The Carpenter & the Queen

by Michelle Lashier

  “But isn’t this from your business?” she asked.

  “Bought a new one yesterday—more power—and I thought I’d give you the old one.”

  “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

  “It’s why all the ladies love me.”

  “And why you’re still single.”

  Garrett pulled a box out from under the tarp and pushed it into her arms. “We’d better get these out of the wet. And by the way, I’m starving.”

  “Dinner’s ready when you are, your highness.”

  “I’ll show you how to use this after we eat.”

  “I’m shivering in anticipation.”

  The box wasn’t heavy, so Claire was able to slip out of her boots in the entry way before carrying the box through the house to her bedroom. She didn’t feel like carrying everything upstairs right now. Sam was clutching his PlayStation controller, jumping up and down with excitement as he shot droids in his Star Wars game. Garrett would have something to say about that.

  A snow blower wasn’t exactly the kind of gift Claire wanted. Garrett wanted her to have useful things, which was great, but Claire wished that just once, someone would give her something just because she wanted it, not because it served any useful purpose. Right now, what she wanted more than anything was an evening to herself, although admitting that made her feel guilty. Garrett was here to help her, after all. But she would have to do everything he wanted, regardless of what had previously been on her agenda. One of these days, she would stop giving in. She would set boundaries and tell Garrett when she didn’t want him to come over.

  A new drawing was clear in her mind. She could see a woman with long hair and large eyes looking out between the iron bars of a prison cell. But with Garrett present for the next couple days, the picture would, appropriately, remain trapped in Claire’s mind.

  4

  Summer 1986, Lindberg, Michigan

  “Grandma, I’m going out for a while.”

  Claire Peterson, wearing cut-offs and a pink tank top, slung her backpack across her shoulders and opened the front door.

  “Have fun.” Her grandma, dressed in a housecoat and watching Days of Our Lives, waved from her recliner. “Will you be back in time for supper?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  When her grandma didn’t protest, Claire walked out the door, pulling her long blond hair back into a pony tail and securing it with the scrunchy she wore on her wrist.

  Her first week in Lindberg had been a flurry of chores—cleaning the storage shed, sweeping out the garage, washing curtains, and dusting all those places Grandma couldn’t reach anymore. She had picked strawberries and raspberries and helped make jam. Grandma was exhausted from the yard work this morning and wanted to rest for the afternoon. The remaining hours of daylight were Claire’s to spend as she chose.

  Not that there was much to choose from. Lindberg with its population of 2,500 boasted a library, pharmacy, grocery store, post office and a few little shops on Main Street. In her ten years of visits, Claire had been inside all these places many times and was on a first-name basis with Francine, the librarian. Claire also knew that the town teenagers were either working summer jobs or getting stoned in the park. There was little fear of getting caught since the town had one policeman.

  Life was pretty dull.

  A few years ago, she and Garrett had found a trail along the old train path and had followed it for several miles before turning around and going home. The trail followed a straight line through some swampy territory, rarely passing any form of civilization. She had caught tadpoles and turtles with Garrett in the swampy ponds along side the path, climbed up into deserted deer blinds, and spotted turkeys, deer, and rabbits galore. But that wasn’t what she had planned for today. One spot along the trail had fascinated her since the first time she saw it. That was where she was headed now.

  It took her forty-five minutes to get out of town and walk far enough to reach her destination. The trail banked up to meet the road, and in the parting of the trees, she could see the old house which, to her relief, hadn’t changed since last summer. The building possessed a character that a photograph couldn’t capture. Garrett had never understood her fascination with it. But now that she was alone, she could draw it and hopefully put onto paper the way that she felt when she looked at it.

  Dropping her backpack to the ground, she pulled out a blanket and spread it on the grass behind a wild lilac. The bush would provide her enough cover that no one could see her easily from the house or road but would allow her a good view of her subject. She pulled out her sketchpad and pastels and started drawing.

  She blocked in the two stories and peaked roof first, then the covered porch that spanned the front of the house, dropping down three steps to ground level. The addition jutted off the front to the right with a big fireplace at the end. The second floor had two windows together above the porch, then a single window on the section over the addition. With the major shapes in place, she filled in the front door centered under the porch with the single window on either side and the porch swing hanging by only one chain on the left. All the windows were closed and the shades pulled. Claire had never seen inside, but mystery surrounded the house and its inhabitants—if there were any. Once she had seen a truck pull into the driveway and disappear below and behind. She knew from earlier visits when she had walked up the road that the driveway dropped and circled around to the basement garage which opened up behind.

  No one had landscaped the yard. What little grass existed was brown and tufted. She pulled out her pastels and began filling in the details she had drawn. The wooden siding was gray and cracking, the porch missing a few boards, but there was something romantic about the place.

  Claire’s aunt and uncle had traveled to Great Britain when she was a child, returning with hundreds of slides of castle ruins. Claire vividly remembered studying a photo of Raglan Castle in Wales as her aunt described their visit on a windy and rainy spring day.

  “There was an aura of sadness about the place,” her aunt had said, “as though it had seen happy days long ago and was in continual mourning.”

  The rest of the family had laughed. Claire’s father had teased his sister-in-law about her feelings toward a “bunch of old rocks,” but Claire understood. She had always wished for her own castle, but since castles didn’t exist in America, she had to create them in her imagination. A stand of birch trees could be the remnants of towers from a white fortress. A single chimney standing alone in a field became the remnants of a great hall.

  This house she sketched gave her the same feeling, as though something grand had once occurred there, and now the place was in continual mourning. Who lived in this house? What had their lives been like? What had changed in their fortunes to turn it into this old, magnificent ruin?

  She imagined the building was at least a hundred years old, much older than the pre-fabricated dwelling her parents had just moved the family into. Someday, she would own a house just like this and fix it up. She would make it her castle. Claire wanted a place with history where she could recreate a romantic past and build an even more romantic future.

  She had been drawing for almost an hour when she heard the backdoor open and a dog bark. Excited at the prospect of seeing the inhabitants, she set down her pad and watched. On the lawn space to the left of the house, a tall boy with sandy brown hair emerged, carrying a hay bale. A caramel-colored dog trotted behind him. The boy set the bale down about fifty yards back from the road then went back behind the house again and soon returned carrying another bale. She guessed he was older than Garrett, but not by much. He disappeared behind the house a third time, now carrying a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a paper target. After securing the target to the bales, he carried his equipment to the edge of the dirt road.

  Now Claire could get a good look at him. He wore jeans and hiking boots with a brown Billabong T-shirt. As he waxed his bow string, she could see his Roman nose, square chin, and sandy
brown hair falling across his forehead. His shoulders were wide, his biceps thick, his skin tan. He was beautiful.

  He ordered the dog to sit beside him, out of firing range. He strung an arrow, pulled back, and released. Claire knew nothing about proper form for archery, but whatever this guy was doing looked good. His neck was thick, and she admired the way the muscles in his arms stood out when he drew the bow. Now here was an advantage to spending the summer in the country that she had not considered. How many of her girlfriends working the counter at McDonalds were watching a handsome guy shoot arrows in his backyard? None, she was sure. Was this exquisite creature the only inhabitant of this romantic dwelling? Suddenly, the house she had always felt a special attachment to became even more magical.

  She watched him shoot for a while, already imagining how he would look in a tuxedo at their wedding. He rarely hit the bull’s eye, but the arrows burrowed in the hay bales most of the time. One skidded over and embedded itself in the ground somewhere in the yard behind. He called the dog over to help him look, and Claire lost sight of them in the backyard. Glancing at her watch, she saw she should go back soon if she wanted to stop at the library before it closed. She suddenly had an interest in archery and hoped to find a book or two about it.

  The boy reappeared a few moments later, holding a tennis ball and working the dog up to a frenzy as he pretended to throw it. Laughing, he tossed the ball back behind the bales where the dog retrieved it eagerly. After repeating this process a few times, the boy looked up and down the dirt road, then, to Claire’s dismay, threw the ball in her direction. He couldn’t see her, could he? The ball bounced about ten feet beyond her down the trail. She kept still, hoping the dog would just go after the ball and leave her alone.

  Intent on its mission, the dog didn’t see her immediately, but on its way back to its master, it picked up her scent, dropped the ball, and barked repeatedly.

  “What is it, Toby? Found a squirrel?”

  Claire tried to shush the dog, but it just kept barking. She saw the boy coming across the street and panicked. She rose to her feet, causing the dog to bark even more.

  The boy reached the dog, followed its gaze, then jumped when he spotted Claire.

  “Hi.” Claire tried to smile.

  He looked as startled as she did. They stared at each other for several awkward seconds as Toby continued to bark. Finally, the boy broke his gaze and called the dog off.

  Now that he was closer, Claire could see he was even cuter than she had thought from a distance.

  “Sorry I scared you,” he said.

  “No, no. My fault.”

  He glanced at her blanket where her box of pastels and the drawing of the house were clearly visible. Feeling an explanation was necessary, Claire spoke.

  “I was drawing, and your house is really interesting. I didn’t mean to spy . . .”

  “Can I see?”

  With a shrug, she picked up the notebook and handed it to him.

  “I didn’t know you lived here—who lived here,” Claire stammered. “I just wanted to draw it, so I was out here when you came out and I . . . well, I . . .”

  “You’re good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m Will.” He stuck out his hand.

  “Claire.”

  She pulled her hand back shyly after the shake and tucked her hair behind her ear.

  “Do you live around here?” Will asked.

  “I’m staying with my grandma for the summer.” Then, fearful this made her sound too young, she added, “I work for her around the house to earn money for the school year. I’m from Farmington Hills.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Outside of Detroit.”

  “I’m from Toledo. I’m just visiting my dad before I head off to college.”

  “That’s cool.”

  She bit her lip as several awkward seconds passed.

  “I should get going.” She knelt to gather her stuff.

  “More work?”

  “No, I’ve got to get to the library before it closes and pick up a book.”

  Will knelt down beside her, put the box top on her pastels, and handed them to her as she shoved her supplies into her backpack. Having him so close made her blush.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime, then.”

  “Yeah.” She smiled. “Maybe.”

  She slung the backpack over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Will.” She raised a hand in farewell, and started down the path walking sideways, unwilling to turn her back on him completely.

  “See you, Claire.”

  She gave him one last smile as he grinned and crossed the road back to his house.

  Her grandma didn’t ask her about her afternoon, and Claire didn’t tell her. She went to bed early, allowing her grandma to believe she was tired, but once the guest room door was shut, Claire stayed up late sketching a boy shooting arrows in the courtyard of a medieval castle.

  5

  January 2005, Lindberg, Michigan

  “I can come next weekend if you want me to,” Garrett said as he climbed into his truck Monday afternoon. Claire stood on the sidewalk holding her unzipped coat closed.

  “I’ll be fine, Garrett. Sam and I just have to get our bearings.”

  “Say the word, and I’ll be here with boxes and the trailer to move you back.”

  “I’m where I want to be.”

  “I just don’t want you to think that you have to be here. The will didn’t say you had to keep it.”

  “I know. I want to keep it.”

  Garrett eyed the house with a frown. “There’s a lot of work to be done. You know I’ll help with whatever—“

  “I know.” She smiled.

  Why couldn’t men understand what a woman wanted without her having to spell it out? She wasn’t opposed to dropping hints in order to help a guy a long, but clueless men exasperated Claire, her brother most of all.

  * * * * *

  “We’re registering you for school today,” Claire told Sam. Garrett had just left, and they were unpacking Sam’s books and putting them on the shelves in his room.

  “Aw, man!” Sam wrinkled his nose.

  “You don’t want to repeat the third grade because you missed something.”

  “I know all the third grade stuff already. I was the smartest kid in my class.”

  “Well, this is a new school and the rules are different.”

  “Mom,” Sam’s voice dripped with disdain, “all schools have the same rules. Don’t run in the hallways. Obey the teacher. Keep your hands to yourself. Stuff like that.”

  “True, but the way the kids behave will be different. You’re the new kid, so you’ll have to learn the way they do things here and fit in.”

  Sam shrugged. Claire could tell he had heard all he was going to hear, so there wasn’t much point in continuing her lecture. She changed the subject instead.

  “Have you decided what color you want to paint your room?”

  “I can’t decide if it should be green or blue.”

  “We could do both. Maybe blue down below, then a light green up top.”

  Sam grunted his approval.

  “We’ll get paint while we’re out today, then, and some wallpaper remover.”

  She glanced at the yellowed wallpaper with faded vines and shuddered. No wonder the kid was having trouble sleeping.

  “Can I play now?”

  He had just put the last book into the shelf and looked at her expectantly.

  “Go toss the box in the garage and then you may.”

  “I don’t like to go down there. It’s creepy.” Seeing that Claire didn’t look convinced, Sam added, “There are spiders down there.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll take it.”

  “I’m going to have a battle. Will you play with me?”

  “In a while. I need to look through the boxes in my room and figure out what to do with them. Set up my side for me, OK?”

  Sam grinned mischievou
sly. “I’m going to plant spies in your fort.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  She left his room while he was still pulling his plastic green army men and Legos out of the closet.

  Of the six boxes sitting in her room, Claire already knew two she wouldn’t unpack—the box of special baby clothes she had saved from Sam’s first year and her wedding dress wrapped in tissue paper. Another three boxes were books that would go on the shelves of her library wall upstairs. Using the open blade of her scissors, she cut through the tape of one box to look inside. She smiled at what she found—her collection of books on the Middle Ages, from Robin Hood to jousting, castles to cottages, fairy tales to guidebooks she and Will had bought in their travels. All these had to come back out. She shoved the boxes off to the side, prepared to carry them upstairs later.

  When she popped open the last box, Claire felt like it was Christmas again. The box held all her souvenirs, the things she had packed for the move back to Michigan and never had room for. She unrolled a taped bundle of tissue paper to reveal eighteen pewter soldiers.

  “Hey, Sam? Come here for a second.”

  She heard the thump-thump-thump of Sam’s feet as he ran into her room.

  “Look at these.” She laid the pewter soldiers on the bed. “Your daddy used to collect these when we were traveling around Europe.”

  Sam leaned in to examine them more closely. “Those are cool.”

  “Yeah, I know. He’s got soldiers from Germany, England, Wales, and France, I think.” Claire put her hand on Sam’s back and rubbed it. “He always intended for you to have them when you were old enough. You can play with them, if you want.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Though maybe when you aren’t using them, we can put them out to look at. What do you think?”

  Sam scooped the soldiers into his hands and said, “My side just got reinforcements.”

  He raised his eyebrows repeatedly, Groucho Marx style, making Claire laugh.