Page 11

“I’m glad it worked out,” I said.

“Me too.” Nico walked the work area he was setting up and ran his hands along the surface. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”

As I walked back to the house, Nico moved something across the floor behind me, the sounds of someone making himself at home.

Four

Nico

I rolled the sleeping bag tight, pushed it behind the stack of lumber, and jammed my pillow in after it. Everything was out of sight before the sun was fully up. Same as every morning since I’d moved in two days ago.

Four years over a bustling restaurant had trained me to sleep and work through noise. Jake’s carriage house was the opposite. No clatter of prep cooks, no delivery trucks rumbling past. Just me, my tools, and the kind of quiet I did my best work in.

My phone said 7:15. Jake mentioned he had a morning skate. Apparently, even on Saturdays, hockey players were expected to show up and practice. My grandfather would have approved. He always said skill demanded daily attention, whether or not you felt like giving it.

I pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a clean flannel, then crossed the cold yard to the main house. Jake had handed me a key after the move and told me to help myself to the bathroom and the kitchen. He’d assumed, and I hadn’t corrected him, that I drove home at night like a person with a home to drive to.

The night after the fire, I’d stayed at Nadya’s, in the sleeping bag she loaned me. She wasn’t thrilled I’d decided to try to squat here. But her place was already cramped, and bringing things from her studio only made it more so.

In the kitchen, I found a note next to the half-full coffeepot.

Help yourself. I made extra so you’d have some ready to go when you need it. - J

I filled my mug and carried it back out.

Yesterday was about getting things more settled. I also got varnish coats on pieces that needed them and worked with Jake on plans for his table. As I drank my coffee, I took it all in. Everything had its place, with my tools arranged as close as possible to the layout in my shop.

But there, in the corner, sat that tarp-covered mystery.

Since I’d moved in here, everything had been about logistics and getting back to work on the items that had deadlines. The cherry table for Sarah’s client wasn’t due until mid-January, so it waited its turn alongside the pre-Christmas items. But now, I was curious about what Jake had felt the need to hide.

I approached the corner slowly, telling myself I wanted to understand the space better. If we were going to share this workshop, I needed to know what I was working around.

A few pieces of scrap lumber held down the tarp, probably to keep it from shifting while we’d moved things in. I lifted one corner, just planning to take a quick peek.

The workbench was small but exquisitely crafted, built for precision work rather than large furniture. Hand tools hung on a pegboard in perfect order instead of the casual arrangement of a weekend hobbyist. This had to be his grandmother’s training. The deliberate organization of someone who understood that good tools deserved respect and proper care.

“Oh.” The word slipped out, barely above a whisper. The piece sitting in the center of the bench was stunning.

A jewelry box. Maple body with cherry inlay work that made me excited, the way examining any serious work did. The joinery was perfect—hand-cut dovetails at each corner that fit together without gaps. They met with the accuracy that only came from years of practice.

I set my coffee aside on one of the built-in counters and removed the tarp to reveal the full setup. The tool wall held treasures. Hand planes with wooden bodies worn smooth by decades of use. Chisels with handles shaped by patient work. Marking gauges that had probably been old when Jake’s grandmother was young.

These were inherited tools. Tools with history, with stories, with the patina that only comes from honest work passed down through generations.

“Jesus,” I breathed, running my fingers along the edge of the workbench.

Jake had given this up for me. This connection to his family, and a workspace that represented his learning and practice. He’d covered it with a tarp and offered me his space as if it were nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. This was everything.

The box was in two pieces, with the lid not yet attached. I picked up the lid and turned it. In the morning light from the adjacent windows, the cherry inlay wound through the maple like ornate calligraphy. The execution was flawless.

My grandfather would have recognized this kind of work immediately. Would have nodded at the respect for both material and tradition.

I was still holding it when Jake’s truck pulled into the driveway.