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“Measurements, yes. And we should talk about design details. Leg style, edge treatment, finish.” Nico hesitated, then added, “I usually ask for half up front, but Sarah’s recommendation... I trust her judgment.”

“She said you were the best furniture maker in Boston.”

“Sarah’s a good friend.” Nico’s cheeks flushed, and I found the reaction unexpectedly charming. “But she’s also right. I am the best.”

The matter-of-fact confidence should have been arrogant. But coming from Nico, as he stood in his workshop surrounded by the evidence of his skill, it came across as honest.

“Good. I want the best.”

We spent the next twenty minutes on details. Table dimensions, the number of leaves for expansion, whether I wanted the chairs to have arms. Nico asked more questions than I’d expected. Details about my house, my lifestyle, how I planned to use the furniture. It was less like a sales consultation and more like a collaboration.

“I should probably let you get back to work,” I said eventually, though I was reluctant to leave the warm cocoon of the workshop. “You did say you were closed.”

“It’s fine.” Nico was sketching rough dimensions on a piece of paper, his handwriting neat and precise. “I usually work late anyway.”

“Fewer interruptions?”

“Something like that.” Nico looked up from his notes, and I caught him studying my face again. “Most people don’t understand what I do here.”

“And I do?”

“You asked about the joinery. You noticed the grain matching and talked about your grandmother.” He paused, then added, “Most people see furniture. You see the work.”

That put me right back in Nana’s barn, sawdust in the air while she worked. “My grandmother would’ve loved meeting you. She always said craftsmanship was a dying art.”

“What was her name?”

“Mary Sullivan. Everyone called her Nana Mary.” I smiled at the memory. “She had these incredible hands that could fix anything, build anything. She taught me that wood talks to you if you listen.”

“Does it?” Nico’s voice was soft. “Talk to you?”

I met his eyes. “Sometimes. When I’m lucky.”

I didn’t want to leave, but I had no good reason to stay, either. Whatever was building between us had stopped feeling like simple appreciation for good work, or the relief of being understood. And between that and the memories, I didn’t know where to put myself.

“I should go,” I said, since it seemed safe, but I didn’t move.

“The table will be ready early in the New Year,” Nico said. “Come by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have sketches for you, and I’ll pull the boards I have in mind. You should see the wood before I start cutting.”

“Great.”

Nico walked me to the door, and I grabbed my coat on the way. At the top of the stairs, I turned back.

“Thank you. For taking the commission, but also for...” I paused, trying to decide exactly what I needed to say. “For understanding what I’m looking for.” That didn’t quite cover everything I was thinking, but it would do.

“Furniture that tells a story,” Nico said.

“Exactly.”

I was halfway down the stairs when Nico called my name. I looked back to find him silhouetted in the workshop doorway, backlit by Christmas lights.

“Your grandmother was right. About craftsmanship being a dying art. But some of us are still trying to keep it alive.”

“I know. And I want to do my part.”

As I walked to my truck, Nico’s words echoed in my head. The memory of those blue eyes burned into my mind. Driving home through the festive streets, I was already planning my next visit to the workshop.

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