Page 2

“Yeah, bookmatched.” Now there was definite interest in his voice. “The grain mirrors from the center line. Most people don’t notice.”

“Most people don’t know to look.” I found myself standing closer to Nico than I’d intended, close enough to notice the fine dusting of shavings in his dark hair. “My grandmother always said you could tell everything about a craftsman from how they treated their wood.”

“And what does this tell you?”

The question was quiet, almost challenging. I had to tilt my head down slightly to meet Nico’s eyes. The Christmas music, the smell of wood, and the warm pool of light from the lamps created a comfortable, almost magical, setting.

“That you respect it. That you’re not in a hurry. That you care more about getting it right than getting it done.”

Surprise, or maybe recognition, flashed across Nico’s features. He reached past me to a shelf lined with wood samples. Our shoulders brushed as he selected a small piece of the same cherry.

“Here,” Nico said, holding out the sample. “Feel the difference.”

I took the piece, our fingers brushing in the exchange, and an unexpected jolt of awareness shot up my arm. From Nico’s sharp intake of breath, I knew I wasn’t the only one who’d felt it. The wood was smooth as glass under my thumb.

“It’s perfect,” I said in a whisper.

We stood there for a moment, the sample piece warm between my fingers. The Christmas music shifted to a quartet playing “Joy to the World.”

Then Nico stepped back, breaking the spell. “What else did your grandmother teach you?” He fixed me with a quizzical expression.

“She had a workshop in her barn. She taught me the basics when I was a kid. Because of her, I don’t want to be a man cave kind of guy.” I paused for a beat before I added, “Except for the big TV. There has to be a big TV.”

“Of course there does.” Nico’s voice was all professional now. “What exactly are you looking for?”

I forced myself to focus on the question. But part of my attention stayed on the way Nico moved gracefully around the workshop.

“A dining table that seats eight. And a bookshelf for the living room.” I paused, then added, “A bed frame, eventually. King size.”

“Eventually?”

“I just bought the house,” I explained. “First time I’ve had a no-trade clause. I figured it was time to stop living like I might have to move on short notice. I want furniture that’ll last.”

Nico nodded and hummed what sounded like approval. “Good furniture is an investment. Pieces you build a life around.”

“Exactly.” I leaned against the workbench, settling in despite Nico’s earlier declaration that they were closed. “The few things in my house right now came from a furniture store website. It’s fine, but it’s not... It doesn’t feel like home, you know?”

“Wood has memory.” Nico ran his palm along the surface of the table he’d been working on. “It remembers the tree it came from, the hands that shaped it. Good furniture becomes part of your story.”

The way he said it, quiet and matter-of-fact, could have come straight out of Nana’s mouth. I hadn’t expected to run into her memory in a stranger’s shop. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Since I was eight.” Nico moved to the tool wall, where an impressive collection of hand planes and chisels hung in perfect order. “My grandfather was a master craftsman in Russia. He taught me before we came to America.”

Talking about his grandfather brought out a slight accent where his consonants went a little soft. It wasn’t as pronounced as the Russian hockey player on that streaming series about the two rivals. Did it ever get that strong? What other topics brought out his accent? Those thoughts were best kept to myself.

“He taught you well.”

Nico’s smile was small but genuine. “He would have liked that compliment. He always said that American woodworkers were too eager, too impatient. That there’s a rush to the finish without respecting the process.”

No wonder he’d seemed to like what I’d said before. “And what about you?”

Nico turned back to face me. “I think that most Americans want furniture fast and cheap. They don’t understand that good work takes time.”

I nodded. That same current from when our fingers brushed was back, humming in the space between us. Nico studied me, and I made myself hold still and let him.

“I could do the dining table first,” Nico said finally. “Cherry, like this one, but bigger. Eight chairs to match. It would take about three weeks, maybe four with the holiday rush. It probably wouldn’t be done by Christmas.”

“That’s fine.” I pulled out my phone. “What do you need from me? Measurements? Deposit?”