Page 19 of Storytime and Sawdust
Later, Margaret texts:
Margaret
Will you say a few words at tomorrow's opening?
I think of Molly, of the hurt in her eyes.
Cal
I'll be there.
Then I craft something small from cherry wood, hoping it might say what I cannot.
The library parking lot is packed when I arrive, fifteen minutes early. Families stream in, excited children pulling parents along. I sit in my truck, the wooden token heavy in mypocket.
I almost leave, telling myself the reading nook needs no explanation from its builder.
Then I see Molly through the glass doors, kneeling beside a girl with a stuffed animal. Even from here, I can see her genuine delight. She's wearing a tree-patterned dress, hair loose.
She looks beautiful. And I've hurt her.
This gets me moving. Inside, the crowd gathers near the covered reading nook. Elaine welcomes everyone and thanks the board. Margaret waves me forward, but I shake my head, staying in the background.
Then Molly steps up to speak, and the crowd quiets naturally, drawn to her warmth and enthusiasm.
"Good morning, everyone! Who's ready to see our magical new reading nook?" she asks, and the children respond with cheers and raised hands. "Before we reveal it, I want to thank the amazing artist who created this special place for us."
My chest tightens as she scans the crowd, looking for me. When our eyes meet, something complicated passes across her face—surprise, uncertainty, a flicker of hope quickly guarded.
"Cal Rhodes is a local craftsman who put his heart and soul into building something extraordinary for our community," she continues, her professional smile firmly in place. "Every detail, from the carved branches to the tiny fairy doors, was created with love and incredible skill. This reading nook isn't just furniture. It's a work of art that will inspire generations of young readers."
The genuine pride in her voice makes me swallow hard. Despite how I left things yesterday, she's still championing our creation, still giving me credit I'm not sure I deserve.
Margaret joins Molly at the front, adding her own thanks beforeaddressing the crowd. "And now, the moment you've all been waiting for. Children, would you like to help us unveil our new reading nook?"
A dozen eager volunteers rush forward, taking hold of the edges of the cloth. On the count of three, they pull, revealing the tree structure in all its glory. Gasps and exclamations fill the room as children and parents alike take in the magical space we've created.
"It's like something from a storybook!" one mother exclaims.
"Can we climb in it?" a boy asks, already eyeing the reading pods nestled in the branches.
"Absolutely," Molly answers. "That's what it's made for. But let's take turns, okay? Everyone will get a chance to explore."
What follows is controlled chaos as children eagerly investigate every nook and cranny, discovering the fairy doors, exclaiming over the constellation canopy, claiming reading spots as their own. Parents snap photos and marvel at the craftsmanship, several approaching Margaret to express their appreciation.
I remain on the periphery, watching it all with a complex mixture of pride and lingering doubt. The children's reactions are genuine, their delight in the space undeniable. This is exactly what Molly envisioned: a place where imagination flourishes, where books become adventures waiting to happen.
Harold stands nearby, arms crossed as he observes the scene. To my surprise, he nods thoughtfully.
"They certainly seem to appreciate it," he admits grudgingly. "Perhaps I underestimated the appeal of all those 'gimmicks.'"
Before I can respond, a small voice pipes up from beside me. "Did you make the tree?"
I look down to find a girl of about six staring up at me with solemn eyes, a well-loved book clutched to her chest.
"Yes," I answer, kneeling to her level. "I did."
"It's the best tree ever," she declares with absolute conviction. "It's like the one in my book, see?" She holds up a copy ofThe Giving Tree, its cover worn from frequent reading.
