The Carpenter & the Queen

by Michelle Lashier

  “Are you gonna come, Mom?”

  “Just a little bit longer, okay? I’m almost finished.”

  After Sam dashed out of the room, Claire reached back into the box, pulling out other trinkets, books of postcards, and a framed photo. She set the other things aside and studied the photo. It had been taken back when she was in college, when she convinced Will to go to the Renaissance Fair with her while he was visiting her on leave.

  Getting her army boyfriend into a costume hadn’t been easy, but she had rented a crusader’s tunic and blunt sword for him, so at least he didn’t look like “a pansy in puffy pants” as he referred to the other men in renaissance garb. Claire had made her own dress in blue upholstery fabric that looked like brocade. The dress still hung in a back corner of her closet, although she doubted it would fit anymore. Her hair had still been long then, and she wore it straight down her back. On top of her hair sparkled a plastic tiara Will bought her.

  This photo had been taken at the end of the day as they left the fair. They posed in front of the wooden castle façade that held the ticket booth. Will had one hand on his sword, the other arm close to his chest since Claire had wound her hand around the inside of his elbow. They were looking at each other and laughing. She could still remember exactly what she had been thinking when the photo was taken: I found my knight in shining armor.

  Claire shook her head a little to clear it and distance herself from the emotions rushing to the surface. This photo had sat on her dresser all through their engagement, when she had imagined she was writing to the lord of a European castle, not to a lieutenant stationed in Germany. Poor Will. She hadn’t seen him for himself back then, only for what she wanted him to be. Marriage had cured her of many of her fairy tales. If she ever found someone new, she would be smarter this time, would see him for who he really was—flaws and all.

  Maybe this photo was what she needed to paint—an artist’s rendering of those two young people in love. But she wouldn’t romanticize it. She would paint the couple as they were. The woman’s face would be sunburned, her smile too wide. The man would look slightly annoyed and uncomfortable. While Claire would paint a real castle behind them, she wouldn’t make it look new. A few stones in the foreground would be loose, foreshadowing the future collapse of their happiness.

  Back in the box, only one bundle remained, and Claire remembered what it contained. Unrolling the paper, she held out her hand and caught the figurine. On the round base stood the painted resin figure of a woman in a blue medieval dress. Below her crown, her blond hair flowed down her back. Her hands clasped calmly, she looked placid, regal, and in absolute control.

  Claire stood the figure on her palm and held it out a bit to examine it. She remembered clearly the day Will had given it to her. She was six months pregnant with Sam and washing dishes at the kitchen sink when Will came up behind her and put his arms around her.

  “I have something for you,” he said.

  “Not another dirty dish, I hope.”

  He moved his closed fist in front of her and opened his fingers slowly to reveal a chess queen.

  “What’s this?” She reached for a towel to dry her hands.

  “I bought it this afternoon when I was coming home. Some captain was having a moving sale. Said his kids had already lost some of the pieces, so he was willing to sell them separately.”

  Claire took the piece and examined it. “She kind of looks like me.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “No matching king?”

  “Not this time.” Will kissed her. “I thought she was pretty enough to stand on her own.”

  Claire sighed, remembering the moment. She set the queen on her dresser, next to the jewelry box.

  “Mom!” Sam called from the living room. “Everything’s set up!”

  Rising reluctantly, Claire ran her index finger along the queen’s dress. She wasn’t that woman anymore, but she wanted to be.

  * * * * *

  After their afternoon errands, Claire drove back to Lindberg, mindful that suppertime was approaching. She didn’t feel like cooking. The trunk of her Honda Accord was loaded with cans of paint, some groceries, and tubes of acrylic paint she had bought, along with a new canvas. She was in the mood to get started tonight. If she cooked, that moment would be delayed by an hour or two. On a whim, she drove past their house into Lindberg.

  “Hey, we missed our road,” Sam protested.

  “Let’s get a pizza.”

  “Pizza Hut?”

  “No, they don’t have those here.”

  “Then where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She parallel parked the car in front of the pizza and video store on Main Street. The library was just on the corner of the next block, and Claire saw from the sign that they were still open. She should stop in and see if Francine was still there.

  She and Sam entered the pizza place. As they opened the door, Claire had a flash of the first time she had come here with Will. They had met accidentally at the ice cream stand the day after their first meeting and had agreed to meet for supper the next night. Claire’s grandma was wary but gave her permission to go, as long as she and Will didn’t go anywhere else. That freedom had been one of the many luxuries of spending a summer without Garrett to watch over her.

  The little pizza shop was tiny, only about ten feet wide, but it went back deep into the city block building. Right at the front was a counter and the small pizza kitchen. In the back was the video store. Two small tables with just enough room for two lined the wall opposite the counter. She and Will had sat there for an hour, eating pizza and laughing together in view of everyone who came in, but neither had cared.

  They had only been able to see each other two more times before he returned home. But those three dates were enough to establish a long-distance relationship that spanned the next six years of Claire’s life.

  When Claire and Sam entered the shop, Claire ordered a pizza. The wait was twenty minutes, which meant Claire had time to stop at the library. But before she did, she put her hand on Sam’s back and guided him to one of the tiny tables off to the side.

  “Your daddy and I had our first date here,” she said. “The decorations were different then.”

  “What kind of pizza did he like? I can’t remember.”

  “Pineapple and Canadian bacon.”

  Sam looked disappointed. “I like pepperoni.”

  “I know.” Claire tousled his hair. “You don’t have to like all the same things Daddy did. You can just be you.”

  She smiled goodbye to the girl behind the counter, then led Sam back out onto the street toward the library. As soon as she opened the library door, the smell of old books took her back to her childhood when the highlight of her day was a trip to the library after helping her grandma with chores.

  The first sound she heard was loud laughing. As they entered, she saw a woman with short blond hair behind the counter conversing with a man in a baseball jacket and cap leaning against the counter.

  “Then I says, ‘You bring some nose-pickin’ girlfriend to the Christmas table, girl? Whatcha thinking’?’”

  The woman laughed loudly. “That’s the best one you’ve told me in a while,” she said.

  Claire smiled as she pulled off her hat and gloves. Of course Francine was still there. How could she not be? The library had changed, though. It was still small, but now, past the fiction section in front were three computers off to the left in front of the reference room. The children’s section was in the back past the counter. She pushed Sam in front of her toward the back, smiling at the librarian.

  “Hi there,” the librarian said. “Can I help you find anything?”

  “You always could, Francine.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed as she studied Claire, then her face lit up.

  “Claire? Is that you?”

  “In the flesh.”

  Francine came around the counter and gave her a hug.

/>   “And this handsome young man,” Francine pointed to Sam, “is Will’s. I’m sure of it.”

  Claire nodded. “This is Sam. Sam, meet Francine. She’s been working at the library since I started visiting here a long time ago.”

  Francine waved her hand. “None of that history. Makes me seem too old.”

  The man at the counter, seeing he was no longer the center of Francine’s attention, slipped out with a mumbled goodbye.

  “It’s so good to see you, Claire. How long has it been?”

  “About nine years, I think. It was the summer Will’s mom remarried and we drove up to see his dad.”

  “I was so sorry to hear about Will. What was it, three—four years ago?”

  “Four.”

  Francine shook her head. “Such a shame. He and Luther patched things up, I hope. . .”

  “As much as they could. You know I’ve moved here now.”

  Francine’s mouth opened in surprise.

  “I’ve got Luther’s place.”

  “Well, isn’t that something.” Francine shook her.

  “We just ordered a pizza next door,” Claire explained, “and I wanted to come by while we waited, see if you still worked here.”

  “Twenty-five years now.” The proud glint in Francine’s eyes indicated she wasn’t as ashamed of the number as her tone suggested.

  “And you still enjoy it?”

  “As much as I enjoy anything. They’ve got me running all over, what with all the senior projects the school district’s requiring these days.”

  “I bet you love it.”

  Francine raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been short-handed for a while. One of my part-time girls is on maternity leave early. Mandatory bed rest at five months. Can you imagine? I hadn’t expected to lose her for three months yet.”

  “Are you going to hire a replacement?”

  “Yeah. With the economy as it is, there are loads of people looking for work. Not sure I want just anybody, though. I don’t have time to do a lot of training.”

  Until that moment, Claire wouldn’t have admitted to anyone, even to herself, that this opportunity was what she was hoping for.

  “You need someone who knows the ropes already.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You need me.”

  Francine and Sam both stared at Claire at the same time.

  “You aren’t working?” Francine asked.

  “I do some graphic design stuff online for the company I used to work for back in Detroit. But that’s freelance. I’m available when Sam’s at school.”

  “How soon could you start?”

  “Sam starts school tomorrow.”

  “Come in at eight. It will give me time to show you the ropes before we open at nine. It’s story hour tomorrow at ten, and I could use the help, especially with the craft. As I recall, you’re pretty artsy.”

  Claire grinned. “I think I can manage.”

  On the way home, the smell of hot pizza filling the car, Claire noticed Sam’s pouting face in the rear view mirror.

  “What is it, Sammy?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is it about the job?”

  He shrugged.

  “It’s not going to take me away from you, I promise. It may only last until Francine’s other worker gets back from having her baby. But we could use the extra money, especially if we’re going to fix up the house.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Are you mad because I took the job or because I didn’t tell you about it?”

  “The last one . . . kind of.”

  “You know, your father would have said exactly the same thing. He hated for me to make any decision without consulting him.”

  Sam didn’t respond.

  “I’m sorry that you’re angry, but this is something I want to do.”

  She looked through the mirror, hoping to see some sign of acquiescence. Instead, Sam stared out the window. Well, she wanted this job, and she was going to take it. If Claire wanted a future, she would have to make her own decisions, with or without her child’s approval.

  6

  Spring 1995, Chicago, Illinois

  It wasn’t even lunch time yet, and already Paul felt a little sick when he thought of his date with Linda. If he had his choice, they would be doing something much more low-key, such as going out to dinner then strolling through the park. Instead, they were attending a party for a new artist at the gallery where Linda worked.

  He frowned as he set the level on the floor of the kitchen he was working on. The framers could have saved him a lot of work if they had only made sure the walls were plumb and the floor level. But then, giving the customers what they wanted while working within the confines of others’ mistakes was something Paul excelled at. Too bad Linda’s parents couldn’t appreciate his talents. They looked down their noses at him because he worked with his hands and didn’t speak much. But Paul knew he said a lot, if someone was willing to read his work instead of his words.

  Last year, when he first met Linda at the bar, he had made a fool of himself, stumbling to say the right things to impress her. Still, when he clumsily asked for her number, she had given it to him. He called her the next night, and now, the relationship was cruising along with Linda at the helm. She organized dates, scheduled dinners, and talked enough for both of them. He was pretty sure he was in love with her, so he went along for the ride—content, certainly, but thoroughly and totally confused as to how he had ended up here.

  He had no strategy—at least, that’s what his father used to say when they played chess together. Paul had never been able to think out an entire game plan. He played move to move and lived his life the same way.

  Linda always had a strategy, and Linda always won. Just last week she had walked him by a jewelry shop window, pointed out a diamond ring and said, “That’s the one I want, when you’re ready—and I hope that’s soon.” She made things easy for him. He only had to do what she told him. To bring this dating game to completion, only one last move was required of him—buying the ring.

  But not tonight. Tonight he had to wear a tie and try to fit in with Linda’s friends. At eight o’clock, Paul, wearing his blue sport coat and a red tie, knocked on Linda’s door. He planned to leave his car in her driveway and the two of them take a taxi to the gallery. When she opened the door, her svelte figure clad in a little black dress and high heels awed him. A tantalizing smell of spicy perfume surrounded her. She drew him in, kissing him until he couldn’t remember his own name.

  “You look great,” he said finally.

  She smiled coyly. “Thanks. Let’s get you dressed, now.”

  “I am dressed.”

  “Like a flag. I got something better.”

  She pointed to a tuxedo hanging over the closet door. “I’ve always wanted to see how you’d look in one of these.”

  Paul changed begrudgingly, mostly because he wanted Linda to be happy. He looked like a fool. His ruddy face seemed out of place above the new ensemble. His rough hands, complete with a blackened left forefinger, hung awkwardly below the sleeves. He did not belong with the black-tie crowd.

  On the taxi ride, Linda talked the whole way, briefing him on who would be there, the artist, the artist’s work, and other information she thought he should know. He didn’t hear a word of it. She had lost him after the second sentence. To be fair, he was the one who had decided to tune her out, but it was so much easier to smile and nod (he instinctively knew the places such responses were required of him) and mentally zone out.

  He found her talking attractive. Of course, the way she looked when she talked was even more attractive. But the most important thing was that when Linda was talking, Paul didn’t have to say anything. So many times in his life Paul had lost out on something because he didn’t have the words. Marriage would change that. When words were needed, Linda would step in. Finally, he had found someone who would compensate for his many deficiencies.

  The party was what he expected�
�high-brow art types talking over his head. He remembered what his mother used to say, “Better to keep your mouth closed and have people think you a fool than to open it and have people know it.” It was good advice. So he smiled, shook hands when Linda introduced him, and said, “Pleased to meet you.” Then he let Linda talk.

  After Paul had met what felt like every person in the room, Linda touched his shoulder.

  “I’ve got to close a deal over here. Can you do without me for a minute?”

  “Go do your thing,” Paul said with a lopsided grin. “I’ll stay here and hold up a wall or something.”

  This was one of his only jokes.

  When she was swallowed by the crowd, Paul edged his way out of the main crush and roamed through one of the smaller rooms off to the side. The centerpiece of the room was a marble column with a piece of sheet metal suspended in front of it and thirteen small circular mirrors glued to the surface of the metal. According to the sign, it was named, Slicing Heart Willow Tree.

  Weird.

  The other sculptures were also modern and just as odd. Paul continued roaming around the room, dismissing the “mounds of garbage,” as he thought of them, until he came to a small display of plaster casts of body parts. Very strange. But what most caught his attention were the wooden shelves the pieces sat on. Maple, he decided, but the miter joints didn’t meet up exactly. The stain was uneven, and the polyurethane was streaked and at a ninety-degree angle to the grain. Shoddy workmanship if he ever saw it.

  “There you are,” Linda said, entering the room. “I see you’ve found the adult section of the display.”

  Paul looked at the sculpture in front of him, and realizing what body part it represented, blushed.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, darling. It’s art, after all.”

  “I was looking at the shelf.”

  “Right.”

  “Really. It’s very poor quality. Look.”

  Paul pointed out the imperfections he had seen then looked to Linda for her response.

  “You are the only one here who would notice that.” She didn’t sound pleased.