Chapter 10 - The Unbroken Line
Three weeks after the great freeze, the snow on the ridge had settled into a hard, blue-white crust that crunched satisfyingly underfoot.
Vernon sat in his brown corduroy recliner by the stone fireplace, watching a football game on the flat-screen TV mounted against the cedar wall while the wood stove hummed with a steady, comforting warmth. Paulette was at the low kitchen counter, humming softly to herself as she prepped a pot of vegetable soup for lunch, her hands easily reaching every spice jar and plate without once having to stretch or climb.
Brett stood on the front porch, zipping up his coat as he prepared to head down to the mountain. A silver pickup truck pulled into the gravel drive, kicking up a light spray of powder before coming to a smooth stop.
The driver’s door opened, and Harlo Pratt stepped out, carrying a heavy canvas tool bag over one shoulder.
"Morning, Harlo," Brett called out, walking down the ramp.
"Morning, Brett," Harlo said, stopping by the base of the steps and spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the snow. "Got that back gate hung. Cedar posts are set deep enough to withstand a frozen frost-line."
"Appreciate it," Brett said, pulling an envelope from his pocket and handing it over. "Here’s the final check for the lumber and labor."
Harlo took the envelope, slid it into his jacket pocket without looking inside, and glanced up toward the house where Vernon could be seen through the front window watching the game.
"Old man settling in okay?" Harlo asked.
"Better than okay," Brett said, leaning against the railing. "He spends half his day chopping kindling and the other half complaining about the TV remote. Mom looks like she’s ten years younger without that drafty old farmhouse hanging over her head."
"Good," Harlo grunted, adjusting his wool cap. "Houses are like people, Brett. If you don't build them on a solid foundation from the start, the first real cold snap will tear the walls right apart."
Brett nodded, looking out past the treeline toward the valley where the distant roof of the 1922 farmhouse was barely visible through the frozen hemlocks. Caitlyn and Nolan had finally put the property on the market as a "handyman’s special" for half its appraised value, desperate to unload the water-damaged drywall and ruined plumbing before the spring thaw turned the cellar into a swamp.
Let them sell it. Let them fight over whatever scraps were left of an inheritance built on broken promises and cheap jokes.
Brett turned back toward the house, his hand brushing the smooth, sturdy cedar of the porch railing. The debt was paid. The ledger was balanced. And for the first time in seven years, when the wind howled down off the high peaks of Vermont, the house didn't shake.
May you like
"See you tomorrow, Harlo," Brett said, stepping off the porch.
"See you tomorrow, kid," Harlo replied, turning back to his truck as the morning sun broke fully over the ridge, turning the snow into a field of brilliant, unbroken light.
