Chapter 2 — The Leak That Started It All

Ellie

Ellie stood in the kitchen, staring at the growing puddle beneath the sink. The rhythmic drip-drip-drip of water hitting the metal bowl she’d placed there was maddening, a constant reminder of everything left unattended. She ran a hand through her chestnut-brown hair, now tumbling loose from her hastily tied bun. The sour smell of dampness was beginning to seep into the air, mingling with the faint scent of lemon dish soap.

Her grip tightened on the counter’s edge. She could feel the cool laminate pressing into her palms, her knuckles whitening. There was a time when Greg would have fixed this without her even asking. She could still picture him from years ago, crouched under this very sink, sleeves rolled up, grinning as he joked about “conquering the plumbing beast.” It had felt effortless then, as though they were a team. Now, the memory felt like a photograph left too long in the sun—faded, brittle, and more illusion than reality.

“Just call someone,” Greg had said that morning, his tone clipped, his eyes flicking to his phone instead of her face. “I’ve got back-to-back meetings today. Besides, it’s just a small leak. Not the end of the world.”

Not the end of the world. The words churned in her stomach. Maybe not for him. She’d watched him leave, his polished shoes clicking on the hardwood, the door closing behind him like the lid of a box. It wasn’t just the leak. It was everything. The silence that stretched between them. The way he looked through her, not at her. The house felt bigger and emptier every time he left.

Ellie crouched down to inspect the pipes, though she didn’t know what she was looking for. The water’s slow seep was quickening, threatening to spill over the edges of the bowl. Her frustration swelled, tangling with a spark of defiance. If Greg wouldn’t deal with it, she would. She wasn’t helpless. At least, she didn’t have to be.

Her gaze drifted to the corkboard by the fridge, cluttered with faded shopping lists, recipes, and reminders she no longer needed. Among them, the local handyman list hung slightly askew, a relic from when she and Greg first moved to Willow Creek. Back then, they’d embraced the town’s small, quirky charm. Now, that list felt like a remnant of a life she no longer recognized.

Ellie scanned the names, many crossed out or marked with “retired.” Her finger hovered over “Jack Hart.” She’d seen the name around town—on utility trucks parked at the diner or the farmer’s market—but had never needed his help before. She glanced back at the steady drip from the sink, each drop a tiny, pointed accusation against her hesitation. Fix it yourself, a voice in her head whispered. But as much as she hated admitting it, she didn’t even know where to begin.

Taking a deep breath, Ellie grabbed the phone and punched in the number before she could convince herself not to. Her hand trembled slightly as she pressed the receiver to her ear.

“Jack Hart speaking.”

The voice startled her. It was rough, deep, and calm in a way that steadied her. She imagined the scent of woodsmoke and pine needles clinging to it.

“Um, hi, Mr. Hart,” Ellie began, her voice faltering. She winced at her own formality and tried again. “This is Eleanor Winslow. I live on Redbird Lane. I, uh, I’ve got a leak under my kitchen sink, and I was wondering if you might have some time to take a look?”

There was a pause—just long enough for her to feel foolish. Ellie’s grip tightened on the phone, bracing herself for rejection or impatience.

“Sure thing, Mrs. Winslow,” Jack replied finally, his tone soft but matter-of-fact. “I can swing by this afternoon. Does two o’clock work for you?”

“Oh!” Relief flooded her, almost making her giddy. “That would be perfect. Thank you so much.”

“No problem. See you at two.”

The line clicked, and Ellie lowered the phone, staring at the puddle on the floor. It was still there, but somehow, it felt less daunting. She’d done something. It was a small step, but it was hers.

---

By one forty-five, Ellie was pacing the kitchen, her apron slightly askew as she wiped down the already-clean countertops for the third time. Her nerves buzzed under her skin with a strange mix of anticipation and unease. She glanced at the clock, then out the window. The greenhouse loomed in its usual state of neglect, its ivy-covered frame and broken glass panes standing as a silent testament to everything she had let go.

The knock at the door startled her, a sharp sound cutting through her thoughts. Her heart jumped as she smoothed her hands over her apron and hurried to answer. She hesitated briefly, then pulled the door open.

Jack Hart stood on her front step, taller than she’d imagined, framed by the cool autumn light. His shoulders were broad, his beard scruffy and framing a strong jawline, and his piercing blue eyes met hers with quiet curiosity. Faded jeans and a flannel shirt peeked out from under a worn leather jacket, the whole look lending him an effortless air of practicality. He seemed out of place in pristine Willow Creek, but not unwelcome.

“Mrs. Winslow?” he asked, his voice warm and steady.

“Yes, that’s me,” Ellie said, stepping back quickly. “Thank you for coming. Please, just call me Ellie.”

Jack nodded, stepping inside with a barely perceptible glance around the house. “Ellie it is, then.”

She led him to the kitchen, where he crouched under the sink with practiced ease. His calloused hands moved deftly as he inspected the pipes, the faint clicks and clinks of his tools filling the silence. Ellie busied herself tidying the counter, but her gaze kept drifting toward him. There was something calming about the way he worked, every movement precise and unhurried. It was the kind of confidence that came from years of hands-on experience.

“You’ve got quite a greenhouse back there,” Jack said after a moment, his voice casual as he nodded toward the window.

Ellie froze, her heart tightening. Her eyes followed his gesture to the backyard. The greenhouse stood there, shrouded in ivy and shadow, its cracked glass panes catching fragments of the afternoon light.

“It’s not much of a greenhouse anymore,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with something she couldn’t quite name. Regret? Embarrassment? “It’s… falling apart.”

Jack glanced up at her, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. “Still,” he said, “it’s got good bones. Could be something special again, with a little work.”

The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard, striking a chord she hadn’t realized was still capable of vibrating. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken about the greenhouse as though it mattered.

“I used to dream about fixing it up,” she admitted, her words slow and tentative, as though testing their weight aloud. “But life… gets in the way.”

Jack nodded, returning his attention to the pipes. “Yeah, I get that. But sometimes it’s worth making the time. Even if it’s just for yourself.”

His words lingered in the air, like a melody that wouldn’t quite resolve. Ellie turned back to the counter, hiding behind the motion of wiping away a nonexistent smudge. Her chest tightened, caught between an ache and something that almost felt like hope.

A few minutes later, Jack stood and turned the faucet, letting the water run. “All set,” he said, stepping back with a faint smile. “Shouldn’t give you any more trouble.”

“Thank you,” Ellie said earnestly, pulling a few bills from her wallet. Their fingers brushed as she handed them over, the rough warmth of his skin sparking a tiny, unspoken connection.

Jack started toward the door, then paused, glancing back. “If you ever decide to tackle that greenhouse, let me know. I’d be happy to help.”

Ellie opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she nodded, her heart beating faster than it should as she watched him step outside into the crisp autumn air.

Closing the door, Ellie leaned against it, her thoughts spinning. For the first time in years, the greenhouse didn’t feel like a monument to failure. It felt like a possibility.