Chapter Eight
The next day, Bill felt restless. The big house, for all its solid construction and promising land, still echoed a little too much with emptiness. With no urgent projects demanding his attention, he climbed into the Defender and pointed it toward Branson. The drive itself was pleasant—rolling hills giving way to more tourist-oriented stretches of highway. At the first interchange before town, a sprawling Menards home improvement store caught his eye. He pulled in, curious how it stacked up against the big-box stores he knew from back east.
Inside, the layout felt familiar yet distinctly regional, stocked with heavy emphasis on weather-resistant materials and outdoor living gear suited to the Ozarks’ humid summers and variable winters. Bill wandered the aisles at an easy pace, mentally cataloging what might prove useful at Westhaven. He selected a durable set of solar pathway lights for the steps leading down from the patio deck into the yard—simple, no-wiring installation that would add safety and charm after dark. He also picked up a strong chemical cleaner specifically formulated to remove smoke stains from stone fireplaces, along with stiff brushes and a pair of heavy rubber gloves. Small improvements, but satisfying ones.
He continued into Branson proper, taking in the bustling tourist spots and the colorful marquees advertising music shows. Branson had an impressive number of venues, from intimate theaters to larger halls. Bill noted several acts that might appeal to Mary—traditional country, bluegrass, even a few gospel performances.
Maybe I could talk her into coming out for one sometime, he thought, the idea warming him more than he expected. He stopped at 11:00 at a Chick-fil-A for a sandwich and waffle fries, eating in the truck while people-watching. Afterward, he drove down by the river to the massive Bass Pro Shops complex and spent the rest of the afternoon browsing. The store was a wonderland of outdoor gear; he came away with two breathable linen shirts that would help keep him cool in the humid weather ahead and, at the nearby Under Armour Factory House, four lightweight T-shirts built for movement and comfort.
As he left the Under Armour store, his phone rang. The computer shop in Springfield had his system ready. Well-timed. He headed north without delay.
Mary arrived on Wednesday while Bill was deep in research. By the time he surfaced for a break, she had already finished her work and departed. The house felt noticeably quieter, and a flicker of disappointment surprised him. He reminded himself not to push too hard or too fast. Still, his mind kept circling for natural reasons to bring her back for more than cleaning and laundry.
Henry watched it all with quiet amusement, saying nothing as Bill paced the property and tinkered with half-finished projects like a man looking for excuses to stay busy.
Once the new computer was set up and connected to the Starlink network, Bill arranged the dual large screens exactly the way he liked. The split-screen setup worked beautifully. He could pull up a website or blueprint on one display and arrange related tabs—local soil reports, hardiness zone charts, building supply inventories—on the other. Research that once dragged now moved efficiently, feeding his careful plans for the property.
When Mary came for the third time since he’d taken up residence, Bill knew the exact day. He had marked his office calendar in red and set a discreet event alarm on the computer. She entered the house as she always did—like a soft breeze after a long, still morning. Bill heard the dryer door close and rose from his desk, heading for the kitchen and a fresh cup of coffee. He nearly collided with her coming out of the laundry room, arms full of warm, starched doilies fresh from the iron.
“Hmph! Sorry,” Bill said, steadying himself with one hand on the doorframe while the other instinctively caught her elbow. “I didn’t know you were here. I never heard a thing.”
Mary’s cheeks colored a delicate pink. She shifted the stack of doilies and offered a shy smile, though her eyes held a spark of amusement. “I didn’t want to disturb you. I peeked in earlier—you looked so focused. Figured you were deep in one of your plans or research again.”
For a moment they stood close in the narrow hallway, the scent of warm cotton, faint rose soap, and fresh coffee mingling between them. Bill felt the familiar lift her presence always brought. The morning had started with a certain grind, but now the house itself seemed brighter, more alive. Her quiet efficiency, the thoughtful way she moved through the spaces, turned a functional shelter into something warmer.
“You could never disturb me, Mary,” he said, voice softening as he released her elbow. He reached out and took half the doilies from her hands. Their fingers brushed, lingering a second longer than necessary. “Truth is, this place feels better when you’re here. Come on—let’s set these down. I’ll make us something cold to drink and we can sit in the great room. I’ve got an idea for the patio I’d like to run by you.”
She nodded, the flush on her cheeks warming into a gentle glow. “I’d like that.”
In the great room, Bill returned with two glasses of chilled non-alcoholic sparkling cider, the bubbles catching the light. He settled into the chair facing the couch where she sat, sunlight streaming through the windows and highlighting the faint sheen of starch still on her hands.
“I want to dress up the patio a bit,” he began. “Thought I might ask William to come take a look—maybe do some carvings, something subtle that brings out the charm of the space, a little more refined than whirligigs. I want to clean the fireplace and brighten this up a bit.. Weather’s warming up. I’d like to spend more time out there, maybe even cook a meal or two on the grill once it’s cleaned up. Feels like the kind of spot where good conversations happen… where a person could sit and watch the stars come out without feeling so alone.”
Mary sipped her cider, her expression softening. “William would love that. He’s got a real eye for wood—takes after his grandfather. I can bring him tomorrow if that works. I’ll help you scrub the fireplace while he sketches. Two sets of hands will make quick work of it.”
Bill hesitated, picturing her in one of her usual neat dresses. “I wouldn’t want you ruining good clothes with those chemicals. That stuff’s pretty strong.”
Mary’s chin lifted with quiet determination, a spark of humor in her eyes. “I I can wear English work clothes when there’s work to be done, Bill. I’m not made of glass.” She paused, then added more gently, “Besides, it’d be nice to tackle something together. This is your home now, but… I’ve grown fond of it too. Fond of seeing it come back to life. Fond of the way you’re approaching it—all the thought you put into making it sustainable, making it last.”
The words settled warmly between them. Bill met her gaze and felt something shift—a quiet understanding, a shared vision of the future. “Then I look forward to your help. And your company.” He smiled. “I picked up some solar lights today too. Figured they’d be perfect along the patio steps. What do you think about adding a few herb planters right by the grill? Fresh basil, rosemary—things that do well here in the Ozarks.”
Mary’s eyes brightened. “That’s a wonderful idea. I know a local nursery with strong tomato starts and herb seedlings come spring. The soil here can be a bit stubborn, but with some good compost it’ll produce beautifully. Maybe we could even put in a small cold frame later for extending the season.”
They talked a little longer, the conversation flowing easily from practical homestead matters to lighter topics—favorite grilling recipes, a funny story about William’s first attempt at carving, Bill’s cautious optimism about summer evenings in Branson. The exchange left the big house feeling smaller and fuller, the ordinary rhythms of the day suddenly richer.
The next morning Mary’s old truck rolled up with William’s bike secured in the bed. She hopped out wearing
jeans, a simple T-shirt, and canvas shoes, laughing at a teasing statement her brother had made. Bill stepped onto the patio and waved them over, a smile tugging at his mouth at the sight of her.
After quick good-mornings, Bill explained to William what he had in mind. The boy circled the space thoughtfully, studying angles and stonework, then nodded. “I’ve got some ideas. I’ll sketch them up after chores and bring them by later this afternoon.”
While William pedaled home, Bill fetched buckets and brushes. Mary took the garden hose and wet down the front of the fireplace, the water darkening the stone and carrying away the first layer of loose soot. They knelt side by side, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing the stubborn smoke stains. The morning air was still cool, but the work soon warmed them.
“Careful with that brush near the mortar,” Mary said after a few minutes, demonstrating a gentler circular motion. “You don’t want to dig out the old stuff and have to re-point it later.”
Bill watched her hands—steady, practiced, capable. “You’ve done this before.”
“More times than I can count,” she replied with a soft laugh. “Old houses around here have stories written in soot and smoke. This one’s got good bones, though. Just needed someone who’d stick around and care for it.” She glanced sideways at him. “Someone like you.”
He returned the look, shoulder brushing hers as he reached for another spot. “You make it easy to care, Mary. The way you turn this place into a real home… it reminds me there’s more to life than just prepping and surviving. There’s joy in the everyday things too.”
Mary’s scrubbing slowed. She looked at him, a trace of vulnerability mixed with warmth in her eyes. “You make it easy for me too. Most folks just want the house tidy. You see the potential. You ask my opinion on things that matter—the garden plans, what grows well here, how the land feels in different seasons. It makes me feel… valued. Seen.”
They worked in companionable rhythm, shoulders occasionally brushing, trading small stories as the stains gradually lifted. Bill told her more about the solar lights and his ideas for the patio layout. Mary suggested companion plantings for the herb bed and shared a tip about a reliable local source for seasoned firewood. The conversation drifted naturally—favorite meals to cook outdoors, William’s growing interest in craftsmanship, Bill’s hopes for turning the property into a true haven. Laughter came easily between them, light and genuine, as the fireplace emerged cleaner and the connection between them deepened in the shared labor.
By the time they rinsed the stone and stood back to admire their work, both were damp at the cuffs and streaked with a bit of soot, but the hearth looked transformed—and the quiet warmth growing between Bill and Mary felt just as real.
