Cedar planks. Green trim. A small round window. Safe railings. Too sturdy for ordinary childhood recklessness because Fletch built things the way he loved people—with excess reinforcement.
On the little door, he installed a carved wooden plaque.
The Collie House.
When he showed Dorothy the finished structure, she stood beneath the tree and laughed through tears.
“She’d say the paint on the trim is uneven,” Fletch muttered.
“She’d be right,” Dorothy said.
He smiled then, the first unguarded smile she had seen on him in months.
Seasons turned. Sleep improved. Bottles became pureed peaches. First smiles gave way to rolling attempts, then crawling intentions.
The house changed with them.
Dorothy repainted the master bedroom in the soft yellow Colleen loved. She replanted the garden with the help of Colleen’s gardening journal, which turned out to include stern handwritten notes like never plant tomatoes where the squirrels can see your weakness. The rosemary survived the winter. Dorothy took that personally, as encouragement.
At night, after the babies slept, Dorothy often sat in the nursery rocking chair between the three cribs and reread Colleen’s letters.
Not every night.