Chapter 26: The Workshop Sanctuary
The silence after her wailed confession stretched for only a second, but to Lily-Anne, it felt like a chasm opening beneath her. Then his voice came, not sharp, but solid—a rope thrown across the gap.
“Okay. Breathe. Where are you, sweetheart?”
The pet name, effortless and calm, unraveled another knot in her chest. “W-work. In my car. In the alley.” The words tumbled out between hitching breaths. “She was so mean, Marcus. And my tag is so itchy and… and all the books fell and I’m…” A fresh sob cut her off. She squeezed her eyes shut, the world reduced to the smell of old upholstery and her own salt tears.
“Look at me, Lily-Anne.” His voice was a quiet command through the speaker. “Well, not at me. Look at something. Tell me five things you can see. Right now.”
The request was so specific, so grounding, it cut through the panic. She lifted her head, vision swimming. “I see… the steering wheel. The rain on the windshield. My satchel. The... the fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror. A crack in the dash.”
“Good. Four things you can feel.”
She sniffled, focusing. “The… the itchy tag. The seatbelt. My bunny sock in my hand. The cold air from the vent.”
“Three things you can hear.”
“Your voice. The car engine. My… my breathing.” It was already slowing, becoming less ragged. He was pulling her back, piece by piece.
“Good girl. You’re doing so well. I’m getting in my truck now. I’m coming to you. Stay on the line with me.”
She heard the jingle of keys, the groan of a heavy door, the roar of an engine that sounded much bigger and more reliable than her own. The sounds of him in motion were a balm.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked, his voice calm but with an undercurrent she now recognized as carefully controlled intensity. “Just the facts.”
She haltingly described the customer, the words that felt like slaps, the unbearable buildup of the day. She left out the part about the woman calling her a child, the secret shame of it. But he seemed to hear it anyway.
“She made you feel small,” he stated, his voice low. It wasn’t a question. The truck rumbled around a corner. “And not in the good way.”
Lily-Anne hiccupped, fresh tears welling. “Yes.”
“Listen to me.” His tone shifted, becoming even more grounded, impossibly firm. “That woman’s unhappiness is not your burden. Her cruelty is a reflection of her, not you. You did nothing wrong.”
She wanted to believe him. She curled her fingers tighter around the bunny sock in her satchel.
“I’m two minutes away,” he said. “Unlock your doors, baby girl. Then just sit. I’ve got you.”
The term of endearment, so deliberate this time, swept through her. Baby girl. She fumbled for the lock button, hearing the thunk of all four doors. She watched the mouth of the alley, a rectangle of grey light and flickering neon. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird, but it was no longer pure terror. It was anticipation. Dread mixed with a desperate, soaring hope.
A large, battered Ford truck, the colour of charcoal, nosed into the alley. It moved slowly, deliberately, its headlights washing over the wet cobblestones. It stopped behind her car. The driver’s door opened.
Marcus. He was in faded jeans and a worn flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, faint traces of sawdust clinging to the fabric. His face was set in lines of stark concern, his eyes scanning the alley, her car, her face through the glass, all in one swift, protective arc. He walked with a purposeful stride that was both quick and measured.
He appeared at her window. She stared up at him, her face a mess of tear tracks and smudged eyeliner. He didn’t smile. His gaze was a deep, soaking warmth. He tapped the window gently with a knuckle.
She undid her seatbelt and opened the door.
The cool, damp air rushed in. He didn’t pull her out. He simply leaned down, bracing one hand on the roof of her car, and looked at her. He took in everything: the wrinkled dress, the white-knuckle grip on her satchel, the shattered look in her green eyes.
“Hey,” he said softly.
That one word broke the last dam. A small, wounded sound escaped her, and she leaned forward, collapsing against his chest. She was past thought, past propriety. He smelled of pine sawdust, clean sweat, and safety.
His arms came around her immediately, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other a solid band across her back. He held her as she shook, absorbing the tremors. He didn’t shush her or tell her it was okay. He just let her fall apart against him, his own breath a steady rhythm against her hair.
When the storm of tears subsided into hiccuping whispers, he spoke, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “We’re gonna go to my workshop. It’s quiet there. Nothing will fall. Nothing will be itchy. And no mean people are allowed. Okay?”
She nodded against his flannel, the fabric soft beneath her cheek.
“Can you walk with me?”
She nodded again. He helped her out of the car, keeping a hand on her elbow as she swayed on her feet. He reached into her backseat, grabbed the oversized cardigan she kept there, and draped it over her shoulders. The gesture was so mundane, so thoughtful, it made her eyes well up all over again.
He led her to the passenger side of his truck, opened the door, and helped her up into the high seat. He leaned across her to buckle the seatbelt, his proximity overwhelming and comforting all at once. He clicked the buckle into place, his fingers brushing her side, and then he paused, looking into her eyes.
“We’re safe now,” he said, the words a simple, undeniable statement.
He closed her door, secured her car, and climbed into the driver’s side. The truck’s interior was clean, organized, smelling slightly of oil and wood polish. He didn’t turn on the radio. The only sound was the engine and her uneven breathing.
They drove through the damp streets in silence. He didn’t ask more questions. He just let the quiet settle around them, a cocoon of his making. Lily-Anne watched the city blur past, her fingers finding the bunny sock in her bag, rubbing the worn terrycloth between her thumb and forefinger.
He pulled into a converted warehouse district, stopping beside a large garage door. He unlocked a pedestrian entrance and led her inside, flicking on lights.
The workshop welcomed her. It was exactly as he’d described: a haven of calm, half-born things. The air was warm and smelled of raw wood and beeswax. A forgotten cup of tea sat on a workbench beside a carefully carved wooden duck. In the corner, the rocking horse watched with one painted eye.
“Sit here,” he said, guiding her to a worn, butter-soft leather armchair tucked in a nook, piled with a faded quilt. She sank into it, the quilt enveloping her.
He moved to a small sink in the corner, running water, the sound domestic and soothing. He returned with a glass of water and a clean, damp cloth. “Drink.”
She took small sips. He knelt in front of her, his knees popping softly, and with a tenderness that stole her breath, he took the cloth and began to wipe the tear streaks from her cheeks. His touch was firm, gentle, and utterly focused. He cleaned her face as if it were the most important task in the world.
“The tag,” she whispered, the grievance suddenly resurfacing.
“Where?”
She turned her head, exposing the nape of her neck. He found the offending plastic stub, peeking from the floral cotton. With a deft pinch, he tore it right off, the tiny rip loud in the quiet. He discarded the fragment onto his workbench.
“Gone,” he said.
A shudder of relief went through her. Such a small thing. Such an enormous thing.
He stayed kneeling, resting his hands on his thighs, just looking at her. The fierce protectiveness had softened into something deeper, more contemplative. He saw the bunny sock clutched in her hand.
“You brought your friend,” he observed, a hint of a smile touching his eyes.
She held it up, a tiny, sad flag. “His name is Bounce. I only have his sock. He’s at home.”
Marcus nodded slowly, as if this made perfect sense. “Bounce’s sock is a very important thing. Would you like his sock, or would you like something else to hold for a bit?”
The question unlocked a door inside her she’d kept bolted for years. The choice. He was giving her a choice, in this state, about what her comfort looked like.
Her gaze flickered past him to the shelf of mismatched stuffed animals. A plush fox with one ear perpetually tilted forward seemed to look back at her.
She pointed a trembling finger. “The fox?”
Without a word, Marcus rose, retrieved the fox, and placed it in her arms. It was soft, clearly well-loved by many hands before hers. She buried her face in its fur. It smelled like dust and possibility.
Marcus pulled a low stool over and sat facing her, his presence a steady anchor. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble in the warm room. “You can be as little as you need to be. No one is watching. No one is judging. There’s no right way. There’s just you.”
He leaned back, picking up a piece of sandpaper and a small, rough block of wood from his bench. He began to smooth the edges, the rhythmic swish-swish-swish filling the space. It was a sound with no demands. A sound that said he was staying. He was working, he was present, and she could simply exist.
Lily-Anne held the fox, her fingers tracing its lopsided ear. She watched Marcus’s hands, the careful, sure movements. The last tight coil of anxiety in her spine began, slowly, to unwind. The workshop held her. The sound held her. He held her, without even touching her.
A deep, weary sigh escaped her, and she let her head fall back against the chair. For the first time all day, her mind grew quiet. The static faded. She was in the dim, warm room, with the swish-swish-swish, and the man who had come when she’d cried a word she’d never dared say aloud.
She brought the fox’s ear to her cheek and closed her eyes. Just for a minute. Just to rest.