I pushed past Sarah, crossed the hall barefoot, and stepped onto the porch.
Mark paced across the front lawn. His gray suit was wrinkled. He jabbed at his phone.
When the screen door slammed shut behind me, his head snapped up.
"You emptied the account," Mark yelled, closing the distance between us.
"It was my money."
"You are going to wire it back right now."
"No."
Mark stopped at the bottom step. "Do you have any idea what you did? Caleb is stranded at the airport."
"Stranded?" I crossed my arms. "He has a job. He has a wallet."
"His card declined at the VIP lounge," Mark snapped. "The resort in Maui needs a security deposit. You ruined his wedding yesterday, and now you are ruining his honeymoon."
"I didn't ruin anything. I simply stopped paying for the privilege of being ignored."
"Put the eighty-five grand back, Linda."
"Not a chance."
Mark marched up the wooden steps, invading my space. "This isn't a negotiation. Caleb is panicking. The airline won't upgrade their seats without immediate payment. Rebecca is furious."
I laughed, an ugly sound that startled even me. "Why does Rebecca care about Caleb's honeymoon?"
"Because she booked their excursions!" Mark shouted. "She put her own credit card down for the private helicopter tour. You are embarrassing me in front of her."
"Then tell your mistress to pay for the whole trip."
Mark's face turned a violent shade of red. "She is a family friend."
"She wore champagne lace to my son's wedding and sat in my chair. She is not a friend."
"That money belongs to the family," Mark argued, pointing a finger at my chest.
"It belongs to me. I earned every penny serving coffee and wiping down diner tables while you studied."
"I provide for this house!"
"You provide for yourself. You buy custom suits and lease luxury cars. I clip coupons."
"Unlock your phone." Mark reached out, grabbing my wrist hard. His fingers dug into my skin.
"Get your hands off me." I yanked my arm back, but his grip held firm.
"You are acting like a child," Mark hissed. "Transfer the funds."
tires crunched loudly on the gravel driveway. A faded blue pickup truck pulled in, stopping inches from Mark's polished sedan.
Daniel cut the engine. He stepped out of the cab. He wore the same work boots from last night, faded denim jeans, and a plain gray t-shirt dusted with sawdust.
He lowered the tailgate with a clang. He reached into the truck bed and pulled out two wooden dining chairs.
Mark dropped my wrist. He spun around, glaring at the driveway. "Who the hell are you? Move your truck."
Daniel didn't answer. He carried the chairs up the concrete walkway. He climbed the porch stairs and set the furniture down right between Mark and me.
"Morning, Linda," Daniel said.
"Morning."
Mark scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "Move the truck, buddy. We are having a private conversation."
Daniel wiped his palms on his jeans. He ignored Mark completely. He kept his eyes locked on my face.
"Is this guy bothering you?" Daniel asked.
"I am her husband," Mark barked, stepping forward.
"I didn't ask you." Daniel shifted his weight. He planted his boots firmly on the porch planks. He crossed his thick arms over his chest. "Do you want me to call the police, Linda?"
Mark's jaw tightened. "You are calling the cops on me? For talking to my own wife?"
"You were grabbing her wrist," Daniel pointed out. His voice stayed flat, devoid of any anger or excitement. "That upgrades this from a conversation to trespassing and assault."
"This is a family matter," Mark sneered. "Stay out of it."
"Sarah owns this property," Daniel replied. "I'm fixing her pipes. That makes me the maintenance guy. And the maintenance guy says you need to leave."
"Do you have a problem, buddy?" Mark challenged, puffing out his chest.
"I have a lot of problems. Right now, you're at the top of the list."
Mark looked at Daniel's broad shoulders. He glanced down at the steel-toed boots. He took a slow step backward.
"You are making a large mistake," Mark said, pointing a finger at me. "When you come crawling back, I won't be there."
"The venue called about the bridal suite," I said, rubbing my sore wrist. "Someone threw a champagne flute through a decorative mirror. The final bill is fifteen thousand dollars."
Mark froze. "What?"
"They are sending it to collections. Good luck explaining that to Caleb."
Mark's mouth opened, but no words came out. He spun around, stomping down the stairs and marching across the lawn. He got into his sedan and slammed the door.
The engine roared. He threw the car into reverse. He had to drive over a patch of Sarah's pristine grass to get around the pickup truck.
The sedan disappeared around the corner.
I stared at the empty street. My hands shook.
Daniel turned around. He ran a hand over the backrest of the nearest dining chair.
"Sarah wanted the joints glued," he said. "They should hold now."
"Thank you."
"You're shaking."
"Adrenaline," I admitted, forcing my hands into the pockets of my sweatpants. "I have never told him no before. Not in twenty-five years."
Daniel nodded. He didn't offer any empty platitudes. He walked down the porch steps and headed back toward his truck.
"Come here," Daniel called out over his shoulder.
I stepped off the porch. Damp grass chilled my feet. I followed him to the driveway.
In the bed of the pickup sat a large oak dining table.
It looked terrible. The wood was deeply gouged in several places. Dark, ugly water stains covered the surface. A huge chunk of the glossy varnish was stripped away on the left side.
"Someone left it on the curb three streets over," Daniel said. He rested his hand on the lowered tailgate.
"It's ruined," I said, studying the deep scratches.
"It's damaged. Not ruined."
"It looks like someone took a hammer to it."
"They probably did," Daniel agreed. "People throw things away when they get a little rough around the edges. They think it's easier to buy a new one than put in the work."
I looked up from the wood. His dark eyes met mine.
"Oak is tough," Daniel continued. "You have to strip away the old finish. Get down to the raw wood. Start over."
"I don't know anything about woodworking."
"You don't need to. You need to be willing to sweat a little."
He reached into the front pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a rough square of heavy-grit sandpaper.
He held it out to me.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A bank alert filled the screen: a seven-thousand-dollar resort charge had been declined on Caleb's supplemental card. A second message appeared beneath it from Mark.
I am coming back. You will fix this.
At the far end of the street, tires squealed around the corner.
Daniel glanced toward the sound, then back at me. "You can keep watching his taillights," he said, "or you can help me sand this old tabletop clean."
I took the sandpaper from his hand.
