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Nico

By six-thirty, I was already at the kitchen counter with a pencil, drawing Jake Sullivan’s hands.

Not the table. His hands. I’d spent less than a half hour with him, most of it on specifications and grain. But all I wanted to sketch was the way his fingers had traced the edge of the cherry.

What else did those fingers trace?

Get it together, Stolyarov.

I set the pencil down, poured a cup of coffee, and tried to focus on my deadlines. There were three commissions due before the twenty-third. I was already working the dining table for one of Sarah’s clients that I’d promised for January. Plus, there was what needed to be built for Jake. There was no time for getting lost in a hockey player’s green eyes or his unexpected appreciation for bookmatched grain.

The coffee wasn’t even cool enough to drink, and I was already sketching his table before I’d even gone down to the shop. Eight seats. Cherry, like the piece he’d admired. Something that would last generations. Something that would tell a story.

Furniture that tells a story.

That’s what he’d said. And the way he looked at me when he said it went straight to my heart. Like he understood exactly what I meant about wood having memory.

Most of my clients didn’t say things like that. They wanted furniture the way they wanted appliances: functional, attractive, and delivered on schedule. They valued the craftsmanship in an abstract way, much as they might a painting or a piece of jewelry. Beautiful objects that enhanced their lives without requiring any real understanding of the work that went into them.

Jake had asked about joinery techniques. He’d clocked the grain matching. He’d talked about his grandmother teaching him to listen to the wood.

I grabbed my travel mug, the morning’s sketches, and headed downstairs to the workshop. The building was quiet, and I had the kind of solitude I did my best work in.

I flipped on the shop lights and surveyed my current projects. Mrs. Whitfield’s rocking chair needed final sanding and three coats of varnish. The decorative boxes for the Marlborough Street client were cut and needed assembly and hardware installation. The small side table for the Andersons was nearly complete, needing only final assembly and varnish.

All of it due in less than two weeks. All of it represented the difference between making rent this month and having to ask my parents for money. I’d sworn I wouldn’t do that after they’d already sacrificed so much to help me get the workshop established.

But instead of reaching for sandpaper or finishing brushes, I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. I sketched a new version of Jake’s table.

A table to seat eight wanted about eight feet with the leaf in, six without it for every day—the size Jake had asked for. I’d already solved the top. I had a bookmatched set of cherry in the rack, cut from a single tree and saved for a project worthy of it. The base and eight chairs would need more, and sourcing cherry to match in December wouldn’t be quick. The joinery would have to be perfect. A table that size needed to be rock-solid, or it would wobble and eventually fail.

I saw it clearly in my mind. Clean lines, maybe a subtle taper to the legs. Hand-cut dovetails where the aprons met them, because Jake would notice that kind of detail. A finish that would show off the cherry’s natural warmth while protecting it from the inevitable wear of daily use.

I was deep into chair sketches, and an hour had gone by before I looked up. The morning light was stronger now, slanting through the windows. I should knock out the sketch and get to work on the commissions that had due dates, not fantasize about Jake Sullivan’s reaction to furniture.

He’d be back this afternoon to finalize the specifications for his table. It’d be a professional consultation, just like with any other client.

Two hours later I’d done a dozen sketches. I’d never done that for any client’s initial consultation. I’d do what was needed, usually two ideas that I’d refine on the spot if a client asked for changes. For Jake, though, I’d gone through multiple concepts, some of which I hated and he’d never see. But I had five I’d put in front of him. I was also getting ready for his visit to show off my best lumber to go with the designs.

My phone buzzed with a text.

Nadya: Still thinking about the hockey player?

Sure, we’d talked about him last night over Thai takeout. But how could she possibly know what I was thinking from her own studio across the hall, even with our doors open? Then I looked around the workshop. I’d started sweeping the sawdust that had accumulated around the workbench. I didn’t usually clean up until the weekend, and yet I was doing it for him.

Nico: Working on his commission.

Nadya: Uh-huh. And the fact that you’ve been humming Christmas carols for the past hour?

Had I been humming? I couldn’t remember. Pocketing my phone, I forced myself to focus on Mrs. Whitfield’s rocking chair, running my hands along the curved back pieces to check for smoothness. I also wanted to double-check the fit of every joint before the final sanding and first coat of varnish.

Precision mattered. Patience mattered. These were the lessons my grandfather had drilled into me from the time I was old enough to hold a pencil. Rushing led to mistakes, and mistakes in woodworking were often permanent.

But as I worked through the morning, part of my mind kept going to this afternoon’s meeting. To Jake Sullivan coming to see what I’d planned for his table. To the way his eyes had lit up when he’d understood the technical details I’d explained.

I broke for lunch at noon, eating a sandwich while reviewing my sketches one more time. The designs were solid, with classic lines and enough detail work to showcase the cherry’s natural beauty. Jake would appreciate the subtlety, the way every element served both function and form.

My phone rang as I was finishing my coffee. Unknown number, but local area code.