Chapter 4 - The House on 21st AvenueBack in Portland, the rain had settled into a steady, gray drizzle that coated the historic Victorian homes of Northwest Portland in a slick, shimmering sheen.
Lydia Holt was discharged from Providence Medical Center on Friday afternoon, her lungs finally clear of the acute infection, though her frame remained dangerously fragile. Nathan had rented an SUV, packed Lydia and the three girls into the back, and driven them directly to a house he had leased within forty-eight hours—a sprawling, beautifully restored 1904 craftsman home on Northwest 21st Avenue, complete with a wraparound porch, a sprawling backyard, and enough bedrooms to give every girl her own private sanctuary.
When they walked through the front door, the house was already furnished. Nathan had flown an entire interior design team down from Seattle on Thursday night, giving them a single instruction: Make it look like a home that three seven-year-old girls have lived in for years.
There were bookshelves stocked with fairy tales and science encyclopedias, a dedicated art studio nook for Clara with professional-grade sketchpads and watercolor sets, a reading window seat with plush velvet cushions for Nora, and a serene, organized study desk for Sophie.
Lydia stood in the center of the hardwood-floored living room, staring around her in stunned disbelief. A fire crackled in the river-rock fireplace, throwing dancing amber lights across the Oriental rug.
"Nathan," she breathed, turning to look at him as he carried their small bags through the entryway. "This... this is insane. You can't just rent a furnished estate in the middle of Nob Hill on a day's notice."
"Watch me," Nathan said with a faint, tired grin, setting the bags down by the stairs. He walked over to her, his hands sliding into his pockets. "Lydia, for seven years you lived in a two-bedroom apartment near OHSU, working sixty-hour weeks, carrying the entire weight of raising three brilliant children entirely on your own while I was busy stacking millions in a bank account that didn't mean a damn thing. This isn't charity. This is the down payment on a very long conversation we need to have."
Before Lydia could answer, the front door burst open with a squeal of laughter.
Sophie, Clara, and Nora had discovered the backyard, which featured a magnificent old weeping willow tree and a tire swing dangling from its lowest branch. They came tracking wet leaves across the pristine hardwood, shedding their raincoats like a trail of breadcrumbs.
"Dad! Dad, come outside! There's a treehouse! Well, not a treehouse yet, but it has branches you can climb!" Clara shouted, her face flushed with excitement, waving her sketchbook in the air.
Nathan felt something shift in his chest—a sudden, violent expansion of warmth that he hadn't felt since he was a boy.
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"Go," Lydia whispered, a soft, melancholy smile touching her lips as she watched him. "They're your daughters, Nathan. Go climb the tree."
He didn't need to be told twice. He kicked off his Italian leather loafers, unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, and chased the three girls out into the Oregon rain, his laughter mixing with theirs under the branches of the weeping willow.
