Page 27 of Storytime and Sawdust

Today, the tree's branches are festooned with paper lanterns for our summer reading kickoff. Tiny fairy lights twinkle among the constellation ceiling we painted together that night when everything changed between us. Children already crowd the reading pods, their excited whispers creating a gentle hum beneath the library's usual quiet.

"Ms. Harper!" Emma Winters waves frantically from her perch in the highest reading pod. "I finishedThe Secret Gardenlast night!"

"That's wonderful!" I beam up at her. "Did you like the ending?"

"It was perfect," she declares with the absolute certainty of a seven-year-old. "Just like our tree."

Our tree. That's what everyone calls it now—not the reading nook or the library installation, but "the tree." It's become a character in ourcommunity's story, as real to the children as any from their favorite books.

"Molly." Diana appears at my elbow, clipboard in hand. "The summer reading signup table is all set. We've already got a line forming."

"Thanks. I'll be right there." I adjust a stack of program flyers, scanning the room for Cal. He promised to stop by before the event officially begins, bringing the new set of fairy doors he's crafted for our summer theme.

As if conjured by my thoughts, he appears in the doorway, carrying a wooden box that I know contains miniature masterpieces. Even after six months together, the sight of him still makes my heart skip—the broad shoulders, the careful way he moves through space, the slight softening around his eyes when he spots me.

"Right on time," I say, meeting him halfway.

"Always." He sets the box on a nearby table and drops a quick kiss on my lips, professional enough for our surroundings but lingering enough to make me wish we were alone. "The summer doors are ready for installation."

I peek into the box, gasping at the intricate details. Each new fairy door represents a different summer adventure—one shaped like a treasure chest, another like a tent beneath starry skies, a third resembling a tide pool complete with tiny seashells inlaid in the wood.

"Cal, they're magnificent." I run my finger over the tent door, marveling at the minuscule campfire carved beside it. "The kids are going to lose their minds."

"That was the goal." His smile, once so rare, comes easily now. "Where do you want them?"

For the next fifteen minutes, we work side by side, replacing the spring-themed doors with summer ones. Our movements have the synchronicity that comes from months of collaboration, both in theworkshop and at home. My apartment has gradually filled with small wooden treasures, each one telling the story of our growing relationship.

As Cal secures the last door, a small crowd of children gathers to watch, their eyes wide with wonder.

"Can we open them?" Liam asks, bouncing on his toes.

"That's what they're for," Cal tells him, his deep voice gentling the way it always does with children. "But carefully, remember? Like we practiced."

The children nod solemnly. Opening the fairy doors has become a sacred ritual, one that Cal patiently taught them during his increasingly frequent library visits. I watch as he kneels beside Liam, guiding the boy's small hand to the tiny latch, and my heart swells with a feeling too big to name.

This man who once feared connection now spends Saturday mornings teaching woodworking basics to eager children. The same hands that craft heirloom furniture now help tiny fingers shape simple blocks and toys. The quiet craftsman who kept the world at a distance has become a beloved fixture in our library community.

And in my life.

"Okay, everyone!" I clap my hands to gather attention. "Our Summer Adventure Reading Program is officially beginning! Who's ready for stories?"

Cheers erupt as children scramble to claim spots in the reading nook. Parents settle on the cushioned benches around the tree's base, some already opening the books their little ones have selected.

Cal steps back, taking his usual position slightly removed from the center of activity. But unlike six months ago, there's no tension in his posture, no hesitation in his presence. He belongs here as surely as any of the books on our shelves.

I begin the program with our summer theme song, leading the children in silly gestures that have them giggling and their parents snapping photos. From the corner of my eye, I see Cal watching, that special smile, the one reserved just for me, playing at the corners of his mouth.

The hour passes in a blur of stories, songs, and excitement as children sign up for reading challenges and explore the new fairy doors. As the crowd begins to disperse, Margaret Holloway approaches, beaming with satisfaction.

"Another triumph, Molly," she says, gesturing to the bustling room. "Library patronage is up twenty percent since the reading nook installation. The board couldn't be more pleased."

"Even Harold?" I tease.

"Especially Harold. He's taking credit for 'pushing the project to its full potential' with his challenging questions." She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "Politicians."

Cal joins us, his hand finding the small of my back in a touch that's become as natural as breathing. "The credit belongs to Molly. She's the one who knew what this space needed."

"You're both too modest," Margaret says. "It was your collaboration that made the magic happen. Speaking of which—" she glances at her watch, "—I should let you finish setting up. The children's art show starts in twenty minutes, yes?"

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