Page 4 of Storytime and Sawdust

If only I could find someone who sees me the same way. Someone who doesn't think my enthusiasm, curves, or book-filled apartment is "a bit much." I'm tired of shrinking myself for others.

Matt texted again. Wants to "catch up." Translation: He's between girlfriends and remembers I was convenient. No thanks. Rather be alone than someone's comfortable option.

I want someone who sees me like the kids do during storytime - like I'm exactly enough. Is that asking too much?

Maybe it is. Mom says I live in storybooks. But I've seen real love: with my sister and James, and with my storytime parents. That quiet certainty.

Anyway. Committee meets Friday. Should prepare ideas, sketch concepts. Focus on what I can control.

Winston jumps onto the window seat, headbutting my journal and demanding attention. I set aside my writing to scratch behind his ears.

"What do you think, Winston? Am I being ridiculous waiting for someone who appreciates all of..." I gesture vaguely at myself, my overstuffed bookshelves, the mismatched vintage teacups displayed on open shelving, "...this?"

Winston purrs loudly, kneading my thigh.

"You're right. I'm a catch. Someday, someone will realize that." I scratch under his chin. "In the meantime, I have twenty-seven preschoolers who think I hang the moon, a renovation to help design, and the best cat in the universe. That's not nothing."

As darkness falls outside my window, I find myself sketching reading nook ideas in the margins of my journal—a tree-shaped bookcase, cushioned window seats, a miniature lighthouse with reading space inside. Places where children can feel both adventurous and safe.

Maybe that's what I'm looking for too. Someone who makes me feel both adventurous and safe. Someone who sees the magic in everyday things the way I do.

I close my journal and tuck it away. Tomorrow brings another day of stories, another chance to create little moments of wonder. For now, that has to be enough.

But as I get ready for bed, arranging my outfit for tomorrow (a teal dress with tiny embroidered bookmarks along the hem—the kids love finding them during storytime), I can't help but wonder if somewhere out there, someone is looking for exactly what I have to offer.

Someone who wouldn't find me too much at all, but just exactly right.

CHAPTER TWO

CAL

I run my thumb over the oak grain, feeling for imperfections. There's a satisfaction in this, in the quiet conversation between my hands and the wood. This bookshelf has been talking to me for weeks now, telling me what it wants to become. Today, it's finally ready to say goodbye.

The morning light filters through dust-speckled windows, casting long shadows across Grandpa Joe's workshop. My workshop now, though even after three years, that thought still feels presumptuous. Some mornings I half expect to find him here, coveralls dusted with sawdust, that crooked smile as he'd say, "You're late, boy."

I apply another coat of finish to the custom bookshelf, movements methodical and precise. Mrs. Tanner wanted something "elegant but not fussy" for her home office. The curved sides and hidden compartment beneath the bottom shelf should satisfy both requirements. She'll run her fingers along the crown molding I hand-carved with ivy patterns and never know how many hours it took to get the leaves just right.

That'sfine. The wood knows. I know.

The shop is quiet except for the whisper of the brush against wood and the faint hum of the ancient radio Grandpa refused to replace. Reception's spotty, but I keep it tuned to the classical station he preferred. Sometimes Chopin or Bach keeps me company through the long afternoons.

I step back to examine my work, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension. Another piece ready to leave the nest. Another conversation completed.

The bell above the front door jingles—the same brass bell that's hung there since 1978. I set down my brush and wipe my hands on a rag tucked into my back pocket.

"In the back," I call, though there's really nowhere else I'd be.

Margaret Holloway appears in the workshop doorway, elegant as always in a tailored blazer despite the early hour. The library board president has been a loyal client since before I took over the business.

"Good morning, Cal." Her smile is warm as she surveys the space. "Still keeping banker's hours, I see."

I glance at my watch—not quite 7:30. "Wood doesn't sleep in."

"Neither do you, apparently." She approaches the bookshelf, eyes appreciative. "This is stunning. For the Tanner commission?"

I nod, stepping aside so she can examine it properly. Margaret understands craftsmanship. The desk I built for her home office last year was one of my most challenging projects—a Craftsman-inspired piece with hidden drawers and dovetail joints that took months to perfect.

"May I?" she asks, gesturing toward the finished surface.

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