Page 149 of Slapshot Baby

Except professionals don't melt into the hug the way I just did.

"How's my favorite designer?"

"Under-caffeinated and overly ambitious. The usual." I lift my iPad. "I brought mood boards."

"And I made scones."

She hooks her arm through mine and pulls me inside. "You look tired, Ava. Let’s eat first then we can talk about the renovation later."

I smile as we walk to the kitchen, grateful for the offer.

The kitchen has 1990s oak cabinetry with cathedral-arch doors that peaked in style when people still considered mauve a neutral. Its tile countertops has grout lines darkened from decades of family dinners.

But there are fresh wildflowers on the sill and a plate of scones.

She pours me tea, slides the plate closer.

My designer eye catalogs the bones of this room before I take my first bite.

The sightlines are blocked by a half-wall separating the kitchen from the family room. The lighting is flat, no layering. The workflow forces whoever cooks to face cabinetry instead of the room where everyone gathers.

But on the doorframe beside the fridge, someone penciled a height chart in fading graphite. Kai, age 6. Mira, age 3. Kai, age 8.

My fingers itch to trace the marks. I eat a scone instead.

"So." I pull up a blank board on the iPad. "Where do we start?"

Laura runs her palm along the counter top.

"When the kids were little, I could see everything from this stove. Kai spreading homework across the floor. Mira chasing our cat around the table legs. I watched them grow up from right here."

She turns toward the half-wall. "Then Charles put that in for the plumbing. Now I can hear people laughing in the next room but I can't see their faces. It's been driving me crazy for fifteen years."

"You want the sightlines back."

"I want to stand at this stove and know who's sitting on my couch. I want to feel my whole family in the room, not just hear them through drywall."

I sketch a quick layout on the iPad. "That wall isn't load-bearing. We can take it down in a way that you’ll have a view of the living room and keep the plumbing chase."

Her eyes go wide. "You can do that?"

"I've done it on tighter layouts with lower ceilings."

"Show me."

I tilt the screen toward her and walk her through the rough layout. She leans in, her shoulder pressing against mine, perfume mixing with warm air.

"I love this." She squeezes my wrist. "Let me show you the rest."

We walk through room by room. Laura doesn't hand me a Pinterest board or ask for a modern farmhouse. She tells me what each room holds.

The guest room with the water stain on the ceiling: "Kai tried to fix the bathroom pipe at fourteen but flooded the whole upstairs. Charles stood ankle-deep in water screaming about calling a plumber. Then Kai said something that cracked them both up so badly they forgot to turn off the valve. I found them twenty minutes later, soaking wet and still laughing."

The master bedroom with the east-facing bay window: "I've watched the sunrise from this spot for decades. Whatever you change in this house, don't you dare touch my morning light."

I take notes on all of it, my brain humming with possibility. The guest ceiling patched and vaulted if the joists allow. A built-in window seat in the master bay where Laura can sit with her coffee and watch the sunrise she's earned.

"You love this house," I say as we circle back toward the kitchen.