was what George would use to practice standing.
"Linda," Stuart commented as he turned slowly in the middle of the room. “I’m amazed at how much bigger this room is than when we first saw it stacked with all the storage items.”
"It used to be a changing room my mother had built for us as kids," Linda laughed. "With the full bathroom through that door. The whole purpose of the room was to keep the sand from being traipsed through the rest of the house. Once we all grew up, it sat empty. Then it slowly became the storage room."
"It's a wonderful space for the therapy work," Brock confirmed. "The walls take fixings well, the floor is level, and the natural light through the high window is excellent. We've got everything we need."
"Good. I'm relieved," Linda admitted. “It would’ve been quite a thing trying to figure out where to have the therapy room for my uncle.” She glanced around. “This way, my uncle has everythingin his own private space.” She sighed and glanced at the two men. “You’ll find that my uncle is a very private person, so this is going to suit him well.”
"Yes, I realized that during the interview," Stuart replied, his eyes traveling around the room. "But I think Mr. Heart is going to appreciate coming home to this. Which is much better than staying in the hospital or having to travel there and back each day for his physical therapy."
"Yes, he’s going to be happy about this," Linda agreed before her brow furrowed. “When do you feel my uncle will be coming home?”
"Five more days," Brock continued, glancing down at his clipboard. "So there will be plenty of time to add the final touches.” He looked up and smiled at Linda. “We'll do a final walkthrough with him on the morning of discharge. Stuart will travel with him in the ambulance, and I'll meet you all here at the house. After that, we'll alternate twelve-hour shifts for the first three weeks. He won't be alone for one single moment during that period." His head turned toward the door of the sitting room. “The smaller bedroom downstairs near the kitchen is perfect for either me or Stuart to rest during the evening shifts.”
“I have had the plumber fix the shower in that bathroom,” Linda told him. “And I got a bigger bed put in there. The closet will have clean sheets and towels for you every day. And you are welcome to use the laundry.”
“We appreciate that,” Brock told her. “Especially over the weekend shifts.”
“Of course,” Linda told him. “Which reminds me. The tech team will be here tomorrow to put the emergency buzzer fromGeorge's room to that room, and through to mine and my brother’s rooms upstairs, in case either of you isn’t here.”
“Good,’ Brock said. “It was on my list of things to check.”
“The man’s card is on the table by the front door in the work folder we put together for Uncle George,” Linda pointed out, then blew out a breath. "Thank you both. Truly. We would not know where to begin nursing my uncle back to health right now."
"It's our pleasure, Linda," Stuart assured her. “His recovery won’t be as quick as it would have been even ten years ago.”
“I know,” Linda said with a nod.
Linda took a small breath and let her shoulders soften. The room finally felt right. It had taken most of her remaining savings and the better part of her mental bandwidth, but Heart House was ready to receive its oldest occupant home.
Linda had also been doing the calculations in her head every night for three days. Without rent in Miami pressing on her every month, she could comfortably cover the bedding, the equipment, the household contributions, and her own small expenses through the summer. Michael had stepped in to cover the nurses entirely and the more expensive equipment outlay. Between them, the siblings had managed it. Uncle George's fall had not been cheap. Linda had decided early on that no expense would be spared in his recovery. He had been there for her entire life, so her uncle would have the best care this town could provide, full stop.
