Chapter 8: The Workshop Door
The warm, honeyed light of late afternoon slanted through the high workshop windows, catching motes of sawdust that danced like gold dust in the air. Lily-Anne watched them, her chin propped in her hand, the edge of the rough-hewn workbench solid beneath her elbow. She felt still. The frantic, hummingbird anxiety that usually lived in her chest was quiet, replaced by the rhythmic sound of Marcus’s brush moving along the grain of the oak.
“The trick is to follow the tree’s story,” he said, his voice a low rumble that fit the space. He didn’t look up from his work, his focus absolute on the curve of the rocking horse’s neck. “It grew in rings. You go with them, not against.”
She nodded, though he couldn’t see it. The stain was a rich, maple brown, deepening the natural patterns in the wood. It looked like something from a storybook already. “Your niece is lucky.”
“She’s four. She’ll probably color on it with marker in a week.” He smiled, a small crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Which is fine. It’s hers. Things should show they’re loved.”
The statement hung there, simple and profound. Lily-Anne’s fingers traced a whorl in the wood of the bench. Her own things were kept pristine, untouched, as if protecting them from the wear of her own affection. The thought made her feel strangely sad.
“More tea?” he asked, setting the brush across the top of the can.
“Yes, please.”
He moved to the small, makeshift kitchen area—a kettle on a hotplate, two mismatched mugs. She watched the easy way he occupied his body, the certainty of each motion. No wasted energy. It was calming.
“So, the bookstore,” he said over the sound of the boiling kettle. “You like it?”
“I do. It’s quiet. The books don’t expect anything.” She winced internally. Way to sound like a hermit, Lily-Anne. “I mean, it’s peaceful. I get to organize the fiction section by mood, not alphabet. Which my boss thinks is chaos, but he humors me.”
Marcus chuckled, pouring the water. “By mood? What mood is today?”
She accepted the steaming mug. “Today feels… worn velvet. Slightly mysterious, comfortable, a little bit sad but in a nice way.”
He leaned back against a cabinet, considering her. “That’s specific. I like it.” He took a sip from his own mug. “This place is pine sol and anxiety. With a top note of hope.”
Her eyes flew to his. He said it so matter-of-factly, but the word ‘anxiety’ landed in the quiet space between them. He wasn’t looking at her with pity, just stating a fact, like the type of wood he was using.
“You get anxious?” The question was out before she could stop it.
“Everybody does. Mine’s quieter now. Used to be louder. The tools help. The making of a solid thing.” He shrugged. “It’s a process.”
She looked down into her tea. Her own process involved hiding socks in bags and staring at phone screens until her vision blurred. “I’m… I’m not very good at it yet. The process.”
“You showed up here,” he said simply. “That’s a step. A brave one.”
The praise was so direct, so unadorned, it felt like a physical warmth spreading through her chest. She didn’t know what to do with it, so she took a too-hot gulp of tea, the bitterness scalding her tongue.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was filled with the settling sounds of the building, a distant door closing, the soft tick of cooling wood. She found her eyes drifting back to the rocking horse, to the patient, careful hands that had shaped it.
“Can I ask you something?” Her voice was small.
“Always.”
“The other night… at the club. You said you don’t usually approach new people. Why did you? Approach me, I mean.”
He was quiet for a long moment, turning his mug in his hands. “You looked like you’d rather be anywhere else. And yet you stayed. You kept stepping forward, even though every part of you wanted to run. I’ve felt that. I respect it.” He met her gaze, his own steady and clear. “And you had this… this ferocious quiet about you. Like a held breath. I just wanted to see if you might exhale.”
Tears, sudden and hot, pricked at the back of her eyes. She blinked them away fiercely, staring at a knot in the floorboard. No one had ever described her like that. Seen her nervous terror and called it ferocious. It was the kindest thing anyone had ever said to her.
“I think I am,” she whispered. “Exhaling, I mean.”
“Good.”
He pushed off from the cabinet. “Walk with me. I need to check on some lumber in the back.”
She followed him through the labyrinth of projects, past a towering bookshelf held together with clamps, around a canoe form that seemed to emerge from the shadows. The space felt less intimidating now, more like a living museum of his mind. In a back corner, under a draped tarp, he pulled back a canvas sheet to reveal stacks of wood, each stick separated by slender spacers.
“Walnut,” he said, running a hand over the dark, almost purple grain. “For a dining table. A family’s heirloom piece.”
She reached out, mimicking him. The wood was cool and silken under her fingertips. “It’s beautiful.”
When she pulled her hand back, she saw a smudge of the maple stain from the horse on her thumb. She must have touched the bench earlier. She looked at it, then at her clean sundress. A mark. Evidence of where she’d been.
Marcus saw it too. He took her hand, not possessively, but practically, turning her palm upward. His own hands were rough, calloused, marked with nicks and old scars and faint streaks of paint and varnish that never quite washed out.
“A souvenir,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly over the stained spot on her skin. The contact was brief, but it sent a shockwave of sensation up her arm—not entirely sexual, but profoundly felt. It was the touch of someone who knew how things were made, how they fit together.
He released her hand. “You’ve got a bit on your cheek, too.”
“Oh.” She lifted her hand, flustered.
“Here.” He took a clean rag from his back pocket, dampened a corner with his tongue. It was such a simple, domestic gesture. He held it out to her. “Or you can keep it. Tell people you’ve been battle-tested in a woodshop.”
A laugh bubbled out of her, surprising her with its ease. She took the rag and scrubbed at her cheek. “Thanks.”
The light was fading fast now, the amber gone, replaced by a deep blue gloom. He flipped a switch, and a single pendant lamp over the main workbench buzzed to life, casting a small pool of warm light in the vastness.
“I should let you go,” he said, but he made no move toward the door. “You have work tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Opens at ten.”
“Friday still good for the club?”
The question was casual, but the air shifted. This was the next step, the return to the defined space. Last time, it was a leap into the unknown. This time, it felt like meeting someone she knew, in a place she was beginning to recognize.
She thought of the sock in her satchel, still tucked away, untouched today. She hadn’t needed its secret reassurance. She’d had the real smell of wood, the real sound of his voice, the real smudge of stain on her skin.
“Yeah,” she said, and her voice didn’t waver. “Friday’s good.”
“Okay.” He smiled, and it reached his tired eyes fully this time. “I’ll see you there.”
He walked her to the heavy metal door, the one that had seemed so imposing a few hours ago. Now it was just a door. He pulled it open for her, the cool evening air rushing in, smelling of city and asphalt.
“Get home safe, Lily-Anne.”
“You too, Marcus.” She stepped out, then paused, turning back. He was framed in the light from the workshop, sawdust still in his dark hair. “Thank you. For the second opinion.”
“Anytime,” he said, and she knew he meant it.
The door closed with a soft, solid thud. She stood on the empty street for a moment, the hum of the city a distant soundtrack. She looked at the stain on her thumb, a tiny, warm brown mark against her skin. She didn’t try to rub it off.
She walked to the bus stop, her satchel swinging gently at her side. For the first time in a very long time, she felt neither entirely big nor desperately small. She just felt like herself, walking home under the streetlights, carrying a quiet, durable kind of hope inside her chest.