Page 17 of Little Bird
And when we do come across trees that need processing, we use the wood for our business, where we build furniture and sculptures for people. Hell, that’s one of the marketing points for the whole thing. We’re old-school lumberjacks who make art.
Or at least I do.
My father, on the other hand...
He’s nothing more than an old-school lumberjack who hates that we have to run a business, plain and simple. Me? I look at a piece of wood and know instinctively what I’m going to make of it. I see the bones of the tree and meld them into something new. It’s like I can smell the character of it, hear in my head what it wants to be. And then it’s just a matter of making it happen.
My father? I don’t know if he’s ever had that talent, honestly. If he did, it’s long gone, now.
Probably lost somewhere between when my mother died and when the most recent bitch up and left without any warning.
That thought brings me far too close to the thing that drove me into forest in the first place, and I quickly scratch it out of my head and go back to work.
This tree was already down, but it hasn’t been down for long, and the wood is still green. It didn’t come down because it was dead. I’m going to have to let the wood age a bit before I can really use it—it’s too wet right now—but once I do...
I turn and walk the other way along the tree, considering. If I keep this large piece together and can salvage the rest of the tree in smaller pieces, I can see a table and chairs here. I’ll finish it natural, then put a matte sealant over it, so that when it’s finished, it looks rough and raw.
Perfect for someone’s dining room.
I kneel down and put my hand to the wood, feeling the energy of it run up my arm and smiling gently. Then I get down to the more important planning.
I need to figure out the size of the thing. And for that, I need to get back to the shop and my plans.
The shop is in town so I actually have to drive there, and when I arrive, I’m surprised to find my father’s car in the parking lot. He spends so little time in the shop that I didn’t expect him, but when I walk in, I see why he’s here. His desk is covered in papers and spreadsheets, his laptop open to the side and the accounting software up on the screen.
My father might not take part in the building of things anymore, but he’s obsessed with the numbers aspect of the business.
And trying to make them better.
Usually I’d make some suggestions on that account. I have plenty of ideas about how we can make the business more efficient, starting with a better marketing plan and more exposure. We make stuff no one else makes, and we have the charm of Hawke’s Wood behind us. This shop should be making money hand over fist. But my father doesn’t like it when I make suggestions. Truthfully, I think he actually hates it. Anything that might make the company better is shot down, and he treats anything that changes the way we do things like it’s the enemy.
He wants things to stay the way his grandfather built them.
I say his grandfather built things one hundred years ago, and we need to come into the modern age.
But I don’t want to pick that fight with him right now. I have a different battle to start.
I slide into the chair across the desk from him and wait for him to look up and notice me. It takes longer than I’d like, but I’m not surprised by that. It’s been years since we had any kind of good relationship. Hell, most days we don’t even talk to each other. He’s probably surprised I’m here at the same time as him.
When he finally looks up and meets my eyes, I can see he already knows what I’m going to ask. And he hasn’t yet prepared a lie.
Good.
“So she’s back,” I say quietly. I’m mad as hell and more than a little confused, but I don’t want to use my temper right away.
He sighs and puts his pencil down. “She is.”
My temper starts to grow at that, because he owes me a much bigger answer than that, and he fucking knows it. “Why? For how long? What’s she doing here? And why the fuck didn’t you tell me she was coming?”
I stand up and start pacing, unable to sit still any longer. I’m sure the questions sound juvenile, maybe even immature, but I need to know. When we were kids, Taryn was my best friend. It took me several weeks to get used to her, but once I did, I didn’t know how to be away from her. It was like she crawled under my skin and became a part of me, and then I didn’t remember how to walk without her. How to live without her. She was both best friend and charge, the girl who had my back no matter what and the one I would have protected with my life. Her laughter was everything, her touch the one thing that could bring me out of the spirals I went into when I lingered too long on memories of my mother. We spent long, dark nights talking in our rooms, keeping our laughter as quiet as possible so our parents wouldn’t hear us. And when I learned something new, she was the first one I taught. We swam, snowboarded, learned how to hotwire motorbikes, and regularly stole my dad’s truck.
She was my first kiss. At the time, I was positive we were going to spend the rest of our lives together.
But it was more than that. When my mother died, it had ripped my world apart. My father and I, both there when it happened, fought for years about who was most responsible, and our relationship never recovered. We both lost a part of ourselves that night, and we didn’t know how to connect without that vital piece holding us together.
I was only ten when she died. And I didn’t feel whole again until my father married Helen and brought Taryn into my life.
My pseudo-sister. My girl. My Little Bird.
