Page 104 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
I hang up and step out of the car.
As I approach the industrial unit, all I can think is that Frankie would be proud of me for what I just did.
I open the metal-framed door and am met with the hum of a lathe in the back corner where Dad’s working.
I wander around for a moment, taking in the finished and in-progress projects before he realizes I’m there and looks up.
“Great job on these.” I gesture to a row of shaker-style cabinet doors painted in a robin’s-egg blue that are lined up along the wall.
“Yeah, they’re for a house in Beacon Hill. Hasn’t been touched for about forty years,” Dad says over the sound of him hand-turning a round knob. “Full renovation job. We’re doing the kitchen and bathroom cabinetry, two home offices, the works.”
Just being in here, inhaling the earthy natural smell of freshly cut wood, running my hands over finished pieces and rough raw planks, takes me right backto being a kid and my grandad teaching me in his garage—the same man who taught my dad and my brothers.
Mom still has the first thing I ever made with Grandad’s help—a cutting board, with a slightly wonky attempt at planing down one side.
“Is that where Ethan and Luke are?” I ask.
“Yeah. Sent them to double-check the measurements for the laundry room. Sometimes it takes both their heads to get it right.”
The sound of the lathe slowly fades as Dad steps away and lifts his safety glasses to rest on top of his cap. “I would never say it to either of them, and they’re good at what they do, but you had more talent than the both of them put together. Truly gifted. Just like Grandad.”
He tips his head toward the photo of me and my two brothers standing with Grandad next to his lathe when I was probably about twelve. Which would make Ethan and Luke about four.
“He’d be proud of what a success you’ve made of yourself, though,” Dad says. “As am I, of course.” He fingers the knob he’s working on, slightly uncomfortable with such a show of emotion.
“But what I do isn’t exactly creative, like this.” I pick up a box with a lid that’s been carved into an intricate floral pattern.
Man, I enjoyed that bit of woodwork I got to do at the sanctuary. Even just tightening the screws on the stable door bolt felt good. That practical feeling of improving something with my hands, not just with my pen and my negotiation skills and my ability to pick the very best contractors for each job.
And having the time—the actual fucking time—to mess around with the wood I used to fix the shed wasamazing. Granted, it looks odd that one plank has been used as a practice piece for about eight different skills, but it’s around the back and in the corner, so no one will ever notice. I was particularly pleased with how the inlaid shapes of carrots came out. I even found some scraps of darker wood lying around and used them for the stalks.
I should make more time for this stuff. Rent a workshop. Remind myself what I’m capable of. Maybe take a class or two to update my skills and learn the more specialized techniques I never got to in school.
If there’s anything other than pain and self-recrimination to take away from my time with Frankie, it’s that the sanctuary reminded me of who I am at heart—a practical person who likes making things with my own hands, not just picking the best craftspeople to make things for me.
Dad gestures to the carved box I’m still holding. “Ethan’s been working on that for forever. It was supposed to be your mom’s Christmas present last year. Not confident it will make it for this year either.”
“She’ll love it.” And she will. She loves everything we’ve made for her, with varying degrees of success, since we were kids.
“So, to what do we owe the pleasure of a visit?” Dad asks, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Just thought it would be nice to catch up on what you’re up to. It was good to see you all last week. I should stop by the workshop more.”
“How’s it all going up there?” He moves across the room toward the table bearing an ancient coffeemaker and selection of stained, chipped mugs.
“Frankie was over the moon with the work you did.” Just saying her name tightens theconstant ache in my stomach from losing her and increases the desire to punch myself in the head for it all being my own fault.
But it also makes my pulse tick up and my heart sing a little with the knowledge that I’m one of the privileged few who’ve known her.
“Not what I meant.” Dad holds up the half-full coffee pot and raises his eyebrows at it.
I nod.
He picks up a mug, peers into it, blows out whatever’s in there, and pours the goodness-knows-how-many-hours-old coffee into it.
“I meant,” he says, repeating the process with a second mug, “all the business with buying the land.”
I turn back to the row of new cabinets and run my hand over each of them in turn as I pass. There’s something comforting in the solid smoothness of the wood and paint under my fingers. “Oh, right, yeah. That’s not happening.”
