The next morning, a construction crew arrived at the collapsed house. Wesley had hired them before he even left Chicago. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt, trading his polished shoes for work boots.
Juniper ran across the yard in her pajamas. “What do you think you are doing?”
He held a clipboard, but his voice remained gentle. “Keeping someone from getting hurt. The structure is unsafe. If a storm comes, it could fall into the road.”
“I did not ask for this.”
“I know. It is not charity. I bought part of the property years ago when you needed help with the mortgage. This is partly my responsibility.”
She froze. “I thought that was a loan I never repaid.”
“It was a gift. And I should have told you that then. I am telling you now.”
One of the workers approached with a dusty box. “Found this in what looks like the old bedroom.”
Juniper’s breath hitched. She recognized the wooden lid. She opened it and stared at the smiling photographs inside. Their wedding day. The first apartment. The picnic near the river. Letters tied with ribbon. Things she could not bring herself to throw away.
Wesley spoke quietly. “You kept them.”
Juniper shut the box. “Nostalgia is not the same as forgiveness.”
“I know.”