Three weeks after the Savannah engagement, the air inside the 1920s Craftsman home on Piedmont Park smelled of freshly cut pine, cured plaster, and damp morning rain.
The low, rhythmic thrum of a circular saw echoed through the stripped-down framing of the main living room. Sunlight streamed through bare timber studs, illuminating dancing dust motes and the vast, open potential of a structure being completely rebuilt from the inside out.
Maya stood near the center of what would soon be their sprawling master living suite. She wore a pair of dark denim jeans, a fitted black long-sleeve tee tucked into her waist, and a battered orange hard hat resting over her dark hair. Her dark brown eyes—bright, focused, and free of any lingering shadow—scanned a set of revised plumbing overlays pinned
