Outside, Mapleford settled into its late-November hush. Tomorrow would be errands and ladders and a war over which white lights were truly white. He’d keep his head down. He’d help.
Then he’d go home in January and figure out how to be a person again.
Chapter Two
Thanksgiving morning smelledlike wood glue and denial.
Noah Carter figured both were better scents than turkey and pity.
He was supposed to be at his parents’ house by noon, but he’d come into the workshop early with the excuse that he wanted to get a head start on the dining table commission before the Christmas madness hit. The truth was, if he started sanding, the day wouldn’t sneak up on him. Holidays had a way of doing that. They snuck in through the cracks.
Noah had exactly one week before the Christmas Festival swallowed him whole, and he was pretending not to care.
The town’s event committee would start calling any day now, the same cheerful chaos of questions and crises: which vendor had bailed, whether the tree lights from last year still worked, how many volunteers they had for set-up day. He’d say yes to all of it, because he always did. Mapleford’s holiday season was his favorite kind of madness.
But for now, he had a dining table to finish.
His workshop smelled like cedar, coffee, and the faint trace of the cinnamon candle his sister had given him last December. Sawdust coated everything in a soft film.
He turned up the radio to drown out his thoughts. The local station had already gone full holiday. Burl Ives was crooning about holly and jolliness, as if the man had never spent a Thanksgiving alone.
Noah huffed and shook his head. “Ease up, Burl,” he muttered, running the sander over the tabletop. “We haven’t even had pie yet.”
The machine hummed beneath his hands, a steady, familiar vibration. He loved this part, coaxing something beautiful out of rough wood, as though it had been waiting all along for someone to notice. He ran a palm over the sanded surface, loving how the grain came up smooth, golden and honeyed under the morning light. Almost there. Another rubdown with a superfine 2000 grit sandpaper, a final coat of varnish, and it would be ready for the Petersons, who’d ordered it as a “forever table” to celebrate thirty years of marriage. He liked that phrase. Forever table. The kind you built to last through arguments, kids, birthdays, and the quiet clink of two coffee mugs after everyone else had gone home.
His phone buzzed on the workbench, skittering across a pile of screws. He checked the caller ID and sighed.
Mom.
He took a deep breath and answered. “Hey, Ma.”
“You’re not here.” She didn’t sound mad but amused. “Don’t tell me you’re still in that workshop.”
“Guilty.” He glanced at the clock. 10:47 a.m. “Just wanted to finish the Petersons’ table before the varnish gods abandon me.”
“You and that table.” Her voice softened. “Sweetheart, it’ll keep. Come eat something before your father starts carving the turkey just to ‘test it.’”
He smiled at the image. “I’ll be there soon. Promise.”
There was a pause, the kind that usually meant she was choosing her words carefully. “You could always move back in,you know. For a bit, at least. The house is big and quiet now that your brother’s gone and?—”
“Mom.” His voice came out gentle but firm. “I’m okay here.”
“I know,” she said quickly. “But you shouldn’t be alone so much.”
He looked around the workshop, wood dust hanging in golden light, his half-finished table gleaming like amber.
“I’m not,” he said, though it wasn’t quite true. “Besides, I’ve got the Festival coming up. The town’ll keep me busy.” He knew she wanted him home, wanted the old rhythm back of noisy dinners, teasing siblings, and the safety of numbers. But since the breakup two years ago, he’d preferred his quiet little house at the edge of town.
No one asked how he was holding up because no one was theretoask.
“You always let it keep you busy,” she murmured. “Don’t forget to let yourself rest, too.”
He promised he’d be there in an hour, hung up, and stood still for a moment, listening to the radio shift into a new song, ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’
Perfect. Salt in the wound, courtesy of the universe.
For a moment, he was back in his living room two Decembers ago, the tree lights blinking blue against the walls, Tyler standing by the window with that look that meantwe’re already over.
