Page 19 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
“That’s really amazing, Franco. You’re an amazing craftsman and artist.”
“Thanks,” he says, with a warm, proud grin. “Of course, I could’ve finished in half the time had I used modern tools, but Harry wasn’t in a rush so I had all the time I needed.”
“What do you mean, used modern tools?”
Our salads arrive then, and we spend a few minutes in silence eating before he answers. “Professionally, I use all the newest, highest-tech power equipment, because on a construction site, time is money. But when I’m crafting furniture, I exclusively use old, low-tech tools. I’m talking antique stuff that my grandfather’s grandfather would have used.”
I’m even more amazed. “Really?”
He nods, and his expression is bright and open as he discusses this. “Yep. All my woodworking tools I use at home are antiques, some of which I found through antique dealers, or online and fixed up myself, and others which I inherited from my grandfather.”
“Why do you use old-fashioned tools? Like you said, wouldn’t it be twice as fast to use modern tools?”
He shrugs. “Oh, more than twice as fast. If I use power tools I can make a really beautiful, functional table or whatever in a few hours, whereas the old way takes me half a day of work.”
“So why do it the old way? Are you, like, a secret hipster or something?”
He laughs. “God no.” A thoughtful sigh. “Um…? It’s hard to explain.”
“Hard to explain, or you think I won’t get it?”
He swirls the wine in the glass. “A little of both, I guess.” Another thoughtful pause. “So, my grandfather taught me carpentry. I didn’t have the most peaceful home growing up, so going to Grandpa’s was a way of escaping, and Grandpa had all these old tools, right? But he had them because that’s just what he could afford. He had a drill—that same one you currently have, as a matter of fact—and a table saw and some other things, but mostly, he worked old-fashioned, so that’s how I learned. I went to a tech school in high school and got an apprenticeship in my junior year, so I was working full-time as a carpenter by the time I graduated. I learned all the modern techniques, and how to use the modern tools and such professionally, but I’ve always just found it…therapeutic, I guess, to work the wood with my hands, the way Grandpa taught me. It’s calming. I’ve been making furniture and stuff in my spare time since Gramps first showed me how to make a rocking chair when I was…ten? Twelve? And I’ve just always used the old stuff. It feels…authentic. It connects me to Grandpa, and to his grandfather, and to all the thousands of years of human history where men have been crafting things from wood, using largely the same tools the entire time. Even modern power tools work in the same basic way as the oldest tools, they’re just…faster.”
“That’s really cool, actually.” Yet again, my mouth betrays my better sense. “I’d like to see your workshop sometime.”
His eyes narrow, and an eyebrow quirks up. “I thought you were mad at me.”
I have to summon the irritation this time. “I am.”
He mostly hides a smirk. “I thought we were here so you could yell at me.”
“We are,” I say, and now the irritation isn’t forced.
The entrees come, then, and the conversation is put on hold as we dig in.
He gestures with his steak knife. “Well? Here I am.”
I sigh. “Honestly, I said everything I had to say at the Waverley site. But I’d like to at least know why you left the way you did.”
He takes a while to answer. “You’re trying to tell me you weren’t planning the same thing?”
I narrow my eyes. “Not the point.”
“So you’re not denying it?”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is, I’m guessing you understand just fine why I left like I did, you’re just acting pissy about it because I did it to you before you could do it to me.”
Damn the man.
“It’s rude,” I say. “And I wouldn’t have just left.”
He calls my bullshit with that damned eyebrow of his. “Oh no?”
“No! I’d have at least made an excuse.”
“You’d have seen through any excuse I offered.”
“True. But in recognizing it, I would have respected it for what it was—part of the game.”
He leans forward, his blue eyes virulently intense. “And what exactly is the game, for you, Audra?” His voice is low, thrumming with veiled, salacious heat.
“You know the game as well as I do, Franco.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I want to know what it is for you. I know what it is for me, but I don’t think it’s the same for everyone.”
“The game for me is keeping hooking up simple.” I shrug, swirling the wine in my glass. “No strings, no expectations, no weirdness. Just…fun. A little bit of connection with someone, and then an easy, awkwardness-free escape.”
