“You made that?”
“I did.”
She approached slowly, running her fingertips over the top edge.
“Walnut?”
“American black walnut.”
“Beautiful.”
She examined the joints, the finish, and the back panel. I watched her face as she studied it.
Most people looked at handmade furniture and saw a price tag.
Diane looked at the hours, the choices, and the care.
She seemed to understand that every clean edge represented something I’d refused to rush.
“Where would you like it?” I asked.
She looked toward the reading-room window.
“There.”
I carried it inside and positioned it beneath the window. She insisted on helping me level it, although I told her I could manage.
When we finished, she stepped back.
Sunlight fell across the walnut, bringing out the dark ribbons in the grain.
Diane stood quietly for several seconds.
Then she turned to me.
“You don’t know what you’ve given me.”
“It’s a bookshelf.”
