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“You came about a table.”
“And now, here we are.”
He nodded. “And it’s the best place. Merry Christmas.”
“I love it.” I handed him his package.
He examined it with his hands and found the corners through the wrapping. He traced around the package with his fingers. His eyes went wide, and he paused.
“Jake.”
“Open it.”
He methodically took the paper off and took the object in both hands. His thumbs ran under the long edge, which I recognized as something he did with a new object. Then he set it on the coffee table that we were sitting next to.
I’d made a shallow box that was twenty inches by fifteen and five inches deep. It had a lift-off lid and a lip with no hinge.
He read the wood before he read anything else.
“Maple.” He turned the box and found the thin cherry line running through the lid. “That’s your mother’s box.”
“The body is. The rest is offcuts—a little of everything we’ve made.”
He didn’t say thank you. He turned it over and checked the bottom, then stopped, his hand still flat on it.
“When did you make this?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been standing six feet away from you in that shop for days.” He focused on me. “When?”
“Over the past five or six days. Some of it happened with you across the room. Some of it happened in Tommy’s garage.”
“Tommy’s—”
“Those times I told you practice ran long.”
“You’re sneaky.” He returned to his inspection and lifted the lid. For a moment he stared at the lid, and I knew he’d found it.
“Nana Mary’s mark. I’m honored to have this.”
His accent came up, the consonants going soft the way they do when he feels something to his core. It meant the world to me to hear it.
He reached out, and I put my hand in his. We squeezed at the same time.
“After we did Mom’s jewelry box, I decided this should have it too. While you were in the shower last night, I snuck out to the shop to do it.” I smiled at him. “I was scared I’d mess it up, but it turned out.”
“It did.” He took his hand from mine so he could feel the inside of the box. Only five inches deep, too shallow for most tools. “Paper. It’s for paper.”
Tommy and I carried his tool chest out of that building. His grandfather’s tools sat along one side, rolled in canvas. Down the other side, jammed in with no care at all, was every random piece of paper he’d drawn on. Curled. Creased. All of it.
The chest was heavy because of the tools. It was full because of the paper.
“I’ve needed something like this. I end up with sketches everywhere since I don’t always sketch in a book.” He wiped his face with the heel of his hand. Then he crawled over to me and pushed me over. I allowed myself to fall back, and he crawled over me until his face was in front of mine. “I love you.”
He kissed me long and slow.
Nico
