Page 35 of Relief Pitcher

She came to the door quickly after I knocked. Ginny had long gray hair in a thick braid draped along her spine. Looking down at her barely five-foot frame gave the back of my neck a much-needed stretch.

“We’re all done. We stacked the firewood in your shed as you requested and ran other pieces through the chipper. We’ll take those to a landscaping company we partner with who will reuse it.”

The woman patted my arm. “Thank you so much! I would’ve asked my son to move the firewood, but by the time he got around to it, I’d be worm food.”

I barked out a laugh. “Morbid.”

“And accurate. You’d get it if you met my son. Bless his lazy ass.”

The woman cracked me up. My laughter faded as I remembered what I’d planned to ask her. Cottonwood was great for carving, and ideas for those trunks were forming in my mind.

“Normally, we would dispose of the trunks, but I was wondering if you would be comfortable with me taking them for personal use. It’s totally fine if you’d prefer we mulch them.”

She aimed her inquisitive stare at me. “What would you do with them?”

I was embarrassed to admit what I’d use them for, but I didn’t want to lie. I didn’t often make this request, but the stumps had a pattern that had gotten ideas flowing.

“I do wood carving.”

Her eyes lit up. “You’re an artist?”

“Not sure I’d go that far.”

“If you make things, you’re an artist. Got any photos of your work?” Ginny held out her hand, arthritic fingers curled and palm up.

The kind woman had supplied us with ice-cold lemonade and water all day. There was no way I could say no, especially if she was about to gift me workable wood. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, found the album where I saved photos of pieces I’d made for friends and family, and then handed it to her.

“I just do this casually. Make stuff for myself or friends.”

She gasped as she zoomed in on the screen. “This is stunning. Is that fox carving from a tree stump?”

I nodded.

“Could you do something like this with one of mine?”

“I can. Yeah.” It was a fair trade for the raw materials.

She handed me back my phone after a couple more minutes of swiping.

“I know you said you haven’t sold a piece, but do you know what you would charge?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well then. Sounds like you have some research to do. Figure it out and let me know. I want to pay full value. Your work is beautiful, and I would love to have one of your pieces to keep as a memory of the beautiful trees that have been a part of my home for decades.”

After promising to research pricing—and not give her a discount—and making arrangements to come back and grab the wood, I went back to touch base with Jake before heading home.

My mind raced the entire drive. She was the first stranger to want to buy my work. I guessed I’d always assumed my loved ones were simply being supportive when they said how great it was. Aleck would’ve supported me even if I’d told him my greatest passion in life was writing chain letters to my enemies and selling finger paintings made with my toes.

After he died, all the hours I spent in my studio became bittersweet. Losing myself to working with wood had been the only way I’d coped many days, but it was a regular reminder that I’d never done the one thing he’d asked of me. To make a real effort to share my art. How could I after that asshole college professor had laughed at the squirrel I’d carved? He’d told me art was about emotion and not “craft fair chic.”

As I left the job site in McMinnville, Ty’s face flashed in my head, and I remembered all the kind things he’d said about my work without knowing who had made it. He’d had no reason to be so complimentary. His enthusiasm gave me courage.

My thoughts hovered around him as they all too often did since we’d met. It’d grown exponentially worse since I’d learned we’d see each other several times per week over the next two months. The best kind of torture.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. Our time together had busted through the rut I’d settled into, but that weekend existed in a bubble—a blip in time owed entirely to miraculous circumstances. Seeing him in the real world? I wasn’t sure how it would go. Would we act like friends? Strangers? Awkward acquaintances who knew how each other’s cum and morning breath tasted?

Not to mention, he’d made it abundantly clear that he never had repeat sex partners. I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white as a thought crashed into my brain like a redwood tumbling to the earth. Would he find someone else on the team to fuck? Multiple someones? Would I become a meaningless blip in his thrilling sex life? The idea of becoming a faded memory from his escapades made my lunch churn in my gut.

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