Every other weekend, I drove from Raleigh to check the progress. I brought Frank coffee and sandwiches. I swept sawdust off the porch before the railings were done. When the kitchen cabinets went in, I stood alone in the room and cried so hard my own grief echoed off the unfinished walls.
I never put up a sign, but in my mind I named it Henry’s Rest.
Not because it was sad.
Because it was where his dream finally sat down somewhere solid.
The first summer, I invited everyone.
Natalie and Mark. Their three children. My son Daniel from Richmond, who worked too much and answered texts like each word cost money. My sister Ruth, with her bad knees and laugh that still sounded like church hats and trouble.
I stocked the refrigerator for two weeks. I bought fishing rods, pool floats, board games, bug spray, and enough hot dog buns to feed half the county. I made welcome baskets for the grandchildren with their names stitched on towels and jars of homemade peach jam tucked inside.
That first summer was everything Henry would have wanted.