“The one from the letters.”
Her heart skipped. “He told you about me?”
“Some. Not much.” Another pause. “Just called to wish him a Merry Christmas.”
Something in his voice caught her attention—a hesitation, a note of uncertainty beneath the gruff exterior. This wasn’t a casual call. This mattered to him.
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.” She glanced at the bathroom door, still closed. “He should be out soon, if you want to wait.”
“That’s alright. I can call back later.” But he didn’t hang up. “So. Maggie. What do you do?”
“I build things. I have a TV show—well, I did. It’s called Magnolia Builds.” She shifted on the bed, tucking her legs beneath her. “I teach people how to create and renovate their own spaces.”
“TV, huh?” Interest sparked in his voice. “I’ve been working on some built-ins for my living room. Nothing fancy, but I wanted something sturdy.”
“What kind of wood are you using?”
“Oak. Got a good deal from a buddy who had some rough-cut boards sitting around.”
“Solid choice. Harder to work with than pine, but it’ll last forever.”
“That’s what I figured.” His voice warmed fractionally. “Working on the joinery now. Not sure I’ve got the miters right on the corner shelves.”
Maggie leaned back against the pillows, settling in. “Miters can be tricky. You using a compound miter saw?”
“Yep. Table saw for the straight cuts.”
“Measure twice, cut once? Or are you more of a wing-it type?”
That earned her a full laugh, rusty like it didn’t get much use. “Try to measure, but sometimes the wood has other ideas.”
“Oh God, don’t I know it. I once had to redo an entire bookcase on camera because I rushed the measurements. Thedirector kept the cameras rolling while I cursed under my breath and started over. They used it in the final cut—said it made good television.”
“Sounds like my kind of show.” He chuckled again. “Most of these home shows make it look too easy. Like there’s never a board that warps or a screw that strips.”
“Or a drill bit that breaks halfway through.”
“Or a level that lies.”
She grinned, recognizing the same dry humor Anson sometimes showed. “Exactly. I try to keep it real. Show when things go wrong. People appreciate that.”
“They ought to.” He paused, and she heard him take a breath. “So you’re in Montana now? With Anson?”
“Yes.”
“It’s good he’s got someone. He’s had a rough time of it.”
Maggie tightened the flannel around her. “He’s special. Worth every rough patch.”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “He is.”
The bathroom door opened, and Anson emerged in a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around his hips, his beard now tamed, and his hair combed back from his face. When he saw her with the phone, he froze.
“Oh, here he is now,” she told Wendell, then mouthed, “Your dad,” and held out the phone.
Something flickered across his face—not quite anger, not quite pain—and his jaw tightened as he accepted the phone from her. He took it off speaker and raised it to his ear. “Dad.”
She watched the transformation happen right before her eyes. The relaxed, open Anson who’d made love to her with such abandon shut down completely. His shoulders stiffened, his expression went blank, and even his voice lost all inflection.
