Page 55 of Kindling
She dabbed her damp eyes, launching into his arms. “I love it so much, Fraser. Thank you.”
He pressed a kiss into her hair. “I’m glad you do, Harp. I figured it would look well enough in the cabin. I’ll get the crappy workbench out of there, give you some more space to write. I know it’s not ideal when I’m working outside, but I still want you to feel like it’s yours.”
“Watching you chop wood while you work is more than ideal. I just need some noise-cancelling headphones. Can you make those from wood, too?”
He seesawed his hand, pretending to take this request seriously. “I don’t think they’d be very comfy, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Hmm.” She let out a long, content sigh, placing her fairy figurine on the top shelf of the desk. “This makes me feel like a proper author. And a proper fairy.”
His fingers drew slow circles on her lower back. “Well, you are both those things in my eyes – and a lot more.”
Harper gazed up at him, spellbound and speechless. In that moment, she was a little bit in love with him, but he didn’t have to know that. “That time you caught me snooping in your things… I found a birdhouse in the cabinet. Is that why you didn’t want me looking? Did you make that, too?” It wasn’t nearly as polished as the furniture in here, but every artist started somewhere.
Fraser sniffed and looked away. She narrowed her eyes, worried she’d stepped too far – but why? He’d shown her his work. Why did he still seem…ashamedof it? If she had this sort of skill, she’d be flaunting it for everyone to see.
“I did make that,” he admitted quietly, “when I was a kid.”
“Wow. So, you’ve been doing this for a really long time!”
He shook his head, turning his back to her as he leaned against the workbench. “No. I stopped for a while, after that. I only really got back into this after I built the cabin a few years ago.”
“Oh.” Harper frowned. This wasn’t the first time he’d been difficult to read, but it was the first time she’d felt as though she was treading on eggshells around him.
Fraser cleared his throat and explained. “My dad was – is? – a carpenter, so working with wood was always something I was interested in.”
She risked a few steps closer, if only to let him know she was listening. She couldn’t remember him talking about his dad before, and his voice sounded tender and sore.
“He gave me my first tool set for my eleventh birthday, and I wanted to make him something nice. Something he’d want to keep. So, I made the birdhouse.” A humourless chuckle fell from him. “He didn’t like it.”
Anger rose in Harper. “Why?”
“Those tools weren’t supposed to be for ‘artsy fartsy shite’, as he called it. I was supposed to be the man of the house, learning how to fix up things so I could be a carpenter like him one day, not wasting wood and paint on silly wee gifts.”
Harper didn’t know what to say. She put her hand on Fraser’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. No child should have been dismissed like that, but especially not him.
He turned to Harper slowly. “I still think about how disgusted he was that day. He left us a couple of years later,but it took me over a decade to even think about trying again, never mind showing my work to people. It’s daft, but part of me still thinks he’s right. Iamthe man of the house, especially now, and this work is my weakness. It’s the complete opposite of everything I’m supposed to be. Nobody else needs to know about it.”
She blew out a breath. “Your dad was wrong. You’re notsupposedto be anything, Fraser. What, because you’re a labourer, you can’t make art? That’s ridiculous!”
“I know that, deep down.” Fraser smiled, but it was shaky. Sad. “But you never forget your first rejection. I never want to feel that again. My sisters rely on me to be what he wasn’t, and my work feels like my armour, somehow. If I keep labouring, keep getting jobs, then I’m sturdy and reliable. I can be strong for them. I was wary to even get a job in forestry. Planting trees, keeping them healthy… God, he’d hate that.” He tapped his temple. “His wee voice is always there, in the back of my head, telling me I’m doing everything all wrong, even though I haven’t seen him since the day he walked out. How mad is that?”
Tears pricked her eyes. He’d deserved so much better. It was his dad that was the problem, not him. She wished there was a way to make him see that, to take away all those years of damage.
“It isn’t mad at all. He’s your father, and you depended on him to show you the way. Instead, he planted insecurity. The only thing that’s mad is him and the ways he failed you.” She took his hands. “You’re strong, and you’re a good man, and none of those things are dependent on where you work, or what you work on. Whether it’s a hammer or a chisel, a paintbrush, a knitting needle, or even a—”
“Aye, I get the message.” He smiled, shaking his head.
She rolled her eyes. “Do you mind? I was going somewhere with that.”
“Carry on, then. I’m listening.”
She took a deep breath and said, with a sense of finality she hoped he wouldn’t argue with, “You’re strong because you’re you.” She stood on her tiptoes to cup his jaw. “Your work is beautiful. There isn’t a person in this village who wouldn’t agree. There’s nothing, absolutelynothing, to be ashamed of. You should only be proud.”
Finally, he relaxed, his fingers tangled in her hair and his gaze swimming with tenderness. He offered a light kiss on the tip of her nose. “Thank you, sunshine. Really. That means more than you know.”
“I should be thanking you, for showing me all this. It really is wonderful. I hope you know that.”
He let out an uncertain hum, his hands drifting over her clothes. She usually hated wearing leggings unless she was lounging in the house, but today, she’d felt comfortable enough to forget about looking stylish. It made her feel free, especially when he squeezed her curves more tightly. “Tell me a few more times and I might start believing you.”
