Page 34 of Designed for Disaster

I carried it over, taking her advice as I gingerly stepped over the power cords. “I appreciate the concern for my safety.”

She shook her head, hiding a smile as she leaned down to measure something. “Just making sure I don’t get involved in a lawsuit.”

“Ah, I see how it is,” I said. “I’m just a mover to you.”

She laughed. “You really are. You know, I think I almost prefer it to the CEO.”

I returned to the truck for the next piece and the next. Nothing was particularly heavy, just bulky and awkward to carry. I set the pieces down, crouching so I didn’t pull my back. When I noticed Natasha watching me, I flexed a bit. I’d ditched my sweatshirt in the truck, sweaty from all the back and forth.

The last of the materials I moved was the salvaged stained glass. I’d wrapped the panels in the moving blankets, and it looked like nothing had broken. Once I was finished unloading the truck, I took a beat to actually look around the workshop, studying some of the pieces in progress Natasha had set off to the side of the room.

“What?” she asked, watching me run my hands over a freshly sanded tabletop. It reminded me of being back in the shop with Papa Davis. He’d started out as a carpenter, and even after he retired from Saunders Furniture, he still loved getting hands-on and doing woodworking. He’d taught me so much.

“Nothing,” I said, quick to assure her I wasn’t judging. “You just…You really have a gift. Sort of reminds me of my grandfather’s work.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Thanks.”

“You’ve got a lot of great pieces here.”

“I’m always designing,” she said. “I’ve got about a million more ideas—the problem is just finding people to buy them.”

“There should be a line of people here trying to buy your work,” I insisted, scowling when she shook her head. “I mean it, Natasha.”

She flushed an even darker shade of red. I wandered closer, wondering what it would be like to stroke the blush from her cheeks.

“Maybe one day,” she said. “Until then, I’m happy designing for Saunders Furniture.”

I crossed my arms. “Are you?”

She nodded. “I feel like I’m settling in, and like the team is warming up to me.”

“But you’d prefer to be making your own things?”

She shrugged. “Of course. There’s something special about being hands-on, about crafting the actual furniture myself. I think it makes the pieces that much more special.”

I leaned against her workbench. “When I was a kid,” I said, “my grandfather used to take me out to his shop, and I’d get to pick a project. We’d spend all week working on it. I remember the first time he let me make a birdhouse all by myself. The roof wascrooked, and the entry hole was too small for any actual birds to get inside, but I was so proud of myself.”

Natasha grinned as I recounted the memory.

“There was another time where we built an entire hutch to house the rabbit I had caught out in the woods. The thing slipped out the moment I opened the door to feed it.” I laughed. “I still remember Dee chasing the poor rabbit around the yard with baby Jimmy on her hip. Papa Davis got the whole thing on camera. I’m sure we’ve got the video somewhere.”

“Your grandfather sounds like a great man,” Natasha said.

“He was. Sweet and kind and so much fun. The staff at Saunders Furniture loved him, but he was his best self with his family. He always treated Dee like royalty, and he looked out for me and Jimmy.”

She chuckled softly.

“What is it?”

“Nothing…it’s just…I got started in woodworking because of my grandpa too. He was a freelance cabinetmaker, and he used to let me sit on a stool in his workshop and sand down the pieces. I remember being mesmerized, watching him transform a piece of wood. I’d sometimes get to go with him for the installation, and there was something so beautiful about seeing that transformation come full circle. Every time I finish a piece, I’m reminded of him. And of how much transformation I’m capable of.”

“I like that,” I said, feeling a bead of connection flow between us. Grandparents were special people, and it was clear we’d bothcherished ours. She lifted a large board onto the workbench. “Need a hand with that?” I offered.

“Oh, uh…” She hesitated, then shrugged sheepishly. “I could actually use someone to brace the board, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t have better places to be?”

---