Chapter 4 - Building a Home
That weekend, the rain didn't stop. It settled over Nashville like a heavy grey blanket, turning the lawns into a shimmering mirror of grey skies and wet oak leaves.
Usually, rainy weekends were my private torture. They were stretches of time where I buried myself in work simply because the quiet of the mansion felt too heavy to bear. But this Saturday felt different.
Around ten in the morning, a soft knock sounded at my study door.
I looked up from my laptop. Sophia stood in the doorway, wearing mismatched socks and holding Noodle under her arm. Maria was behind her, looking apologetic.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Cole," Maria said quickly. "My car wouldn't start this morning, and I couldn't leave her with my neighbor, so I had to bring her along. I know it's the weekend—"
"Maria," I interrupted, standing up from my desk. "Stop apologizing. My living room has more square footage than a tennis court. I think we can manage one small guest."
Sophia’s face lit up. She marched right past her mother, carrying a massive cardboard box filled with crayons, construction paper, and plastic building blocks.
"Noodle wants to build a castle," Sophia announced, dropping the heavy box onto my expensive Persian rug with a loud thud. "And you have to help, Mr. House Man. Because you're tall and you can reach the roof."
I looked down at the pile of colorful plastic blocks, then up at Maria, who offered a shy, genuine smile.
"Well," I said, rolling up my sleeves—revealing the last faint traces of watercolor still clinging to my skin. "I suppose a billionaire can spare a few hours for real estate development. Show me the blueprints, Noodle."
For the next four hours, the grand mansion outside Nashville transformed.
We didn't build skyscrapers or luxury high-rises. We built a crooked, unstable fortress out of red, yellow, and blue plastic blocks. Sophia insisted that the tallest tower needed a landing pad for a plastic dinosaur, while I was put in charge of the structural integrity of the front gates.
Maria brought us hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows floating on top. As we sat cross-legged on the floor—the richest man in Tennessee surrounded by plastic debris and a threadbare stuffed rabbit—we talked.
Maria told me about San Antonio, about her grandfather who taught her how to fix antique clocks, and about her dream of opening a small restoration workshop of her own one day. I listened, truly listened, without calculating her net worth or wondering what angle she was playing.
For her part, she didn't treat me like a Forbes profile. She treated me like a tired man who needed a friend, a warm cup of cocoa, and an excuse to stop working.
When evening fell and the rain finally cleared, washing the Nashville sky in shades of violet and gold, Maria packed up her supplies.
Sophia had fallen asleep on the sofa, her head resting comfortably against Noodle, completely exhausted from a hard day of construction work.
I carried her carefully out to Maria's car, shielding them both with a large golf umbrella as the cool night air brushed against our faces.
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"Thank you, Ethan," Maria whispered as she buckled a sleeping Sophia into the backseat.
"No," I replied, looking back at the glowing windows of the mansion behind us. "Thank you. For reminding me what this house was actually built for."
