“The Daily Bread,” I supply, placing the bag on my kitchen counter. “Their pastries are dangerous.”
“A small apology for being so late.” He hovers in the doorway. “If you’ve changed your mind about the lesson, I’ll understand.”
“Why would I change my mind?” I tug off my windbreaker and hang it back on its hook. “We’re still having perfect weather for woodworking. Unless you’ve changed yours?”
“No.” He rubs his thumb along the strap, catches a loose thread, twists it one too many times. “This matters to me.”
I study him for a moment, weighing the contradictions. His words say one thing, while his body says another. Whatever battle he’s fighting, he doesn’t want to share it with me.
And I have no right to demand he does.
“Then let’s not waste any more daylight.” I grab a hair tie from the bowl by the door and pull my hair into a practical ponytail. “The workshop’s out back. We can have the turnovers afterward as a reward.”
He follows me through the kitchen toward the back door, his footsteps almost silent on the wood floor, as if trying to minimize the space he occupies.
“Have you done any woodworking before?” I ask over my shoulder as I unlace my boots to change into proper work shoes.
“A shop class in high school,” he says. “I built a birdhouse with such a bad lean the entrance might as well not have existed.”
The image pulls a laugh from me, and some of the tension in the air dissolves.
“Well,” I say, reaching for the door handle, “at least you have nowhere to go but up.”
My workshop sits twenty yards behind the cottage, a structure I built with my own hands. When Auren lived here with me, it was the only place on the property that belonged to me.
The cedar-plank walls have weathered to the same soft gray as the overcast sky. When I unlock the heavy padlock, the familiar scent of sawdust and linseed oil rises to meet me, settling like a comfort blanket. Leif pauses at the threshold, his broad shoulders filling the doorway while he adjusts to the dimmer light inside.
“This is incredible,” he says, hushed with appreciation. “It reminds me of my grandpa’s old workshop.”
I flip the switches by the door, and overhead lights flicker on, illuminating the organized chaos of my sanctuary.
Workbenches line two walls, each surface clear except for my current project of a half-carved wooden duck taking shape beneath my chisels. Tools hang on pegboards in meticulousarrangements, sorted by function and frequency of use. The concrete floor bears stains from years of projects, each mark tied to a finished project.
“Built it myself,” I reply, pride pulling my spine straight. “The cottage came with a dilapidated tool shed, so I tore it down and started over.”
Leif steps inside and pauses as he takes in my collection of hand planes and spokeshaves. “Where do we start?”
I cross to the lumber rack against the far wall, where boards of various lengths and species wait for transformation. “I thought we’d start with a small shelf you could use someday.”
Excitement breaks through his reserve. “I’d like that.”
“Pine is forgiving for beginners,” I explain, selecting a length of clear pine board. “It’s soft enough not to fight the tools too much.”
I place the board on my primary workbench and grab a measuring tape from the pegboard. “What height would you like? Standard bookshelf height is about twelve inches between shelves.”
As Leif moves closer, the floorboard creaks beneath his weight. “Whatever you recommend. I trust your expertise.”
“No,” I shake my head, offering him the tape measure. “This is your project. You need to decide how you want it to function.”
He accepts the tape with a surprised blink, as if unused to having his preferences consulted. “Maybe fifteen inches? Some of my art books are oversized, and they never fit on regular shelves.”
“Excellent choice.” I retrieve a carpenter’s pencil from the cup on the workbench. “Measure twice, cut once. Old saying, but it saves a lot of headaches.”
I demonstrate the proper way to mark the wood, explaining why we account for the saw blade’s width. When I hand him the pencil, our fingers brush, and I notice there’s no hint of callusesroughening his baby-soft skin. Teacher’s hands versus builder’s hands. The contrast couldn’t be clearer.
Leif’s brow furrows as he measures out the right length. “My mother wasn’t thrilled when I took shop class instead of debate in high school. My birdhouse just proved her right.”
“But here you are, trying again.”