Chapter 24: The Daisy Painted
The wooden daisy lived on her nightstand for a week. Every morning, Lily-Anne would run a finger over its smooth petals before getting out of bed. It was a promise, a quiet secret she carried with her through her shifts at the bookstore, where the dusty smell of old paper now seemed dull compared to the memory of fresh sawdust.
The day of the workshop visit arrived with a nervous flutter in her stomach. She’d texted him the night before, a simple ‘Is tomorrow still okay?’ He’d replied with a picture of a row of tiny paint jars lined up on his work desk, the lids bright spots of color in the dim workshop light. No words. Just the image. It had been enough.
Now, standing outside the open warehouse door, she clutched her satchel. The bunny sock was inside, a habitual touchstone. She took a steadying breath and walked in.
The space was different today. The major power tools were silent. Soft, melodic folk music drifted from a small speaker on a shelf. And at the central worktable, under a warmer, focused light, a clear space had been prepared. The daisy sat centered on a sheet of newspaper, surrounded by the little jars of paint, a cup of water, and two fine-bristled brushes.
Marcus was at the far wall, sanding the edge of a large picture frame with long, careful strokes. He wore a grey henley, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He saw her and nodded, not stopping his rhythm. “Hey. Everything’s set up for you. I’ve just got to finish this edge.”
His casual delivery was a gift. It wasn’t a big production. It was just… something to do. Here. With him nearby.
She slid her satchel onto a stool and approached the table. The paints were acrylic, in shades of lemon yellow, buttermilk, seafoam green. There was even a tiny pot of something that looked like gold. She picked up one brush, testing the weight of it.
For a while, the only sounds were the whisper of his sandpaper, the distant music, and the hum of the open door. She opened the yellow jar, its pop startlingly loud. Dipping the brush, she touched it to the center of the daisy. The color bloomed on the pale wood, vibrant and alive.
A focus settled over her, a quieting of the usual mental noise. She filled in the circular center, her strokes meticulous. Then she moved to the petals. She chose the buttermilk, a soft, creamy white.
Without realizing it, she began to hum. A tuneless, quiet thing, something from deep in her childhood memory. Her tongue peeked out between her lips as she guided the brush along a petal’s curve, careful not to let the colors bleed.
“You missed a spot,” she whispered to the daisy in a soft, high-pitched voice she didn’t recognize as her own. “Right there. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”
She didn’t hear the sanding stop. She was absorbed in the tiny world of pigment and wood.
Marcus watched from his station, his hands still. He saw the change in her posture, the slight rounding of her shoulders, the innocent concentration on her face. The humming. The gentle chiding of an inanimate object. It wasn’t a performance. It was a leak, a slow, natural seepage of a self she usually kept bottled tight. A fond, profound ache spread through his chest. He stayed perfectly still, not wanting to shatter the moment.
Lily-Anne moved on to the green for the stem. She dipped, painted, her movements gaining a slight, childlike clumsiness, a lack of self-consciousness. The critic in her head was silent. There was just the daisy, the paint, and the safe, enveloping atmosphere of the workshop.
Finally, she set the brush down. She blew on the daisy gently, then held it up at arm’s length, turning it in the light. A shy, proud grin spread across her face. It was imperfect. The yellow had a tiny fingerprint smudge at the edge. The stem was a little wobbly. It was perfect.
She turned, seeking him without thought.
He was already there, leaning against the table a few feet away, his arms crossed. A gentle smile played on his lips, but his eyes were serious, warm.
“Look,” she said, her voice still hovering in that lighter register. She presented it to him like a treasure.
He pushed off the table and came closer. He took the daisy from her fingers, his rough skin brushing hers. He examined it with the same careful attention he gave a dovetail joint. He turned it over. Studied the petals. Nodded slowly.
“The color choices are excellent,” he said, his voice a low, respectful rumble. “Very thoughtful. And you stayed in the lines remarkably well.”
Praise, direct and unflowery, warmed her from the inside out.
He walked over to the locked cabinet, the one with the toys. This time, from a shelf below it, he retrieved a small, unfinished wooden box. He brought it to the table, opened the lid. Inside was a lining of deep blue velvet, slightly worn in one corner.
With deliberate care, he placed the painted daisy into the box. It nestled into the fabric, a burst of soft color against the dark blue.
“For your collection,” he said, closing the lid and handing the box to her. It was solid, smooth. “First daisy. Many more to come.”
She held the box, the weight of it meaningful in her palms. It wasn’t just a place for a toy. It was an acknowledgment. A testament. He had seen her little self emerge, fragile and real, and his response was to give it a home.
The enormity of it tightened her throat. She looked from the box to his face, her green eyes wide and shimmering.
“I…” Words failed. She hugged the box to her chest.
“I know,” he said simply. He reached out and brushed a stray fleck of dried yellow paint from the back of her hand with his thumb. The touch was fleeting, electric. “You hungry? I was gonna order a pizza. They have one with extra cheese and those little pepperoni cubes.”
It was the perfect pivot. Practical. Grounding. An invitation into a shared, ordinary moment.
She nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “That sounds good.”
“Go wash your hands. Sink’s in the back. I’ll call it in.”
She took her box and her satchel and walked toward the small bathroom, her mind quieter than it had been in years. In the mirror, she saw a smudge of yellow on her cheek. She smiled at her reflection, leaving it there for a minute before washing it away.