Page 5 of Storytime and Sawdust

"Go ahead. It's dry."

Her fingers trace the carved pattern with reverence. "Joseph taught you well. He'd be proud of what you're doing here."

Something tightens in my chest. "I'm just keeping his legacy going."

"You're doing more than that." Margaret turns to face me, her expression serious. "You're creating your own."

I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise. Compliments always feel like clothes that don't quite fit—nice enough, but not meant for me.

"Coffee?" I offer, desperate to change the subject.

"Please."

I lead her to the small kitchenette tucked behind the office. The coffee's already brewed—has been since 5 AM when I started work. I pour two mugs, adding cream to hers without asking. After a year of monthly visits to discuss her desk's progress, I know how she takes it.

"How's business?" she asks, accepting the mug.

"Steady. Got a dining table commission yesterday. Walnut. Seats ten."

"Just steady?" She raises an eyebrow. "Your waiting list must be months long by now."

I lean against the counter, cradling my own mug. "Six months, give or take."

"And yet you're still hiding in this workshop instead of expanding. Hiring apprentices. Building a proper website."

I take a long sip before answering. "Don't need the headache."

Margaret sighs, but there's fondness in it. "You're as stubborn as Joseph was. He at least had the excuse of being from a different generation."

"Grandpa knew what worked for him."

"And avoided what scared him." Her eyes hold mine. "Just like you're doing."

The coffee suddenly tastes bitter. Margaret has known me since I was a teenager sweeping sawdust from this very floor. She's earned the right to speak plainly, but that doesn't make it comfortable.

"I'm not scared of success," I counter. "I'm selective about how I define it."

"Fair enough." She sets down her mug. "But I didn't come here just to lecture you about business models."

"Figured as much. Another commission?"

"Of sorts." Margaret reaches into her leather portfolio and pulls out a folder. "The library is renovating its children's area. We're looking for someone to design and build a custom reading nook."

My interest piques despite myself. "What kind of nook?"

"That's where you come in." She slides the folder across the counter. "We want something unique. Magical. Something that makes children want to curl up with books and never leave."

I open the folder, scanning the preliminary specs. The dimensions are generous: a corner space with good natural light. The budget is respectable too.

"Why me? There are commercial outfitters who specialize in library furniture."

"Because they'll give us something functional and forgettable." Margaret's voice takes on the passionate tone she reserves for library matters. "We want something that becomes part of the children's memories. Something they'll bring their own children to see someday."

I flip through the pages, pausing at photos of the current space. It's bland, institutional. Practical but soulless.

"We're accepting proposals until the end of the month," Margaret continues. "The selection committee will review them and choose a finalist."

"Selection committee?"

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