“The structure will rest on an octagonal platform built around and several inches from the tree. I’ll create an opening at the top to allow for growth, but at the slow rate trunks widen, it won’t come close to the gazebo any time soon. The leaves will keep out rain in the summer, and in the winter, you might want to consider a plastic covering. I haven’t fully figured that out yet—I don’t really work in plastic.” He ran a hand over his chin. “My guess is a cover won’t be necessary.”

As he spoke, she pored over the paper. The evidence of many hours’ work rested in her hands. Did he sketch in the middle of the house under Nora’s watchful eye? Or did he escape to a private spot to draw and think alone? The idea that he passed any time at all pondering her and her project made her collarbones tingle. She shook her head. “You’re an artist.”

He stepped behind her and tapped the original sketch with one finger. “You had a unique idea—the tree in the middle. I’ve never seen a gazebo like it.” He chuckled. “Not at Lucas King’s, anyway.”

A renegade curl tumbled loose, and she brushed it aside, turning. “We haven’t spoken about a price. How much will all this cost?” Her face heated at the awkward subject of money. Seemingly untroubled, he took in the tree again.

“I can’t say quite yet. I can make a good guess on the price of the lumber, but I don’t know how long construction will take, since I’ve never made anything like it.” He glanced back, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Can we wait on an estimate? Don’t worry. I’ll give you a fair price.”

“Of course.” She returned the drawing. Maybe the job would require all summer. Richard would love that.

He dropped the tape measure into the toolbox and followed her around the house. “By market next Wednesday, I should have a rough sense of cost and a preliminary timeline. Do you have a place where I can store tools and lumber?”

Considering, she pursed her lips. The only space large enough was the garage, and it was crammed floor to ceiling with junk. She recalled the pristine shelves in Nora’s pantry. Note to self—clean the garage. “I’ll come up with something.” She gestured toward the van. “Shall we?” The steering wheel was even more cantankerous than usual. With a soft grunt, she wrenched it, flattening a narrow strip of lawn. “My car has a stubborn streak.”

“I know a mule very like it.” He craned his neck and peered into the rear of the camper. “What an unusual vehicle.”

She laughed. “That’s an understatement. It’s a 1979 camper van.”

Laying a hand on the dash, he swiveled in his seat. “You sleep in it?”