We returned to the Miller property the next morning.
The house looked different when I knew we had a right to be there.
It was still shabby.
The porch still needed attention, and the weeds were still thick around the steps.
But the keys in my pocket changed the way I looked at it.
Nate opened the front door.
It stuck near the bottom, so he lifted it slightly before turning the handle.
The door moved with a long wooden groan.
Dust covered the floor.
Old furniture remained in several rooms, and faded wallpaper hung loose near the corners.
I stepped inside and looked around.
There was no furniture we could use.
No working kitchen to speak of.
No clean bedroom where we could sleep that night.
The place was ours, but it was not ready for us.
Nate set his toolbox on the floor.
"We'll start with the electrical system."
I looked toward the ceiling.
"Before we touch the wallpaper?"
He smiled.
"Before we touch anything pretty."
That became our rule.
We would repair the things that mattered first.
The electrical wiring needed attention.
Several outlets were damaged, and some of the old wiring had deteriorated.
Nate worked carefully, replacing sections and checking each room as he went.
For work that required a licensed professional or a permit, we would bring in the proper help.
We could do much of the labor ourselves, but we weren't going to take risks with something that could burn the house down.
I spent my time clearing rooms and removing the old wallpaper where it was safe to do so.
The first strip came away easily.
The second tore into small pieces.
By the end of the morning, my fingers were sticky with paste.
The paper beneath the top layer was yellowed and brittle.
Some sections had been painted over.
Others had a faded pattern of flowers that might once have looked cheerful.
I worked slowly, using a scraper and a spray bottle.
When the paper resisted, I wet it again and waited.
It was not glamorous work.
There were no dramatic improvements to photograph.
Most days, the house looked worse after we finished because we had exposed the damage that had been hidden underneath.
Still, I liked seeing the old walls appear.
I began to understand how the rooms connected.
The kitchen had a wide window above the sink.
The smallest bedroom received morning light.
The living room had enough space for a table and a sofa without feeling crowded.
I pictured our belongings in those rooms.
Then I reminded myself that we had to finish the repairs before we could move anything in.
Our money had become precious in a new way.
Every purchase required a conversation.
We compared prices for wiring, tools, cleaning supplies, and lumber.
If something could be reused safely, we reused it.
If it needed professional attention, we made room in the budget.
Nate continued working on farm machinery during the day.
In the evenings, he drove to the property and stayed until he could no longer see clearly.
I continued my hospital shifts and weekend work at the truck stop.
Sometimes I arrived at the house after dark with food packed in a plastic container.
We would sit on the floor and eat beside the tools.
The electricity was not fully restored at first, so we used portable work lights where appropriate.
I remember the sound of Nate's screwdriver turning.
I remember the dry scrape of wallpaper coming away from the wall.
I remember how quiet the house became when we stopped working.
It was a different kind of quiet from our rental.
This one belonged to us.
We did not tell our relatives about the purchase.
It wasn't because we were ashamed.
We simply wanted to finish enough of the work that the house could speak for itself.
I knew how the news might be received.
Ron might ask why we had bought something so run-down.
Judy might worry that we had taken on too much.
Someone might offer advice that sounded like criticism.
Someone else might ask how we could afford it after we had been so careful with money.
I did not want to explain our decisions to people who had not been part of making them.
Nate agreed.
We kept the news to ourselves and concentrated on the work.
The first weeks were hard.
My thumbs developed painful cracks from scraping and washing old surfaces.
Nate came home with sore shoulders.
We were both tired, and sometimes the smallest problems became arguments.
One evening, I dropped a container of screws.
They scattered across the floor.
I stood there staring at them.
Then I sat down and began to cry.
Nate put his tools aside.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
He waited.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
"I'm tired of being careful all the time."
He sat beside me.
"I know."
"I'm tired of calculating every meal and every hour."
He looked around the unfinished room.
"We won't have to do it forever."
I wanted to believe him.
So I took a breath and began gathering the screws.
He helped me.
We finished the room that evening, though neither of us said much afterward.
Little by little, the house changed.
The worst of the electrical work was completed.
We cleaned the kitchen and removed debris from the main rooms.
Nate repaired damaged sections where he could and arranged for help with work that required more than our skills.
I washed the windows until the glass was clear enough to let the afternoon light through.
The first time I stood in the kitchen with sunlight on the floor, I felt something loosen inside me.
It was not happiness exactly.
It was the feeling of having somewhere to go that would remain ours when the workday ended.
We still had a long way to go.
But the property was becoming a home rather than a project.
Then the newspaper published the sale.
We had known the transaction was public information.
Neither of us thought much about it.
The county's legal notices were printed in a section that most people probably skipped.
A short entry listed the property and the completed sale.
Our names appeared in the notice.
It was only a few lines.
We did not even see the paper when it came out.
Nate's grandmother did.
Opal was eighty-eight and lived independently in a small house outside town.
She had a habit of reading the newspaper from beginning to end.
She checked the local notices, the obituaries, and the community announcements.
She remembered dates better than most people half her age.
If somebody in the family had moved, changed jobs, or bought a vehicle, Opal usually knew before anyone thought to tell her.
She had never been interested in gossip for its own sake.
She simply paid attention.
A few days after the notice appeared, my hospital phone rang during a quiet moment between calls.
I recognized the number.
It was Opal.
"How are you, dear?" she asked.
"I'm fine. How are you?"
"Oh, I've been better. These knees have decided they belong to somebody much older."
I laughed.
She asked about my work.
Then she asked whether Nate was keeping busy.
I told her he was.
There was a short pause.
"I saw something in the paper," she said.
My hand tightened around the phone.
"What did you see?"
"The county notice about the Miller place."
I said nothing.
Opal continued in her usual calm voice.
"It said you and Nate bought it."
I glanced toward the office door.
"Yes, we did."
"How long were you planning to keep that a secret?"
I felt my face grow warm.
"We wanted to get some work done first."
"Mm-hmm."
She did not sound angry.
That almost made me more nervous.
"We've been fixing it up," I explained. "It's a lot of work, but the main structure is sound."
"I expect Nate checked that."
"He did."
Another pause followed.
Then Opal spoke with the kind of certainty that made me sit up straighter.
"I'd like to see the place."
I told her we would be happy to take her.
"Sunday," she said. "After church."
I looked at the clock.
I still had hours left in my shift.
"All right. I'll come and get you."
"Good."
Then her voice lowered slightly.
"And don't tell Ronald."
I knew she meant Nate's father.
I didn't ask why.
Not yet.
"All right," I said again.
She thanked me and ended the call.
I stood there holding the phone for a moment.
The hospital continued around me.
A printer started in the next room.
Someone called my name from the hallway.
I returned to my desk, but my thoughts stayed with Opal's request.
She knew about the property.
She wanted to see it.
And she had specifically told me not to mention the visit to Ron.
I could not tell whether she was trying to protect us, avoid an argument, or find out something for herself.
I only knew that she had never asked me to keep a secret from her own son before.
That evening, I told Nate about the call.
He listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he sat back in his chair.
"Grandma reads every notice in that paper," he said.
"Apparently."
"She'll want to inspect the place herself."
"I think so."
He rubbed his chin.
"What do you think she wants with Ron?"
"I don't know."
Neither did he.
We decided not to speculate.
On Sunday, I would pick Opal up after church and bring her to the Miller property.
We would show her what we had done.
We would answer whatever questions she asked.
And we would keep our promise not to tell Ron.
On Sunday morning, I arrived outside the church just as people were leaving.
Opal stood near the entrance with her handbag hooked over one arm.
She wore a neat coat and sensible shoes.
When she saw my car, she raised her hand.
I pulled up beside the curb and got out to help her.
She took my arm.
"Thank you, dear."
"Did you have a good morning?"
"Good enough. The sermon was long, and the coffee was weak."
I laughed as I helped her into the passenger seat.
She placed her handbag carefully on her lap and fastened her seat belt.
Then she looked at me.
"Take the rural road."
I started the engine.
We drove away from the church and headed toward the fields.
The journey took about six miles.
Opal watched the passing fences and barns without saying much.
I wondered what she had learned from the newspaper notice.
I wondered why she had asked me not to tell Ron.
But I didn't ask.
When the Miller property finally came into view, I slowed the car.
The porch still needed work.
The yard was still rough.
The house was far from finished.
Opal leaned forward slightly to study it through the windshield.
Then she turned to me.
"So this is where you've been putting all that hard work."
"Yes."
She looked at the house for another moment.
"Well," she said, reaching for the door handle, "let's have a look at what you bought."
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: Opal Walked Through Our Unfinished House Without Saying Much, Then Asked a Question That Made Me Put Down My Tools
Everyone at the Easter Table Received an Envelope, but Only One Couple Was Told They Needed Nothing
Part 4 of 20
