“Well, we do buy them, but only from our suppliers,” she explained. “I think that’s what Ashley said.”
Caleb nodded to Wendy. “Why can’t Wendy be a supplier?”
“I don’t know ... I mean, I’d have to ask Ashley.” Crystal frowned.
“Did you call her?”
“Well, no...”
“Why not?” Caleb demanded.
“She said she’s busy today. Getting ready for Thanksgiving and—”
“Never mind.” Caleb turned back to Wendy. “Come with me.” Instead of leading her to the front door, he led her toward the back of the store.
“Where are we going?” Feeling awkward, Wendy glanced back at Crystal in time to see her frown intensifying. But Crystal didn’t try to stop them.
Caleb opened a door. “Go ahead,” he told her.
“But what about that woman—”
“It’s okay,” he assured her.
She continued on, going into what appeared to be a small storage room. Tidy shelves filled with stacked boxes and bags lined the walls. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be back here,” she said nervously.
“Don’t worry.” He led her past a counter with packing materials.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded as he opened another door.
“Come on,” he urged, tugging her into a darkened space that smelled vaguely of fresh cut wood.
“What are you do—”
“Give me a minute and I’ll explain.” He flicked on a switch and the roomy space was illuminated with long strips of fluorescent lights. She looked around to see what appeared to be a well-equipped woodworking shop, complete with workbenches, fancy-looking tools, and stacks of miscellaneous shapes of wood. “What’s this? Are we trespassing?”
He grinned, waving a hand. “Thisis my woodshop.”
“Yourwoodshop?”
He led her to a heavy worktable and pulled out a stool. “Have a seat.”
She started to protest, but curiosity took over, so she sat down.
“I’d like a better look at your shells.” He sat across from her and, sliding her box across the table, immediately began to sort through them, actually identifying many of them by name. “Wow, there are some beauties in here, Wendy.”
“How is thisyourwoodshop?” She stared in wonder at the well-organized space. “I thought you worked at the hardware store.”
“Well, not actually. Although I did work there one summer as a kid, about twenty years ago. I just wanted to help you yesterday. So I made myself useful.” He held a conch shell up to the light, letting out a low whistle. “Nice.”
“But what about—”
“You see, I run a furniture shop. It’s called Driftwood,” he explained. “And this is—”
“Driftwood?” she echoed. “I looked in the window yesterday—it’s a beautiful store.”
“Thank you.” He smiled, then waved to the workbench and tools. “This is where I make the furniture.”
“Youmake the furniture?”
