Page 76 of A Class of Her Own

I glanced up and saw that his expression was interested, maybe even a little excited, thinking he’d found something we’d have in common. I tensed but did my best to keep my tone nonchalant as I replied, “My dad’s an artist. The medium shifts constantly. He does a little of everything.”

“The arts can be a tempting field but a difficult one at the same time.”

I pulled gloves out of my coat pocket and tugged them on before reaching for the top board. “And that’s all we’ll be discussing about my father today. Baby steps.”

He nodded and grabbed the next board down, lifting it to inspect it before tossing it aside. “Can I at least know his name?”

I gave him a speaking glance. “Why?”

“Seems impolite to move a man’s woodpile without knowing his name.”

“His name is Forest.”

“And your sister is Willow?”

“Yep. My other sister is named Ash.” I shifted a few things and pointed. “I think I see a board there that would work.”

Together we moved a few larger, long tree limbs that Dad had put there when he’d been really into carving larger objects. Once a flat board was freed, we restacked it all and headed into the workshop to get a measuring tape before using Dad’s tools to trim it to size. I paused with a hand on the door and turned to face Brooks, who was holding the board.

“Do not get all googly-eyed when we go in there. You’re going to think you’ve entered a wonderland, but you’re actually going down a rabbit hole of doom. All is not how it appears.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a poet. You paint such a pretty picture.”

I tilted my head. “I’m serious. Do not engage with the Forest Atwood treasure trove.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I pushed aside the door, and we entered the space. It smelled like it always did—a mixture of freshly cut wood, turpentine, paint, and burning from whatever he’d been working on. There was heat radiating off the kiln in the corner, and some dirty rags nearby showed he’d been working with pottery earlier.

“Oh my . . .” I heard Brooks start.

I turned quickly to him. His eyes were large as he took in all the half-finished projects leaning against walls and hanging from hooks along the exposed rafters. His gaze touched on the tools and stacks of artistic elements gathered in piles here and there. Lastly, he looked back at me. I shook my head, and he quickly flattened out his expression.

“This is probably the most boring place I’ve ever been,” he said in a monotone voice that made me smile.

“Exactly.” I gestured to the big workbench. “Put the board there. I’ll go tear out the remains of the broken step and measure for the new one. Feel free to drool over everything while I’m gone, but be sure to pull it together when I return.”

I grabbed a measuring tape and a hammer and didn’t wait for a response from him. When I returned to the shop, he was running his hands along the workbench as his eyes wandered. It was so strange to have him there, appreciating everything in the shop. It was hard to reconcile the Brooks of HOA rule enforcement with the guy dropping his jaw over this artist’s haven.

“I have the measurements if you’ll plug in the saw?” I called.

He spooked a little and shook his head as he spun around. “Sorry. I was accidentally drooling still. But I’m all better now.”

We made quick work of cutting the board and nailing it into place. I jumped on it a few times for good measure while Brooks watched with half a grin, his arms folded across his chest.

“You know that’s not the safest way to test a new build?” he said.

“Probably not, but I’ve been doing it this way since I was eight, so why change a good thing?”

I could tell by the way his mouth moved that he wanted to ask some clarifying questions about why I’d have been building steps at that age, but, thankfully, he kept those questions to himself.

“At eight there was probably less danger of you breaking the board,” he said instead of whatever he’d wished to say.

I stomped once more with one foot. “True. But I figured if I did my best to break it and it held, it was good enough for normal use.” I pointed above my head. “That’s the next project.”

I headed back into the shop, leaving the hammer on the newly fixed step, and grabbed a big ladder to get started on fixing the rain gutter. When I emerged from the shop, ladder titling dangerously, Brooks jogged over and took an end from me.

“You have to make use of the community volunteer,” he stated.

---