Page 24 of Designing Love
She smiles softly. “You can build websites and furniture? That’s unfairly impressive.”
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “We all have our hidden talents.”
Sophia tilts her head, eyes sparkling. “Now I’m curious about your other secret skills.”
“Mostly raccoon negotiations and terrible puns,” I admit, enjoying the laughter bubbling up again.
As we work deeper into the clutter, we uncover an odd assortment of treasures — a velvet hatbox filled with faded postcards, a cracked mantel clock forever frozen at three fifteen, and stacks of yellowed sheet music.
Sophia leafs through the postcards, reading aloud dramatically. “‘Wish you were here, Myrtle. The clam chowder is divine.’” She smirks at me. “A romantic correspondence for the ages.”
“I’m feeling inspired already,” I say with mock seriousness. “Maybe we should frame it.”
“Absolutely,” she agrees, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Nothing says romance like clam chowder.”
We move steadily through the room until sunlight slants golden through the dusty windows, highlighting swirling motes in the quiet air. Without realizing it, we’ve created piles of organized chaos — ‘keep’, ‘donate’, ‘absolutely haunted’.
I stretch, rubbing the back of my neck as Sophia sets down another box. “Break?” I suggest, nodding toward the porch.
“Thought you’d never ask,” she sighs, stepping outside and sinking onto the steps with an exhausted flourish. I join her, handing her a water bottle.
We sit quietly, listening to the rhythmic rush of distant waves and the rustle of leaves overhead. After a moment, Sophia speaks softly, eyes thoughtful. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How satisfying it feels to clear away someone else’s clutter?”
“Feels like making room for something new,” I reply, watching her carefully. “Or reclaiming something that got lost along the way.”
She glances at me, curiosity gentle in her expression. “Is that how it feels for you? Reclaiming something?”
I shrug lightly, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “Maybe. I’ve lived here my whole life, but this — this project feels different. Like the first real step forward I’ve taken in a long time.”
Sophia nods slowly, understanding softening her features. “I get that. After my divorce, I wasn’t sure I’d feel excited about anything creative again. But being here, imagining possibilities… it feels hopeful. Thank you for this opportunity.”
She's divorced. That explains her escape.“Hopeful,” I echo quietly, warmth filling my chest at the honesty in her eyes. “Yeah.”
Silence settles again. I watch as she absently sketches something with her finger on the dusty porch rail, brow furrowed slightly in thought. “Got an idea?” I finally ask.
“A million,” she admits with a shy smile. “This house has stories. It deserves a second chance.”
She reaches into her pocket and produces a small stub of pencil. Grabbing a piece of cardboard from the pile near the door, she starts sketching, lines confident and graceful.
“What are you designing?” I ask, fascinated as the image emerges.
“The entryway,” she explains, biting her lower lip in concentration. “Warm lighting here, the refinished bench there, maybe an antique coat rack in the corner.”
“So, have you decided if this will be office space or a rental?”
“Not sure yet. Either way, it’ll need an entry, something beautiful, like it deserves.”
I can’t argue with that. I watch her quietly, pulse picking up slightly at the way her face lights with excitement, hair falling gently into her eyes. Without thinking, I reach forward, lightly brushing the loose strands behind her ear.
She freezes, pencil hovering over the cardboard, eyes wide as they meet mine.
“Sorry,” I murmur quickly, pulling my hand back. “Habit.”
She relaxes, a slow smile tugging at her lips. “You have a habit of tucking hair behind ears?”
“Apparently,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat slightly. “Newly discovered skill.”
She laughs softly, nudging my shoulder gently with hers. “Good to know.”
