The Woodworker

by Westlake, Samantha

  Carving, I liked to tell the wives and mothers who fawned over my work at art fairs, didn’t come with an ‘undo’ button. A lot like life.

  That again drew my eyes away from the carving again, back to the door leading into my house. I wish I’d had an undo button for the conversation with Eileen, when I’d been distracted by a perky ass and long legs, distracted long enough to offer her my house as a place for her to stay for what may very well turn out to be months, or even longer.

  What if she just refused to leave? I shuddered at the idea. Could I call the police and have her evicted? She hadn’t signed any formal contract to be in my house, but would that work against me, because she didn’t have any laws telling her that she had to get out by some date and time?

  I grimaced, lowered the whittling knife for a moment so I could rub my forehead with my thumb. Too many questions, stuff for me to deal with later.

  A half hour later, I set the knife down, carefully placed the stag on the workbench and scooted my stool back to look at it with a critical eye. I liked the lines, how cleanly it appeared to leap from the wood, its head slightly turned, as if startled by an unexpected sound. I’d need to put a clear coat on it to protect those fragile wooden lines, elegant but thin, so that they wouldn’t be as prone to breaking as the wood dried out. I didn’t want to add any sort of deep stain, however. Better to just polish it up, let the natural color and look of the wood stand out on its own.

  I swapped the knife for a sheet of extremely fine-grit sandpaper, started rubbing down the statue. I’d probably not get to the clear coat until tomorrow, but the statue would be fine overnight.

  I blew off some of the fine dust from my sanding, sat back and smiled at the result. This was the kind of piece that could win carving competitions, could land me a metal at a woodworking show. It seemed almost a shame to sell it to some housewife or some hunter who just wanted it to be a corner decoration in his already cluttered hunting trophy room. It deserved to be admired, not pushed aside to a corner where it would simply gather dust.

  But it would pay the bills, and that income was what I needed. Sure, I wouldn’t mind things if my business grew a bit – but I didn’t need anyone else’s help with that. Not when it came to my art.

  I’d gotten myself to where I was now, had earned this recognition and acclaim, even if it was only in small circles. I’d made my own way into the world of art, not relying on anyone else. I didn’t need any help, especially not now. I’d made it this far, and I’d keep going all on my own.

  Speaking of making it on my own... I’d gotten an email from a contractor I knew, for whom I’d done a few jobs in the past. He wanted to know if I could take on another newel for him, this one featuring waves and seashells. He’d described his client as “more than a bit batty,” but willing to spare no expense for her beach home.

  And he’d added a price at the bottom that would cover half my bills for the next month, on its own.

  For that price, I was willing to take on some contract work. I pulled up the email again, read over the dimensions carefully before reaching out to select a piece of stout oak. Putting waves and seashells in a beach home seemed too obvious and trite to me, but that didn’t mean that this woman wouldn’t get my best work.

  I found a post, cut it down to the rough size, leaving another inch or so of wood around the areas that I’d craft into carvings. Swapping to a sheet of paper and a stick of charcoal, I sketched out the core thoughts of my idea in rough lines, letting seashells take shape in a scattered jumble, just like they might appear on the beach.

  As I worked, my mind cleared, and although I hadn’t bothered to turn on the radio in my workshop, I still hummed to myself. Thoughts of frustrating Eileen, of probing Niall, of any concerns with money, fled my head. I felt focused, in tune with the wood and the paper beneath my hands and the universe, and I worked in peace and contentment, thinking of absolutely nothing.

  The rest of my life was nonstop, nearly constant aggravations, but this time, right here, made the rest of it bearable.

  Chapter Ten

  Eileen

  * * *

  In seven days, a lot had happened. Thinking back, I couldn’t remember a more tumultuous week in all my life.

  A lot had changed. When I went out to see Lisa at the farmers’ market, that Sunday a week prior, I’d been on the verge of a breakdown. I’d felt at my wits’ end, not knowing where to turn or what to even do. There had been so many things coming at me, I couldn’t even pick a first step, couldn’t even come up with an idea of where to start.

  But now, I felt a bit better, at least regarding those first steps. I was still a long way from climbing back up to the security that I’d falsely held a few weeks ago, back when I still had my house, my job, and didn’t see any storm clouds on the horizon. But now, I at least had a game plan for working back towards some sort of stability.

  After my first real conversation with Rick resulted in my storming off, annoyed that he so callously shot down my genuine attempt to offer my help, I’d taken a deep breath and come to my senses. My room in this stranger’s house was the only good thing that I had going for me at the moment. I couldn’t afford to lose that because of a flared temper.

  So when he finally emerged from his garage-turned-workshop, I met him with a smile – and a pizza box. Ordering pizza took another bite out of my meager remaining savings, and I hated that I had so little cash left that I needed to seriously think about the cost of a couple pizzas – but I needed a peace offering.

  Of course, Rick hadn’t been immediately forgiving. “What’s this?” he’d asked suspiciously, frowning at the boxes as if they might be full of spiders, or perhaps vegetables.

  “Pizza,” I answered. “Peace offering?”

  He still didn’t look like he fully trusted me, but he ate a few pieces, especially when I revealed that I’d chosen the Meat Lovers variety. It was easy to guess what Rick liked – think of the most stereotypically male option and choose that. We didn’t have much conversation that night, but he wordlessly offered me a beer from his fridge, which I accepted as a kind of unspoken truce.

  Over the next few days, I didn’t see much of him. He tended to sleep in late and then head into his workshop to tackle his projects. I still found my eyes snapping open right at six in the morning each day, and I burned off all my nerves, worries, and excess energy by going out jogging. Even though it was so cold some mornings that I could see my breath in front of me, even though the sun was only just starting to peek above the horizon, I still resolutely pulled on my workout shoes, leggings and a sports bra underneath a sweatshirt, slipped earbuds into my ears, and headed out to explore the miles of trails around Rick’s house.

  After a quick shower upon my return, I got to work on restoring my life. Rick had a computer, but I didn’t want to intrude further on his hospitality by asking for the password. Instead, I’d gone out and purchased a cheap laptop from a rather sketchy fellow who insisted that we meet in a public parking lot. I had more than a passing suspicion that the laptop was stolen, but it worked and came with Microsoft Office, so it suited my needs, and I couldn’t argue with the price. I told myself that it might have been stolen from Integrated Technologies; that made me feel better, in a petty sort of way.

  Integrated Technologies-branded mug full of steaming coffee beside me, I’d pulled together my resume, sent it out to a few companies, and spent several very irritating hours on the phone with the collections department of my insurance agency, trying to make certain that I’d receive the check to repay me for my burned-down house. Eventually, I managed to at least get the phone representative to acknowledge that I had a new address and promise to send the check to this address once the investigation, whatever that involved, was finished and wrapped up.

  But now that I had the basics covered, I found myself with a new problem – I didn’t have much to fill my time.

  “You’re still here?” Rick grunted to me as he paused in the open doorway leadin
g into the living room. “Not out somewhere, pestering some poor fool who’s done nothing wrong?”

  I frowned up at him. He looked like he’d only just crawled out of bed, even though it was nearly eleven in the morning! His short hair was mussed, his eyes were heavy, and I could see the stubble standing out on his strong jaw.

  He also, I realized a second later, wasn’t wearing anything besides boxers and a pair of pajama pants – and the thin flannel fabric did not do nearly a good enough job of hiding the current state of his... equipment.

  That bulge briefly consumed a hundred percent of my attention, but other factors also soon began creeping into my mind. Notably, the way that his lack of a shirt showed off the muscles of his chest, the structure and definition of his abs. Rick looked to be in pretty incredible shape, considering that I’d never seen him lift a muscle, and the only green thing in his kitchen were M&Ms.

  Rick frowned, and then grinned as he realized why I hadn’t answered. “Want me to put on a dance?” he drawled.

  I threw a cushion at him. “I want you to cover up and have some decency,” I said, wishing that my voice didn’t sound a little breathless. It had been a long time since I’d seen anyone look that good, except for a couple late-night rented movies that I turned off halfway through when I found myself too distracted by work to follow the plotline. “Do you really need to parade around with next to nothing on?”

  “Hey, I’m covered. I blame you for looking.” He moved out of the doorway, into the kitchen. A minute later, his voice drifted back to me. “At least there’s coffee.”

  “You’re welcome,” I called around the corner. “And making it was quite the hassle, since your coffee maker is ancient, and you didn’t appear to have any filters left. I needed to buy them from the store.”

  “Oh yeah, I was out of those. Forgot.” I heard the clinking of a mug, the splash of coffee, the thunk of the pot being replaced. A second later, Rick re-emerged into view, now holding a steaming mug in front of his bare chest. It didn’t make him any less attractive, unfortunately. Quite the opposite.

  “Anyway,” I went on, talking to try and distract myself from more glances at that bare chest, those muscled abs, “I’m here because I’m just waiting on job applications, and my severance check, and my insurance payment...” I sighed, my voice trailing off. “Basically, I’m just stuck waiting, and it’s far more frustrating than I imagined it would be.”

  “Sounds like a real hassle,” he agreed, settling himself into the armchair next to the sofa where I’d plopped myself down. “Having nothing to do. You know, I bet I could find some way to distract you for a bit.”

  I raised an arched eyebrow. “How’s that?”

  He just grinned at me, making no effort to conceal his gaze. I hadn’t yet changed out of my jogging outfit, although I’d shed the heavy sweatshirt. I felt his eyes linger on my sports bra, even though I didn’t have much to speak of hidden away inside.

  “You’re disgusting.” I threw another one of the sofa pillows at him, a blow he easily fended off with his free hand, without spilling a drop of his coffee.

  “Just saying, it could be a good distraction.”

  “Sure, but what will I do after the first thirty seconds?”

  He laughed. “That one would hurt, if I hadn’t already received so many compliments on my abilities from other women.”

  “Bragging about what a man-slut you are,” I groaned. “Yes, that’s definitely the way to turn me on.”

  “Doesn’t get me too many complaints from other ladies.”

  “Let me guess.” I turned to face him, lacing my fingers in front of me. “You probably meet most of them at the bar.”

  “Yup,” he said, smiling like he was proud of this.

  “They’re probably just turned twenty-one, and several drinks in already by the time you show up,” I continued. “You’re enticing to them because they like the idea of having an older man, basically a sugar daddy to pay for their drinks in exchange for getting to recapture some of his own squandered youth. But they don’t stick around long, once they realize that you’re not going to be paying for much beyond the drinks.”

  His smile faded. “Now you’re just getting mean.”

  “Am I wrong, though?”

  He coughed, broke eye contact as he took a drink of coffee. “Maybe you need a hobby,” he said, wincing a little at the hot liquid on his tongue. “That could give you something to do, so you aren’t sitting around here and insulting me all the time.”

  I decided to let the awkward conversational topic change slide without remark. “A hobby like woodworking?”

  “Worked for me. I could give you a couple tips if you wanted, a few scraps from my workshop for you to use.”

  I shook my head. “Never really been much into arts and crafts, I’m afraid. No creative bone in my body.” I saw him start to grin at the word ‘bone’, so I hurried on. “But I have been looking up you and your work.”

  “Oh, not this again,” he grimaced, but I kept talking.

  “I took a trip over to that art gallery that you mentioned, saw your work there,” I went on. “It’s really good, even better than some of the pieces around here. You’re very gifted, I can tell.”

  “Thanks.” He guardedly accepted the compliment.

  “But,” I kept going, “you’re not online at all. Aside from selling pieces to people who wander through the art gallery, how do you end up selling anything?”

  “I have some contacts,” he allowed. “Contractors reach out to me. And I go to the art fairs, too, don’t forget about those.”

  “I remember,” I assured him. “But come on! You could be reaching so many more people, could be building a brand, a strategy, the whole nine yards! You’re still treating this like a hobby, instead of like a real business!”

  “And let me guess,” he finally spoke up. “That’s what you want to do.”

  I shook my head. “No. That’s what I do – or at least, that’s what I did. For a living. And I got paid a lot of money to do so.”

  “But you still ended up stuck here with me,” he said.

  I stuck out my tongue at him. “Extreme circumstances. Don’t make me throw another cushion at you.”

  “Perish the thought, such torture.” He took another long sip of coffee, his eyes still on me.

  I waited. The silence stretched out, but this really wasn’t any different than a negotiation, was it? Whether I was bargaining to land better supplier deals or Rick’s approval to meddle with his all but nonexistent brand, it all came down to who would be the better negotiator at the table.

  I still wasn’t a hundred percent sure why I’d chosen to focus so heavily on Rick and his business – except that I still felt hurt, still felt a bit like a failure after getting fired from my last job. I told myself over and over that it wasn’t because of anything I’d done, that the higher-ups at Integrated Technologies had been morons to lose me, but I still felt like my confidence was shaken. If I could show any sort of improvement for Rick, for another business, maybe I could recapture some of my lost self-confidence.

  And besides, I’d sent my resume and contact information out to everyone at the big companies in the area that might be interested in hiring me. I knew that the process could take weeks to months. What else did I have to fill my empty hours?

  Finally, Rick sighed, a loud sound. “Let me think about it,” he said.

  I wasn’t going to settle for that. “When can I expect an answer?”

  He threw up his free hand, the one not holding the coffee mug. “You’re impossible, you know that?” He glared over at me. “If you weren’t hot, I’d be throwing you out of my house right now.”

  I just looked back, a little uncertain whether to take that as a compliment or an insult.

  “Dinner,” he said. “Help me with dinner tonight. I’ll make a decision afterwards.”

  “Deal.” I stood up as well, lifting my hands over my head and stretching up on my tiptoes. “And now
, I think I need to take a nice, hot shower, wash off some of the sweat from my morning run.”

  I heard a little strangled sound in Rick’s throat as I walked past him, and I made sure to put an extra little roll in my hips as I passed him, brushing up against him as I headed upstairs to the bathroom.

  I had no intention of sleeping with him, of course. He was a rude, boorish guy who seemed to be barely more than a perpetual man-child. No matter how nice his chest and abs looked, no matter what outline I saw through his thin pajama bottoms, I wasn’t going to let myself be degraded by... that.

  Still, it was quite fun to tease him, and it gave me quite the nice image as I peeled off my outfit and stepped into the shower.

  Chapter Eleven

  Eileen

  * * *

  “Are you a good cook?” Rick asked me that evening as I joined him in the kitchen.

  I shook my head, thinking of the sorry state of my own pantry and kitchen in my own house before it had burned down. “I tend to just eat things that I can grab on the go, or have the instructions printed on the box.”

  “What? Really? That’s not even food!”

  “It’s not like my job left me a ton of time to cook some stew for hours, or roast entire chickens, or whatever else cooks do!” I retorted. “And I made enough to just order whatever I wanted – no hassle beforehand, no messy kitchen to clean up afterwards.”

  He shook his head. “Awful. A woman who can’t cook. Only other value is-”

  I shook a warning finger at him. “That sounds like you’re about to finish with a sexist joke. Keep it to yourself, please.”

  “Fine – but it was a funny one,” he said, and although his face stayed serious, I saw the twinkle of laughter in his eyes. “Anyway, is there anything you don’t eat?”

  I shrugged. I knew that I didn’t have the best diet, given the level of take-out or frozen and reheated food that made up most of my meals, but I told myself that my workout sessions helped to cancel out some of the potential damage to my body. “Not really.”