“Whatever people are willing to pay me to make.”
“That’s a very diplomatic answer.”
“It’s also an honest one.”
She smiled.
I told her about my shop, the customers who wanted handmade furniture but expected factory prices, and the satisfaction of finishing a piece that had taken weeks to build.
She listened without checking her phone or interrupting to tell me about herself.
It was such a small thing.
Yet I couldn’t remember the last time a woman had given me her undivided attention without expecting something in return.
She made omelets with fresh basil and toasted bread with butter. We talked about the house, the neighborhood, and the small garden visible through the kitchen windows.
Eventually, I asked about the photographs on the mantel.
One showed Diane standing beside a tall man with silver beginning to show at his temples. He had one arm around her waist, and both of them were laughing at something outside the frame.
