The Carpenter & the Queen

by Michelle Lashier

“Why would someone want to buy a $600 plaster . . . thing . . . when it’s displayed on a shelf made by someone in Taiwan?” Paul was surprised at his own vehemence. “Packaging should count.”

  “It does,” Linda agreed. “That’s why you’re in the tuxedo.”

  She kissed him, and Paul allowed himself to forget shelves, packaging, and sculptures. Linda herself was the only piece of art he really needed.

  On the taxi ride home, Linda didn’t talk much. Paul kept his arm around her and knew tomorrow he would do as Linda wanted and buy her the ring.

  7

  February 2005, Lindberg, Michigan

  Paul wasn’t surprised when he woke up to see more snow in the drive. His leg had ached all day yesterday as the front moved in. He hated February. Miserable month. March was better. It usually brought a warm spell, enough to whet his appetite for summer before the snow returned intermittently until late April or early May. He frowned into his cereal bowl, as if it were somehow responsible for Midwest winters. After eating, he slipped into the garage from the entrance off the kitchen and turned on the propane heater to warm up the room before he started work.

  His house, the only one on this block at the edge of the town’s official limits, was tiny, just two bedrooms, one bath, and an attached garage. The yard was easy to keep up, the driveway short so he didn’t have to shovel much. Inside, the place was clean but sparse. He had invested all his money in his tools and the generator in the backyard, the one luxury he allowed himself, given the frequent power outages he had experienced in his three years’ living there. While his neighbors whined about the utility company, he flipped a switch in the garage and had full power and heat. Paul had spent too many years working outside in all kinds of weather to now be at its mercy indoors as well.

  He kept his computer in the spare bedroom with his packaging supplies set up on several boards laid across the arms of a futon. He put great care into how his product looked when the customer opened the box. Presentation was one valuable thing he had learned from Linda. Each chess set he made was packed inside a folding wooden box which, when opened and the hollow part turned under, revealed the game board with its inlay of mahogany and oak. The inside of the box was carefully padded with a layer of foam, divided by foam strips to form the separate compartments. Then, he covered the foam with black stain Beth had helped him buy at a discount fabric store. A sheet of cardstock printed with the game instructions lay over the top of one side, allowing the box to fold closed while still keeping the pieces in place. Yes, Paul was as proud of the packaging as he was of his pieces.

  He settled into the desk to check his email, propping his leg on a padded stool he kept close by for that purpose. There was a PayPal notification for the standard chess set. He glanced at his watch. He could package it up and have it sent out today. Fast shipping always got him high ratings, along with the quality of his product, of course.

  Three other new messages awaited him. His brother-in-law Richard had forwarded another email of off-color jokes. Nora had sent a link to a new Internet dating site a friend of hers heard about. Paul closed both messages without replying.

  Making ornamental chess pieces for coffee tables was not exactly a life-changing profession. Paul missed carpentry’s practicality. However, he had no intentions of going back. Still, working online and never seeing his customers robbed him of his work’s greatest pleasure—watching people enjoy what he had made. He liked it when they rubbed their hands across the shelves or cabinets, admiring the finish, the grain, the symmetry. This was something Linda had never understood. He wished that just once in their marriage she had admired the china hutch he had built for her more than she did the expensive china inside. Simple things could be more beautiful than the complicated.

  Paul tried to shake off memories of Linda as he opened his last email. The subject line triggered his philosophical nature: “Can you replace a missing queen?”

  In a chess game, once a player’s queen was captured, his chances of winning were severely limited, although not altogether stymied. But regardless of one’s experience, the loss of this valuable piece could cripple game strategy. He opened the email and read.

  Dear Mr. Sawyer:

  When I was a boy, my grandfather had a hand-carved, wooden Robin Hood chess set. Many years have passed, and now the set is mine. The Sheriff of Nottingham’s side is complete, but the outlaw side has lost its queen. Your website mentions you do some custom work. Could you give me a quote for creating a replacement? I don’t remember what the original queen looked like, only that she was Maid Marian. I’ve attached photos of the other pieces for you to see. Can you help me?

  Paul opened the photos and studied them, frowning in thought. The set would require a degree of carving that he occasionally played around with but had never marketed. This was no simple matter of turning a dowel and adding a little decorative work at the top. This was a sculpture out of wood. Paul swallowed hard.

  The set was exquisite and would be difficult to match. The customer had included a photo of the sheriff’s queen—a witch with detailed and grotesque features and clothing. The Maid Marian piece would have to match this witch in craftsmanship but surpass her in beauty.

  Paul rubbed his chin in consideration. He had to start with a design of some kind, but the customer’s photos gave him nothing to go on. It was too bad the man didn’t want another witch. Paul could imagine plenty of those, most of them variations of Linda. She had been angry a lot, there at the end, and when she yelled, Paul had thought of her as a queen of the underworld, an evil spirit who raped his soul.

  He caught himself, as he always did when thinking of Linda. She hadn’t gotten that way by herself. Women, when left alone, turned hard and crusty, like paint when the lid was left off. All those long nights, especially at the hospital, when she had nothing left to say and he had four years’ worth of thoughts he could have shared but didn’t.

  Well, time to get to work. He would do some research and see what he came up with. As he wrapped up the set that was going out that day, he considered what he could use for inspiration for the piece. A regular web surfer, he knew many sites displaying chess sets. He also owned a whole shelf of reference books. But Paul already knew he wouldn’t find his answer there. This job would require new resources, and the logical place to start was the library. It was right next door to the post office, so it wouldn’t be out of his way. He would stop there after mailing the package, that is, if he could get away.

  Paul dreaded going to the post office, mostly because of Mona the postmistress. Most people in a small town claimed they liked the idea of walking into a bank or post office and having the people there greet them by name. Paul had enjoyed this as well when he moved to Lindberg three years ago, he remembered ruefully. Mona had questioned him closely when he first signed up for his post office box, and now, she knew everything about him—at least, as much as anyone in town knew, and Paul guessed what people in town knew came from Mona. She wasn’t one to keep information to herself.

  He didn’t dislike her. He didn’t think she was unattractive either. She just wasn’t his type. Maybe she would be called out on special assignment today, and Irma, the stooped little old lady who filled in sometimes, would be there. Irma didn’t talk much because her hearing was so bad she had to shout to hear herself. Any communication she could understand had to be shouted as well. Paul could hear just fine, but since he didn’t talk much, he and Irma were always able to settle business quickly, if not quietly.

  He drove his pickup along the dirt roads that dissected Michigan’s lower peninsula into squares, just like a board, and Paul pondered if his own methodical and average movements weren’t closer to that of a pawn than to some nobler piece. He steered his pickup through snow drifts on his way into town. Everything happened slowly in this small town. That was part of the reason he had moved here. Silence. Reflection. Distance. He could study life without having to play it.

  He pulled in front of the post office,
parked, then limped inside, his package under his arm.

  An older gentleman was at the counter, buying a money order. Mona’s voice screeched as she tried to make herself heard. Paul avoided eye contact and went to a side table to fill out the priority mail slip.

  Far too soon, the old man was finished, and Mona caught sight of Paul.

  “Another delivery today?”

  Giving a closed-lipped smile in response to the obvious question, he set the box and the accompanying slip on the counter and pulled out his wallet to pay.

  “More snow coming,” Mona said.

  He nodded.

  “I was thinking about you today.” She gave him a flirtatious look as she set the package in the canvas bin behind her. “Francine put out the fliers for more booths at the Corn Festival. I thought you might want to take out a booth this year for your chess sets.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “I had another idea, too.” Mona smirked, happy with herself. “There’s a craft fair every August in Canadian Lakes. You ought to check that out, too. Have you been up that way?”

  “A few times.”

  “You might need help running your booth, too,” Mona suggested. “I’m great with people and I wouldn’t mind giving you a hand, if you need it. Sometimes things get slow, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

  “Thanks. We’ll see how it goes.” He glanced at his watch. “Better go.”

  The sidewalks were still slushy. Paul picked his way carefully next door to the library. He didn’t need a new injury. He realized when he opened the library door that he couldn’t remember if he had ever been inside.

  The activity and noise level startled him. A woman with two children in snow suits perused the fiction section. The children sucked lollipops and kicked each other with their snow boots. To the left, just in front of the small reference section, a bearded man in orange coveralls chewed his lip as he pecked out words on a computer keyboard. In the center of the room, an elderly lady conversed loudly with the librarian. Paul had not met her, but given her resemblance to Mona, her identity was easy to guess. Paul planned to lean against the counter until she was finished with her discussion about the Corn Festival. He glanced behind him to the children’s section and noticed a little boy with sandy blond hair and glasses. The boy wore headphones and turned the pages of a book. When he looked up, Paul smiled at him. The boy frowned.

  “May I help you?”

  The voice came from a woman, probably in her mid thirties, behind the counter, and one look at her caused Paul to inhale sharply. He noticed first the smile that illuminated her peachy complexion, then her eyes, glowing embers of dark brown. Her blond wavy hair was cut just above her shoulders, her bangs pinned to the side with a bobby pin. Her green silk blouse and tan suede jacket accentuated her curves. She tucked her hair behind her ear with her left hand. No wedding ring.

  “I’m hoping you can help me find some reference books with medieval pictures,” he said.

  “What type of pictures?”

  “Women mostly, especially anything related to Maid Marian.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  Paul set the printed photos of his customer’s pieces on the counter. “I need to make a queen that will match these.”

  She pulled the photos closer and examined them. “Wow!”

  “Yeah. I’ve got artistic license to do what I want, as long as it fits in with the rest.”

  “That’s quite the challenge. We’ve got some strategy books, but not many photos of sets . . . at least, that I know of.”

  “I’ve already checked my stuff at home. Something like this exists in pewter, but the design doesn’t help me.”

  “You’ll need some children’s books perhaps,” she suggested. “Maybe medieval clothing, paper doll books, prints of famous paintings . . .”

  “That’d be great.”

  She came out from behind the counter and motioned for him to follow her to the children’s section. As she passed the blond boy, she roughed his hair.

  “I thought I saw a castle book here,” she said. “That might have something.”

  The little boy had turned from his desk and was watching them. Paul noticed his brown eyes. Was this her son?

  “So, you’re an artist?” the woman asked.

  “I guess. I would have said carpenter.”

  “Jack of all trades, then?”

  He didn’t complete the phrase. “I’m a rare breed.”

  She studied the shelves, pulled off a few books, then held one up to him. “I think the people are too small in this one.”

  Paul squinted at the busy page with characters that were the perfect size for Where’s Waldo? “I already need glasses. . .”

  She grinned and handed him another. “This might be too cartoony.”

  Paul agreed. He thumbed through the other choices, but none held the inspiration he required.

  “What other options do we have?” he asked. “Isn’t there an inter-library loan, or something?”

  “Governor cut that in the budget, otherwise I could have gotten you some great stuff.”

  “So, what are my options then?” “Drive to Grand Rapids?” He was already figuring the cost of gas into his estimate.

  “Maybe not,” she said, lowering her voice. “I’ve got some medieval picture books and Robin Hood stuff at home. I could bring it by tomorrow and you could take a look at it—in here, of course.”

  “That’s very generous of you.” Paul felt pleased at the promise of seeing her again. “Are you a medieval historian?”

  “Amateur enthusiast. Well . . . geek.”

  “Are you one of those people who wear the costumes to Renaissance Fairs?”

  She laughed in a musical way that did not sit with Paul’s preconceptions of how a librarian should laugh. “That’s an interesting question.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of Paul’s mouth. She was flirting with him. If only he could think of something clever to say, but his wit was paralyzed. He couldn’t bring himself to take it further. “I’d appreciate anything you could show me. When should I come by?”

  “Before lunch would be best.”

  She smiled so freely. He could get used to such a smile.

  “My name’s Paul, by the way.”

  “I’m Claire. And that’s Sam.”

  The little boy lifted his head at mention of his name.

  “Snow day,” Claire explained.

  “How old are you, Sam?”

  Claire raised both eyebrows at her son, prompting him to answer. Sam turned back to his book, and Claire sighed. “Eight.”

  “Does he play chess?”

  “Oh, he plays. His strategy is creative at times, but he’s getting better.”

  “I’ve got nieces who are the same way.” Paul surprised himself at his willingness to volunteer information. “I figure it’s a learning curve.”

  “In the meanwhile, I’m losing badly,” Claire admitted.

  “Join the club.”

  Paul knew this was the time to leave, while he still sounded witty.

  “See you tomorrow morning, then. And thanks for your help.”

  As he drove home, Paul would not allow himself to consider anything in too great of detail too early. However, he was looking forward to returning to the library the next day, and it was the first time in a long while that Paul had looked forward to anything.

  8

  “Caught a live one, have you?”

  Francine nodded toward the library door Paul had just exited.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Claire was still so surprised at herself that she was unwilling to admit anything.

  “I saw you flirting.”

  “I was only being friendly. Good customer service, you know.”

  Francine didn’t look convinced. “He’s divorced. From Chicago. My sister’s had the biggest crush on him forever.”

  Claire’s heart sank a little. “I hope that works out for he
r.”

  “No, you don’t,” Francine teased. “She’d talk him to death anyway. She’d talk any man into an early grave.”

  Claire chuckled as she pulled some books out of the return bin and checked them back in.

  “You dated much?” Francine asked.

  “Not at all.”

  “Oh, come on! In four years?”

  “Nope.”

  “What’s with men these days? You’re a beautiful woman.”

  “I’ve got a lot of men in my life,” Claire said with a shrug. “Sam and Garrett keep me busy.”

  “That’s a rotten excuse.”

  “And I still miss Will.”

  “If you’re waiting for that to change, you’ll be single the rest of your life.”

  When Claire and Sam got home from the library that afternoon, Sam ran to his PlayStation, tired of a day spent looking at words. Claire climbed up the stairs to the room where her books were now organized into new bookshelves. The medieval books sat on the second shelf from the bottom.

  Taking her own books to a library customer probably set a bad precedent. Claire had been too forward as well. She hadn’t meant to be, but something inside her switched on when she was talking to Paul. Instantly, she felt guilty and somehow disloyal to what she and Will had shared. Many of these books they had bought together. She couldn’t show them to someone else, even if they weren’t about her.

  But weren’t they? Wasn’t that why she had bought them—because she needed to believe that her life was a fairy tale—or could be?

  She wished she hadn’t offered to share, but she couldn’t break her word. And what could it hurt to have Paul come around the library? She pulled out several books, stopped by her desk drawer to grab a pad of sticky notes, and went downstairs to her room. She would enjoy looking through the stack tonight once Sam was in bed. Tomorrow, she would keep the books in a bag, and if Paul didn’t come, then no one had to know she had brought them.

  After supper, Sam wanted to play chess. Claire wondered if his overhearing her conversation with Paul had inspired the desire. After he had cleared the table, Sam went to get the game while she loaded the dishwasher. When she joined him in the dining room, he was just setting up the pieces.