Page 76 of Falling for You Again

“I can’t answer for your uncle, but I’ve been so busy.”

The elevator pings for the first floor and the doors open.

“Have a lovely day, gals. Tootles.” Mom waves and she’s off.

“I have yet to figure her out,” Emi quips as we leave the building.

“She definitely marches to the beat of her own drum,” I say, wondering what happened to the woman who used to chase fireflies through the woods and sing lullabies to me. I should be used to her emotional unavailability, but I’m not.

When I arrive at the shop, the building feels cavernous and still. The familiar scents of sawdust and resin that used to motivate me through a productive day now make me sad. I’ll forever associate these smells with a period of my life when I felt like part of something larger than myself, despite how toxic my family is.

I drop my backpack on a workbench and make a call to the local pickup-and-delivery service we use for our larger pieces; Isadora’s table is one of the largest I’ve built. I schedule her delivery for the following Friday, then I arrange for Artisant’s equipment and tools to be packed and moved to a storage unit I leased yesterday. By the end of the weekend after next, this building will be empty. It will also belong to the Savant House.

Next, I put in a few hours of work on the chair for Uncle Bear’s client, prepping the piece for staining. It, too, will be delivered next week, and I schedule that. I get more work done on the tables for my last two clients and cancel new orders that have come in. I don’t have the means or desire to fill them. After I update Artisant’s website with a message to our customers that we’re closing for business and take down the online order form, I call Dad. For once, he answers the phone.

“Hey there, Meli-pie.”

My lungs inflate on a sharp breath. I haven’t heard that nickname since I was ten. “Hi, Dad.”

“How are you holding up?”

I give my phone a sideward glance, shocked at his sudden interest in my well-being. “Why are you asking?”

“I haven’t seen you around since you moved out of your apartment, that’s all.”

“Didn’t Mom tell you? I moved back in.”

“She’s not speaking to me. I’ve been living at your uncle’s.”

“Oh. Since when?”

“A month or so. I haven’t really kept track. So, you still married to that Aaron guy?”

“At the moment.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing.”

“Are you and Mom still married?”

“Yeah, we are. Though I don’t think she wants to be. What did you call for?”

“Oh, ah ...” I stumble to collect my thoughts.

My parents are separated? This has been a long time coming, and I shouldn’t be surprised. Dad’s imprisonment and Mom’s stint in rehab had been a huge strain. They were never the same after that. And then working and living together put even more strain on their marriage. I’m just shocked it took them this long—that they suddenly aren’t together after all this time.

“The desk you’re building,” I say, eyeballing the stunning live-edge piece. Dad’s woodworking skill far exceeds Uncle Bear’s when he puts his mind to it. But getting the guy to focus long enough to finish a complex job is a whole other feat. I’m sure years of drugs and depression contribute to his short attention span. There might be some undiagnosed ADHD in the picture. But he always chose simpler projects on incoming orders.

This piece is a whole different animal for him. It’s built to last, optimized for peak efficiency with nooks for data and power integration, and a design that bridges luxury with style and function. I’m jealous of the person who gets to use it. The desk will surely be the centerpiece in someone’s upscale office in downtown Boston. “I can’t find the job specs so I can’t finish it for you, and I don’t know who it’s going to since I can’t locate the invoice. What do you want me to do with it?”

“Nothing. I’ll come get it.”

“Are you sure?” Moving the desk is a two-person job. “You don’t want to finish working on it here?” I wondered where he planned to move it.

“Yeah. When do you need it out of there?”

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