The Carpenter & the Queen

by Michelle Lashier

  “I want to be black,” Sam said.

  “Are you sure? White goes first.”

  “Black is cooler,” Sam replied. “Darth Vader wears black.” He had just completed his row of pawns and now was working the second row.

  Claire started picking out her pieces and placing them on the board. “Your daddy liked to play chess. He learned how to play from a buddy of his when they were on temporary duty in Bosnia.”

  “Did Daddy win a lot?”

  “I don’t think so. He bought this set at the PX when he got back. Sometimes his friend came over to play in the evening, but I never stayed to watch.”

  “Because you were taking care of me?”

  “You weren’t born yet. I was painting. I used to do that a lot.”

  Sam looked up to the wall beside the table where one of Claire’s paintings, an early rendering of the castle Burg Eltz, hung.

  “I’ve never seen you do that,” he said.

  “Sure you have. It’s just been so long you don’t remember.”

  “There are a lot of things I don’t remember. Do you think there’s something wrong with my brain?”

  Claire held back a smile. “No. You’re fine. We just forget things. It’s what happens.”

  “So it’s okay that I forget stuff about Dad?”

  “You were so small,” Claire comforted. “There’s no way you could remember everything about him.”

  “Do you?”

  She bit her lip, considering her answer. “I remember the important things, like how much he loved me and you, how he loved being a soldier. I remember when you were a baby, he brought you in to where I was painting because he wanted you to see what I was doing.”

  She felt the familiar restriction in her chest as she recalled the memory. “I remember he said, ‘Sammy, this is what Mommy looks like when she’s happy.’”

  “Is that why you don’t paint anymore?”

  “You mean, because I’m not happy?”

  Sam nodded.

  “Different things make us happy at different times in our lives. It doesn’t mean we’ve lost anything.” At least, I hope not. “Now, let’s play a game. You start.”

  Sam frowned at the board then jumped out of his chair. “I’ll be right back.”

  She heard him pound up the stairs and pound back down a few seconds later. When he entered the dining room, he was carrying her queen.

  “I think she should play,” Sam said.

  Claire fought irritation that Sam thought of the piece as a toy. She wasn’t sure she wanted it handled so freely.

  “She’s prettier than the regular one,” Sam said. “I wanted her on my side.”

  “She doesn’t match the set,” Claire protested. “Daddy bought that for me a long time ago. I don’t really want us to play with her.”

  “Can I use her? Please? To help me remember Dad?”

  “You weren’t even born yet when I got her.”

  Sam let out a little whine and stuck out his bottom lip. “Please?”

  She sighed. “All right.”

  Throughout the game, Claire’s head was filled with memories of what it felt like to stand in front of an easel and pull beauty out of a blank canvas. She remembered how the wooden brush handle felt in her palm, how the bristles slid through mixed daubs of paint. She saw herself staring at a canvas as though it were a window into her past life. How many times, in those first days of grief, had she felt unseen eyes watching her every move? Perhaps she had sensed herself, four years later, looking back at that time of grief and moving on.

  A picture appeared suddenly before her eyes. Claire knew exactly what her first painting would look like. The scene was so clear in her head that it obliterated her view of the chess board.

  “I just won,” Sam announced.

  He moved his queen (her queen, really) to knock over her king. She looked at him in surprise.

  “How did you do that?”

  “I just captured your pieces and got your king.”

  “Oh. Good job.”

  Sam frowned in suspicion. “Were you paying attention?”

  “Honestly, no. I’m sorry. Let’s play another game, and I promise I’ll focus this time.”

  She did manage to keep her mind on Sam until he was in the shower. As he sang little songs to himself in the pounding water, Claire sat on the couch and stared at the opposite wall. It was a blank, boring, wasted space. With the right shelves or cabinets, this could be the perfect spot to display her European souvenirs and memories of Will while making room for the new life she and Sam were creating. She could call Garrett, and he would gladly pick up something at Ikea on his way from Detroit, but she rejected that for several reasons. This old house wasn’t exactly a good match for modern lines. Also, Garrett would want to install the pieces for her. While he was capable, the venture would take a great deal of time and disrupt her routine for longer than she would like. Claire needed something custom made that would blend in with the house’s architecture. She wondered what that would cost her or even where to look. She would ask around at the library tomorrow, see if anyone knew anything.

  Wait. Hadn’t Paul said he was a carpenter? Claire felt a little embarrassed for thinking of this, but it couldn’t hurt to ask, could it?

  A half hour later, with Sam tucked into bed, Claire retreated to her studio to sketch out her painting idea. She used a pencil this time to lightly sketch in the lines.

  She began at the top where the cathedral ceiling, obscured in the darkness of night, dropped down to a series of arches that separated the nave from the aisles on either side. Torches dimly illuminated the nave that traveled up from the bottom of the page to the center where the transept and nave intercepted. Claire sketched in the wooden screen and the candelabras that fought back the darkness from the side and behind the choir. In front of the screen, she roughed in a stone altar with a body on top. The body lay clad in armor, a helmet over the soldier’s face and a crusader’s tunic covering his chain maille. A long line along the middle of the figure became his sword, clutched in his gloved hands.

  Claire lifted her pencil from the page, forming ovals in the air to determine the placement of her last figure. Satisfied with the proportions, she drew a figure just to the right and front of the altar. With quick strokes the figure became a woman in a long dress, just in the act of collapsing in grief on the marble floor.

  Her eyes misted as she studied the drawing. It would be a painful painting, but one she must do. No more ideas would come until this one was realized. She could procrastinate forever, or she could paint this picture through her tears and move on to something happier.

  The blank canvas she had bought recently leaned against the wall. Claire set up her easel and placed the canvas on it. Then, she retrieved a binder clip from her desk drawer and attached her drawing to the top right corner. This was how she always began a new painting.

  She opened her paint box and took stock of the new tubes. She had what she needed to start. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was too late to begin that night, especially if she planned to go through the books for Paul before she went to sleep.

  The painting would have to wait until tomorrow . . . when Claire would start living her life in color again.

  9

  The next day, Paul arrived at the library at 9:30, a half hour after opening so he wouldn’t look desperate, but early enough that he could look at the books . . . and Claire. He wanted to ask her out for coffee or even lunch, but she probably had plans. Besides, where could he take her in this tiny town? The tables at the pizza place didn’t offer any privacy. The only other option was the restaurant that was part of the gas station. Taking an elegant woman like Claire to a truck stop didn’t seem appropriate, though.

  The library was quieter today when he entered. He scanned the children’s section and saw no sign of Sam. School was back in session, probably. Paul walked toward the counter but before he could reach it, Claire floated out from the back, a stack of books i
n her arms.

  “Good morning,” she greeted, and Paul could fantasize that she was happy to see him. “I’ve got a bunch of stuff for you to look at.”

  And she did. She had brought eleven books. All had yellow notes sticking out at various angles.

  “You’re welcome to look through everything, but I marked a few pictures I thought might be helpful.”

  Paul was touched but told himself any other worker would have done the same.

  She opened the top book to one of her marked pages. “This is the one I liked best, but you use whatever you need.” She grinned again, and Paul could see how easy it would be to flirt and try to catch her eye, but dopes like him were never good at charming women’s hearts.

  Glancing at the picture, he knew she was right. This was perfect. The painting was of Maid Marian, wearing a Lincoln green dress, brown boots, and a quiver slung over her shoulder. Her bow was drawn. Her long, dark hair flowed behind her in the wind. After settling at a table near the card index, Paul pulled out his sketch pad and began copying the drawing with notes about colors. He stole glances at Claire, who was sorting books and talking to the head librarian. When she glanced his direction, he dropped his gaze back to the sketch book, embarrassed. How old was he—fourteen?

  He thumbed through the remaining books and sketched some more, but not because he needed inspiration. He needed courage.

  At 11:45, Paul knew he could stall no longer. He had multiple sketches of Maid Marian and a few of Claire as well, although he had been careful to guard them when she walked by. All he had to do was offer to buy her lunch—just some subs at the gas station, a few cups of coffee. Very relaxed. No pressure. A way of saying thank you.

  He carefully stacked up the books and took them to the counter where Claire stood. “These were very helpful. Thanks a lot.”

  “No problem. Do you have a design?”

  “Yeah.”

  He could do it. He would do it. Just ask her.

  Claire looked at him expectantly. When he didn’t speak, she said, “Maybe you could bring the piece by when you’re done with it . . . before you send it off. I’d love to see it.”

  “I’ll do that,” he promised.

  Another pause.

  “Hey,” Paul began, “since you’re into medieval stuff, I imagine you’ve been up to see the castle at Canadian Lakes.”

  “There’s a castle there?” Her eyes brightened. “How far is it from here?”

  “About 45 minutes up M-66.”

  “I hadn’t heard about it. Sam and I just moved here a month ago. But I would love to take a look. How do I get there?”

  I could take you. This was the perfect opportunity, and the castle was hard to find unless one knew where one was going.

  “I’ll draw you a map,” he said, hating his cowardice. He opened his notebook from the back to guard against her seeing any of the drawings he had done of her. He turned to a blank sheet and drew a map while talking her through the directions. Then he tore out the page and handed it to her.

  “Excellent. Thank you. But what’s a castle doing in the middle of Michigan?”

  “Some contractor built it back in the ‘60s, meaning to live in it. But rumor has it he only lived there a couple years before selling it to the golf course.”

  “I wonder why he sold it,” Claire mused. “Sounds like it was his dream house.”

  “I don’t know.” Paul worried his bottom lip. “Maybe he lost his nerve to live there.”

  Claire raised an eyebrow. Paul wanted to curse for having voiced his thoughts. They were too transparent. He cleared his throat.

  “Anyway, it’s a banquet hall now. Lots of weddings up there in the summer on the balcony overlooking the lake. Not much should be going on this time of year. But I don’t know what shape the roads will be in.”

  “I’m feeling adventurous. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a castle.”

  “You’ve done a lot of traveling then?”

  “A fair bit.”

  “Then what made you move here? It’s sort of the middle of nowhere.”

  She smiled. “I could be very poetic and say I’ve exiled myself to a country retreat. But a relative of mine passed away and left me his place.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. Who was your relative?”

  “Luther Matthews. Did you know him?”

  “By reputation only. That’s quite a house you’ve got.”

  “Yeah. It needs a lot of work.” Her eyes narrowed as she appeared to study him. “I’ll need some carpentry work done soon. Can you recommend anyone?”

  Here was another perfect opportunity. All he had to do was ask her number . . . or give her his.

  “I don’t know. Most people go to Mt. Pleasant for custom work. But if I think of someone, I’ll let you know.”

  “Oh.” Her face closed. His chance was lost.

  Paul mentally berated himself the whole way home. He could have at least given her a name if he hadn’t wanted to volunteer himself. But no, he had to close up. Always the same strategy—don’t take risks, don’t say too much. Be safe.

  You’re a loser, Sawyer.

  * * * * *

  Claire shook her head as she drove to Blanchard ten miles away to pick Sam up from school. She wasn’t sure what she had done wrong, but maybe she had been too forward. Her conversation with Paul had been going well until she asked about carpenters, and then he shut down. Perhaps she had misread his interest in her. Was she so desperate for love that she mistook politeness as flirting?

  Chastising herself even after Sam was in the car, Claire remembered the directions Paul had given her were still in her purse. She pulled them out and realized she was already partway to the castle. Why not look now? She could use the distraction.

  “This isn’t the way home,” Sam said as she turned out of the parking lot.

  “I know. We’re checking something out.”

  “What?”

  “A castle. Someone told me today there’s one up here a ways.”

  “I wanna go home.”

  “Humor me.”

  About twenty minutes later, they reached the tiny town of Canadian Lakes, and Claire turned on the road that led to the castle. It was a curvy residential road with A-frame houses and other cabin-style homes, most of them closed up for the winter. She wondered how much places like this cost. Then, she took the turn Paul had said would give them the best view of the castle before they got up close to it. Claire felt her breath catch a little when she saw it. There it was—a real castle in Michigan.

  The castle’s style was German with its multiple towers with crenellated tops. It sat on top of a hill overlooking the golf course and the lake. A wide cement patio ran from the left side all the way across to circle toward the back right. Only three stories tall, the castle sprawled to cover two housing lots, unlike a true German castle which would have been small at its base and shot up five or six stories into the air. The castle walls were a faded cream color with peeling blue roof tiles and window accents. The place needed some work and wasn’t truly European, but Claire fell in love with it.

  After staring at it from the parking lot at the bottom of the hill, she drove closer. When they crested the top of the hill, the castle driveway veered off directly to the right, leading just 30 yards away to a three-car garage. The blustery weather and middle-of-the-workday hour meant no one was there.

  “Sam, come look at the castle with me.”

  He pouted. “I wanna go home.”

  “Fine. Stay in the car. I’ll just be a minute.”

  She pulled the keys out of the ignition and closed the door, confident the car would remain warm long enough for her to walk around and look in the windows. From what she could see, the entire bottom floor appeared to be a large banquet hall with a stage and kitchen. There were two more floors above this. Claire could just see the banisters from the second story that looked down onto the banquet hall. The place was rather ordinary inside, which disappointed her a little. T
he castle’s allure rested on its architecture and location. Anyone who had been to a real European castle knew this wasn’t even close. But it was the closest she had been to any kind of castle in a long time.

  She stood on the long balcony overlooking the lake below and imagined herself the queen of this domain. She wished Paul had brought her here. It would have been a good date. But he hadn’t offered, only given her the information. Her female radar had detected some spark of attraction between them, but she must have been mistaken given the way he kept her at arms’ length.

  She was destined to be alone. On most days Claire was fine with this, but today, the reality stung. She thought of the painting she would start on this evening, of the woman collapsing in grief, and realized the autobiographical details went deeper than she had previously understood.

  Without a doubt, she was the grieving woman in her sketch. But the dead knight on the altar was more than just Will . . . it was hope.

  10

  Paul heard from his customer for the custom Maid Marian piece the following day. Pleased with the sketch, the man approved Paul’s estimate and said he would wait as long as it took for Paul to finish it.

  Over the next week, Paul went to the post office three times. Each time he hoped he would pass Claire coming in or out of the library, but he never did. He could go in, maybe read the paper or thumb through a magazine. But he didn’t. He was a pawn of his own cowardice.

  Fate finally stepped in one evening at the grocery store. He had just turned into the canned goods aisle when he saw Claire and Sam at the other end. Claire wore a brown skirt and black leather jacket with a long pink scarf wrapped around her neck. She was in the middle of a conversation with another woman Paul didn’t know. Claire carried herself with a poise that reminded Paul of news clips he had seen of Princess Diana. What was she doing in this town? She didn’t belong next to the woman in the denim skirt and faded red sweater.