The compliment lands with unexpected weight. I'm used to praise for my craftsmanship, but something about the way she includes my heart makes it different.
"The community's lucky to have you," I say, meaning it. "Not everyone understands what children need from spaces like this."
"We make a good team," she replies, gathering her notes. "Your structure, my stories. It's going to be amazing."
As we wrap up the meeting, Molly pulls one last book from her stack. "This was my absolute favorite as a child. Still is, really." She hands me a well-worn copy ofThe Secret Garden.
"I've never read it," I admit.
"Never?" Her eyes widen in mock horror. "It's about a forgotten garden that comes back to life when children discover it. How spaces can heal people." She presses it into my hands. "Borrow it. For research purposes."
I accept the book, our fingers brushing. "Research," I repeat, unable to suppress a smile.
"I expect a full report at our next meeting," she says with playful seriousness.
As I drive back to the workshop, the book sits on the passenger seat beside me. I find myself glancing at it at stoplights, thinking about Molly's animated descriptions and thoughtful insights.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm eager to start a project. Not just for the craftsmanship challenge, but for the collaboration. For the chance to create something that matters in the way Grandpa's work always mattered.
And maybe, though I barely admit it to myself, for the chance to see Molly Harper's face light up when she sees her dreams taking shape in wood and imagination.
That night, instead of sketching or reviewing measurements, I sit in Grandpa's old reading chair and openThe Secret Garden. By the time I look up, it's past midnight, and I'm halfway through the story of locked doors, hidden keys, and places that wait patiently to be discovered.
CHAPTER FIVE
MOLLY
The library after closing hours feels like a different world. The usual bustle of patrons replaced by a hushed reverence, as if the books themselves are whispering to each other in the silence. I've always loved this time—when the building belongs just to me and the stories it holds.
Tonight, though, I'm not alone.
"A little higher on the left," Cal directs from below, his deep voice echoing in the empty children's section.
I stretch on tiptoe atop the ladder, paintbrush extended toward the ceiling. We're adding the finishing touches to the reading nook's canopy—a constellation of tiny stars that will twinkle with fiber optic lights when completed.
"Like this?" I dab another spot of luminescent paint.
"Perfect."
Two weeks into the project, and the reading nook is taking shape exactly as we'd imagined. The main structure—a magnificent oak tree with hollow spaces and reading pods—stands majestically in what was once an uninspiring corner. Cal has been working tirelessly, bringing incomponents from his workshop, assembling them on site with meticulous care.
I insisted on helping with the finishing touches. Partly because I'm too excited to stay away, but mostly because I've come to treasure these moments working alongside him.
"Last one," I announce, adding a final star to our miniature galaxy. "The Big Dipper is officially complete."
"Careful coming down." Cal moves closer to the ladder, one hand hovering near the small of my back as I descend.
I'm hyperaware of his presence—the woodsy scent of his aftershave, the steady reliability of his broad shoulders, the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners when I make him smile. It's becoming increasingly difficult to remember this is a professional relationship.
"What do you think?" I ask, stepping back to admire our handiwork.
The canopy stretches above the central reading area, midnight blue with constellations that will glow softly in the dim light. Below it, cushioned seating forms a perfect circle for storytime.
"It's good," Cal says, in that understated way of his.
I laugh. "Such effusive praise."
A hint of a smile tugs at his lips. "It's exceptional. The kids will love it."
