Page 59 of When You Saved Me

“Oh my gosh. Deacon!” Charlie moved through the space with her hand covering her mouth, eyes wide in awe. “This is incredible.”

I watched as she stopped at the mid-sized grandfather clock I’d been working on before her arrival. Her fingertips moved over the etched birds above where the glass clock would display. “Those little guys took me forever to get right.”

“I can imagine,” she breathed. “They’re so beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

As she wiped the wood dust from her fingertips, she looked back at me. “How long have you been doing this?”

Rubbing my chin with my hand, I thought back to the first time my dad bought me whittling tools for Christmas. “I was pretty young. Probably around the same age you startedgoing to art classes. My father always gifted my mother and I wood pieces for Christmas. He’d make jewelry boxes for her and wooden toys for me. When I got a little older, we’d work together in his shop. I mostly started with whittling.”

Reaching for the small frog on the shelf behind her, I handed the tiny trinket to her. She moved it over in her hands, assessing my work. I grasped the back of my neck, suddenly feeling nervous. “This was the first thing I ever made. The proportions are pretty awful, and his eyes are way too big, but I was proud of it back then.”

“As you should have been. Deacon, you have an incredible gift.”

She held my gaze for a moment before giving me the frog back and continuing to make her way around the larger pieces. Stopping at each one, I felt a sense of anxiety take hold wondering what she thought about them all. Her opinion mattered to me.

I cleared my throat. “When I got older, my dad showed me how to make furniture. That’s when I became obsessed. Most of the wooden pieces in my house I made.”

“The dining table?” she asked, voice excited.

“Yup.”

“The headboard in your room?”

“Mmhmm.”

“What about the rose side tables in the living room?”

“Those too.”

“Have you ever sold your work?”

I laughed at her incessant questioning. It was soher. “It’snot really something I’d ever thought about before. I’ve always just done it for myself.”

She ran her teeth over her bottom lip as she thought about what I’d said. “I get that. But if you ever wanted to consider selling some of your work, let me know. I can help you with the business side of things.” The words came out of her mouth in a rushed excitement. Her enthusiasm for my work hit me like a damn freight train. Aside from my parents, I’d never had anyone tell me my work was good because I’d hidden it away. Just like everything else.

Hearing a compliment from Charlie’s lips made me stand a little taller.

“I’ll consider that.”

She shot me a wink that made my heart stutter before she went back to observing my work. “Whoa!” Charlie knelt in front of the half-finished bench I’d started last year and couldn’t find the inspiration to finish.

“This is amazing.” She brushed her hands over the back of the bench where half of it was carved with vines and bloomed orchids.

“Where were you planning on putting this one?” She beamed up at me with curious eyes.

“I was thinking about the front porch, but I don’t know. I’m not sure.” Halfway through working on the bench, I realized I’d made it too big for just myself. It was a piece that was meant for two people to share and since I didn’t have anyone else in my life, it didn’t make sense for me to finish it.

Until now.

“I know the perfect place.” She rose to stand in front of me and dug her hands into the front pockets of my jeans.

Snaking my arm around her waist, I pulled her closer. “Is that right?”

“Mmhmm.” The reddish orange curls of her hair dipped into her face as she nodded. “You should put it on your front porch so we can drink our hot chocolate on it together.”

My stomach did a weird flip-flop at the thought of having her sit on this bench with me. The piece I’d unconsciously made for two people to share. Maybe some part of me always knew she’d come back into my life one day. A thread of hope that despite all my shortcomings, she might actually want to stay.

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