Weeks passed, the library transformed, and a routine sprouted between Isobel and me. We’d run, I’d take my dream shower—I was becoming increasingly spoiled by those showers—then we’d eat breakfast together after everyone else had eaten and cleared out of the kitchen, and after that, it was off to the library for renovation time. In between the woodworking part, we painted the walls a glossy eggshell color and installed more lights.
I asked Isobel if she wanted me to find some professional painters and electricians to take care of that part, but she’d admitted she liked this do-it-ourselves thing we had going on. It made it more meaningful to her. That had me grinning until she added, “Besides, you’re such an anal-retentive perfectionist, I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
So I read more books and
