Page 39 of The Treasure House

“No, I couldn’t possibly ask you to help,” I assured him.

“It’s no trouble. That’s what neighbors are for. And I’ve wielded a power tool or two in my time.”

“Well, I haven’t,” Roger said lightly, “but I can certainly bring a delivery of coffees and sandwiches.” He elbowed Alan. “And Al can put on his work clothes and get involved, can’t you, hon?” He winked at me. “Anything for a chance to get a closer look at your clutter.”

That was how I found my backyard full of helpers that first day. Between Elton Coutts from next door, Alan from the bed-and-breakfast, and Wayne, Suni, and me, we managed to clear a decent-sized patch of the garden by late afternoon. Roger brought a cooler of cold drinks and a ready supply of sandwiches and cookies. And late in the day he threw an embroidered tablecloth over a couple of milk crates and served us an afternoon tea of scones with preserves and cream.

That was how Jake found us when he ambled in after the lunch rush at the lobster shack. We were all sitting on the back porch, sticky with preserves and sweaty from cleaning up the yard.

“You found Debussy,” he said, seeing the orange cat sprawled across Flo’s lap. He didn’t seem half as surprised to see the rest of them. If anything, he looked like he’d expected it.

“Is he yours?” Flo asked suspiciously, drawing the cat closer.

“God, no.”

She relaxed. “Good.”

“You never said our new neighbor was pretty,” Roger rebuked him lightly.

I flushed, my gaze darting to Jake. He was in a powder blue T-shirt that made his eyes glow like the morning sky.

“It didn’t seem relevant.” Jake shrugged.

Roger snorted. “That’s why we despair for you, Jake.”

“You left it to Doris to tell us too!” Alan complained. “You know we hate finding things out after Doris.”

“I brought the door.” Jake ignored them and addressed me. But he looked a touch pink and wouldn’t meet my eye. “Okay if I put it up now?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, aware I was sounding oddly stiff and formal. I rose from the swing and rubbed my sticky hands on my jeans.

Jake’s double dimples dented faintly. “All right then.”

“Do you need me to help?” I asked.

“Sure.” Jake shot Roger and Alan a look, as though they’d said something. Which they hadn’t.

“Lead the way,” I invited. I was feeling tired after a hot day’s work in the yard. It was a bit demoralizing to pick our way through the maze of junk in my yard as we headed out and around the front. I felt like we were just moving junk from one place to another but not really making progress. Having a working front door would be something, at least.

“You want to hold the ply while I take the bolts out?” Jake bent over his toolbox once we’d reached the front porch.

I braced myself against the plywood that covered our missing front door, and with a short buzz of his tools, Jake soon had the thing off.

“Hop out the way,” he said gently, as he carted the plywood out to the front porch.

“Oh,” I exclaimed, shocked as the plywood came down and I moved to stand in the open doorway. I mean, I’d known the porch had a view of the ocean, but knowing and seeing were two different things. From the threshold of my house, I could see straight ahead to the bay, and it was glorious. The sky was bronzed from the heat, the clouds buttery in the late afternoon light, the ocean a gilded mirror. Briny fresh air flooded into the hallway, swirling out the dry dustiness of neglect. “Wow,” I said lamely, unable to find the words to do it justice. I drank it in. This was the view from my front door.

“Gives you a reason to keep on going, doesn’t it?” Jake said, grunting as he lifted the heavy door and carried it to the doorway. I moved out of his way, hyper-aware of our bodies brushing as he passed me.

A branch of pale lilacs hung over the broken porch railing. I snapped off a stem and held the blossom to my nose. I’d always loved lilacs, ever since the summer I’d been driven up Suni and Wayne’s driveway, greeted by rows of the flowering bushes.

I tucked the stalk into my hair elastic so I could enjoy the perfume, and watched Jake make short work of the door.

It was incredible, the way this one little change—the addition of a front door with shiny clean new glass—made a world of difference. Rather than looking like a condemned building, the house looked like, well, a house. I felt myself stand straighter.

“You want me to fix up the horseshoe while I’m here?” Jake asked as he finished with the door.

For the first time I noticed the horseshoe over the door. It was aged and thick with rust, askew on its single nail. “It needs fixing?”