Page 20 of Storytime and Sawdust

"That's a good book," I say, remembering how Grandpa used to read it to me.

She nods seriously. "The tree gives everything because it loves the boy. Is that why you made our tree? Because you love books?"

The simple question catches me off guard. "I made it because..." I search for words a child would understand. "Because everyone deserves a special place to read. A place that feels like magic."

She considers this, then smiles. "I think you're like the Giving Tree. You gave us something beautiful."

Before I can respond, she's called away by her mother, leaving me with her words echoing in my mind.You gave us something beautiful.

Not practical. Not efficient. Beautiful.

I scan the room for Molly, who moves through the crowd with joy despite glancing my way. I need to apologize, but won't interrupt her moment.

From my quiet corner, I watch our reading nook come alive—children in pods, parents sharing books, tiny fingers exploring fairy doors. It's everything Molly promised: a place where stories feel possible.

As excitement settles, Molly begins storytime. Children gather around her while she readsWhere the Wild Things Are, captivating them with monster voices and dramatic flair.

I'm so absorbed in watching her that I don't notice Margaret approaching until she speaks.

"She's something special, isn't she?"

I nod, not taking my eyes off Molly. "Yes."

"So is what you built together." Margaret follows my gaze to the reading nook, now filled with children and books. "It's exactly what this community needed, Cal. Don't let Harold's penny-pinching make you doubt that."

"It wasn't just Harold," I admit quietly. "I've always struggled with believing my work is... enough."

Margaret studies me with knowing eyes. "Your grandfather had the same fear, you know. Used to worry that his pieces weren't practical enough, that clients would prefer mass-produced furniture that cost half as much."

This surprises me. Grandpa always seemed so confident, so certain of his craft. "He never said anything."

"He wouldn't have. Joe wasn't one for showing vulnerability." She smiles softly. "But he told me once that every piece he made was an act of faith—faith that beauty and craftsmanship still mattered in a world of cheap, disposable things."

The words resonate deeply, articulating something I've felt but never been able to express. "I want to believe that."

"Look around you, Cal." She gestures to the children engaged with the reading nook, the parents admiring the details, the staff watching with pride. "This is the proof. What you and Molly created together matters. It will still matter fifty years from now, when these children bring their own children to sit beneath this tree."

As if sensing our discussion, Molly glances our way. Our eyes meet across the room, and for a brief moment, the crowd between us seems to disappear. Then a child tugs at her sleeve with a question, and the connection breaks.

"Don't let fear rob you of what could be," Margaret says gently,following my gaze to Molly. "Some things, like this reading nook, are worth the risk."

She pats my arm and moves away, leaving me with her words and the small wooden token still heavy in my pocket. The morning passes in a blur of activity, the reading nook constantly surrounded by excited children and impressed adults. I remain on the edges, answering technical questions when approached but mostly observing the impact of what we've created.

Harold finds me as the event winds down, most families having drifted away to other parts of the library or home for lunch.

"I may have been hasty in my assessment," he says stiffly. "The children's response has been... illuminating."

It's as close to an apology as Harold is likely to offer. I nod, accepting it for what it is. "Function takes many forms. Sometimes the most practical thing is what brings the most joy."

He considers this, then extends his hand. "Well said, Rhodes. The board made the right choice with you."

We shake, and something tight in my chest eases slightly. Not because I need Harold's approval, but because I'm starting to believe in the value of what I've built. What Molly and I built together.

As the crowd thins further, I finally spot Molly alone, straightening books that have been examined and returned to shelves. Her back is to me, shoulders slightly slumped with what might be fatigue or something heavier.

It's now or never.

I approach quietly, clearing my throat when I'm a few feet away. "The opening was a success."

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