Page 72 of The Magic of Sea Glass
Milton jumped onto the sofa and rolled onto his back when Lauren sat down. While she rubbed the dog’s belly, Brody went into his bedroom and returned with a dry-cleaning bag. He pulled the plastic off and set it aside, revealing a powder-blue, pressed shirt.
“That’s perfect,” Lauren said, utterly relieved.
“Glad to hear it.” He hung the shirt on a nearby doorknob. “While I’ve got you here, I’ve decided that I’m ready to show you something.” He opened the back door to the deck and beckoned for her to follow. “It has to do with the question you’d asked about what I’d do if I weren’t a fisherman. And it also has to do with my dad.”
Lauren got up and Milton tagged along behind her.
A soft breeze rustled the trees as she walked the stepping stones leading to the detached garage. Brody unhitched the two barn-like doors and swung them open. Lauren had been expecting something resembling the interior of a large woodshed by the look of the building, but when he opened the doors, it was more like an artist’s studio. She stood, in shock, as she took in the shelves of lacquered wood artwork, and the neatness of the desk with a row of shiny tools all organized by size. A large wine barrel flanked each side of a long workbench that held a wooden saw and a few other contraptions she didn’t recognize.
“Come on in,” he said, flicking on a studio-style light that illuminated the space.
When she stepped onto the polished cement floors, she zeroed in on the wall opposite her and then walked over to a line of wooden trunks with iron hinges and latches, each one revealing the grain of the wood. “Brody, this is incredible.” They looked like the old trunks her grandmother had kept blankets in at the foot of the bed, except these were sleeker, more modern, and stylish. She ran her hand along their shiny surfaces. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“It’s just a little something I do in my time off.”
Excitement bubbled up. He’d surprised her.
He leaned over her shoulder and lifted the large latch of the trunk in front of them. “Open it.”
She pushed the heavy lid upward, the hinges moving with ease. The interior was painted in vibrant colors, like a mural. She looked over at Brody, stunned. “Did you paint this?”
He nodded.
“You have such a gift.” The intricate way in which he blended every color was like visual music. Everything was perfect—every line, the curve of the swirls, the vibrance of the artwork. It was as if he’d harnessed the sun, the moon, and the stars in one bright piece. There was so much depth there that if she owned it, she’d never want to fill it. Instead, she would want to leave it open so that she could take in the magnificence of it every time she walked past it.
Then she remembered what he told her before taking her out there. “What does this have to do with your father?”
Brody stared at the artwork, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. “Guess how many classes I took in college to be able to do this.”
She pursed her lips, thinking. “I don’t know, ten?”
“Zero.”
He closed the lid and she turned to face him. “I don’t understand.”
“I showed one of these to my dad when I was eighteen and he said, ‘What, are you going to be a trunk-maker?’ That was his response. So I went to college just like he wanted. I got a degree in a finance career I’ll never work in. And I did it all onhisdime. And then I became a trunk-maker because, forget him. He wouldn’t know happiness if it bit him in the—”
She put a finger to his lips. “It’s okay.”
“Not to me, it isn’t.” He looked down at her. “I never want to find myself with someone who thinks there’s no merit in being a trunk-maker.”
“Well, I see merit,” she said, walking over to the next one and lifting the lid to reveal another stunning painting set under high gloss. This one had birch trees, and it might have been her favorite of the two. “But I don’t think you’re a trunk-maker at all.”
He stared at her, clearly waiting for some sort of explanation.
“I think you’re anartist.”
The corners of his lips turned upward and he looked as if he were drinking her in.
“Maybe your dad just isn’t an artist, and you need to teach him what you see.”
“Maybe,” he said, but the hurt in his eyes made her wonder if he ever would. “I made you something.”
“Me?”
He walked over to one of the shelves and pulled a small box from it, handing it to her. It was a mini version of the larger trunks, so compact that it fit in her hand. She unfastened the small iron latch and lifted the lid, revealing a swirling, lacquered pattern of seafoam green, cream, and blue.
“It’s for your sea glass.”
