My business wasn’t glamorous, but it paid my bills.
I lived in a one-bedroom apartment fifteen minutes from the shop. I called my mother every Sunday, although I hadn’t visited her in Oregon for eight months. My father had died when I was nineteen, and since then, I’d learned to handle most things by keeping my head down and my hands busy.
Wood was easier to understand than people.
A crooked joint had a reason.
A damaged board could be repaired.
A piece of furniture never accused you of not loving it enough because you spent three hours finishing a client’s order instead of taking photographs of dinner.
People, unfortunately, were more complicated.
I’d spent four years with a woman named Tasha Reed, and by the time I finally walked away, I had almost forgotten what it felt like to make a decision without wondering how she’d react.
Tasha was twenty-eight when our relationship ended. She was beautiful, charismatic, and wonderfully entertaining when she wanted to be. She could walk into a restaurant and make everyone at the table feel as though they’d been invited into something special.
