Page 17
He stood alone in the center of his shop, his hands resting on the edge of the workbench, watching the morning light move slowly across the dusty floorboards.
Three hard knocks echoed across the timber shop door, the sound sharp and sudden in the room. Ben jolted, then he set his wood rasp down on the pine bench, taking a rag from his pocket to wipe the red cedar dust off his hands. He frowned at the thick oak door, assuming it was a fisherman checking on a boat hull, or a delivery driver from the hardware store.
Ben walked across the shop floor and unlatched the iron bar. When he pulled the door open, the cold harbor wind swept into the warm shop. Standing on the porch, her dark coat buttoned tight to her throat against the ocean draft, was Maggie.
She held a leather folder beneath her arm, along with a small wooden star ornament tied with a bright red ribbon. Her dark hair was tucked neatly under a cream knit hat, her cheeks flushed pink from the wind. Her eyes were clear and steady as she looked up at Ben.
“Good morning,” Maggie said, her voice calm and even against the breeze.
“Morning,” he greeted her back.
Ben stood on the threshold, his hand lingering on the iron handle. A sharp wave of caution tightened behind his ribs. After the emotional exposure in Harbor Square on Saturday, and his failure at facing the past head-on with the little wooden cardinal, seeing Maggie standing on his porch felt like an intrusion he wasn’t prepared to handle.
“If you’re dropping off more bakery rolls, Theo is at school,” Ben said, keeping his tone polite but firm, his broad frame blocking the doorway.
“I’m not here with treats,” Maggie replied, holding up her folder. “I’m here on official business for the Christmas Wish Society.”
Ben pulled his brows together in a deep frown. “The Society doesn’t have any business with my shop.”
“We do now,” Maggie said, stepping forward so he was forced to either open the door wider or stand directly in her path. “And it’s cold out here on the harbor.”
“Sorry.” Ben hesitated, his jaw clenching as he tried to find a way out of this visit, but his long-ingrained manners won out. He stepped back into the room, swinging the shop door open. “Come inside,” he bit out.
Maggie stepped over the threshold, the storm latch clicking shut behind her. She paused near the potbelly stove, drawing a slow breath as the rich scent of warm cedar, pine resin, and woodsmoke wrapped around her. She looked around the neat shop, taking in the long timber benches, the eighteen-foot wooden dory mounted on heavy horses near the center, and the rows of hand tools hanging in precise order along the wall racks.
Her gaze passed over the main workbench along the north wall. Right beside the bench vise, resting near the edge of the pine top, sat the flannel bundle.
Ben noticed her glance immediately. He moved quickly across the floor, his broad shoulders blocking her view of the bench as he picked up an official order sheet from a clipboard.
“What kind of business are you here to discuss?” Ben asked, setting his hands flat on the wooden bench top and looking directly at her.
Maggie opened her folder, pulling out an official committee requisition sheet printed with the town seal. She set the paper on the bench near his hand, placing the small wooden star ornament beside it.
“The Mistletoe Market opens in Harbor Square one week from today, the first Monday in December,” Maggie explained, her voice professional and businesslike. “The committee needs twenty-four hand-carved wooden ornaments for the main display booth. Twelve star ornaments and twelve harbor dories. The Christmas Wish Society wants to place a formal purchase order with Foster Woodworks.”
Ben’s eyes swept over the paper, scanning the neatly typed columns, the itemized quantities, and the standard town payment voucher attached to the bottom. A bitter, defensive heat rose in his chest, making his collar feel tight.
He pushed the paper back toward her, his jaw set in a hard, unyielding line. “I don’t take craft orders.”
“It’s not a craft order,” Maggie said smoothly. “It’s a commercial purchase order. The town pays thirty dollars per ornament, which is the standard market rate for hand-carved white pine.”
“I repair working fishing boats,” Ben said, his voice hardening into a low growl. He knew exactly what this was really about. “I don’t make trinkets for holiday booths, and I certainly don’t need the town council inventing fake jobs because they think I need a handout.”
Maggie didn’t flinch. She didn’t back away or offer a timid apology. She stood her ground, her blue eyes fixing on his with an intense, unyielding clarity that caught him completely off guard.
“Nobody’s offering you a handout,” Maggie stated, her tone sharp and entirely devoid of pity. If anything, it held a hint of annoyance. “And nobody invented a job. The committee buys ornaments from local woodworkers each November. We usually buy them from the shop in South Harbor, but their woodcarver retired in October.”
“Find another carver,” Ben snapped, turning his back to her to grab his wood rasp.
“I don’t want another carver.” Maggie’s voice rose just enough to command absolute attention in the room. “I want the best woodworker in Cranberry Cove. But if your pride is too fragile to accept a legitimate business contract, that’s your choice.”
Ben turned around slowly, his chest heaving under his canvas apron as he tried to get ahold of his anger. “My pride has nothing to do with this.”
“It has everything to do with this,” Maggie countered fiercely, stepping closer to the bench. “You’re hiding in this shop behind locked doors and timber piles because you’re terrified that if you let anyone in, they’ll see how much you’re hurting. I don’t pity you, Ben. I know how heavy grief is, and I know how easy it is to build a wall and call it self-reliance.”
Ben stared at her, his throat tight, his fingers locked around the handle of his rasp so hard his knuckles turned white. Nobody had talked to him like this since Ruth used to get after him. Everyone else in town tiptoed around him, speaking in hushed, careful tones as if he might break.
“You’re allowed to hide in the dark if you want to,” Maggie continued, a gentler edge to her voice, though her gaze remained hard. “You’re a grown man, and nobody can force you out of this shop. But you aren’t the only one living in your house. A seven-year-old child is watching the person he looks up to most vanish a little bit more every single day.”
