The lot was narrow at the road and opened wider toward the water, with pines crowding the edges and enough slope to make a porch view possible. The first time I stood there alone after closing, the wind came off the lake smelling like warm water and damp wood and possibility. I stood with my shoes sinking a little into the red Georgia dirt and tried to imagine the porch, the roofline, the chimney stone, the windows catching sunset. It wasn’t grief exactly that came over me then. It was something steadier. Purpose with a pulse.
I hired a contractor named Earl Maddox, local man, sixty if he was a day, hands like baseball mitts and a voice like gravel dumped into a steel bucket. Earl knew how to build houses that looked like they belonged where they stood. He wore the same faded cap every weekend, drank coffee black enough to qualify as roofing tar, and did not waste words.
“You sure you want a wrap-around porch this big?” he asked me the day we walked the lot with the plans.
“Yes.”
“Screened section off the kitchen too?”
