The Carpenter & the Queen

by Michelle Lashier

  If Garrett came, he would completely disrupt her creative process. Then, Paul was coming on Sunday afternoon. But the strongest excuse of all arose so strongly that it surprised her. She didn’t want Garrett to come.

  “Oh, Garrett, this weekend isn’t really good for me.”

  “Oh.”

  Claire cringed as she heard the surprise and immediate defensiveness in his response.

  “It’s just that I’m in the middle of several things. I’ve got a carpenter coming on Sunday—“

  “You hired a carpenter?”

  “Yeah. For the entertainment center in the living room I’ve been talking about.”

  “Oh.” There was silence on the line. “Is he reputable?”

  Holding back her irritation, she responded, “Of course. He’s giving me a really good price.”

  “Remember you get what you pay for.”

  Claire rubbed her temples with her free hand and took a deep breath. “I’m painting again,” she added. “You know . . . paintings.”

  “That’s great.”

  “I’m sorry, Garrett. It’s not that I don’t want you. It’s just that, well—“

  “You have plans. It’s fine. I’ve got plenty to do here.”

  “I appreciate all you do for me, Garrett.”

  “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Maybe you can come next weekend?”

  “Maybe. I’m glad you’re painting again. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Claire’s hand shook when she put down the phone. Hurting someone’s feelings was never something she enjoyed.

  But this was her house. She had the right to tell Garrett when he couldn’t visit.

  She remembered years ago Grandma Thelma’s insistence that the family leave her alone and let her do as she wished. At the time, Claire hadn’t understood. She only knew her mother’s reasoning that Grandma needed help. But now, Claire knew why Grandma had wanted to be left alone. Too much help was just as constraining as too much time alone.

  * * * * *

  Paul arrived Sunday afternoon to install the chair rail in Sam’s room. When Claire answered the door, Paul noted some white paint speckles on her face and her T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup.

  “I’m painting my bedroom,” she explained. “I have a tendency to get a little messy.”

  Paul thought the paint speckles were cute.

  “I brought the moulding up from the garage,” she said. “It’s in Sam’s room already. We pulled everything away from the wall so it would be easier for you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll get my tools out of the truck.”

  “Just let yourself back in. I need to keep working. Holler if you need me.”

  After retrieving his tools and shedding his boots, he went into Sam’s room and sorted the pieces of moulding, laying each near the wall on which it was to be mounted. Claire had painted the pieces with a hammered silver paint that would look nice next to the blue and green walls. He checked the miter joints to see if he would need to make any adjustments with the saw in the back of his truck, but everything looked okay. He was loading his nail gun with finishing nails when out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam standing in the doorway.

  “Hey, there.”

  Sam didn’t reply. He just leaned against the door jamb and stared.

  “Wanna help me?”

  Sam shrugged. “I guess.”

  “I need someone to hold one end of the piece while I nail it in. Can you do that?”

  Sam moved into the room, eyeing the tool in Paul’s hand. “What’s that?”

  “A nail gun.”

  “Is it like a real gun?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Have you ever shot a real gun?”

  “A couple times.”

  “My dad shot one lots of times.”

  Paul motioned for Sam to pick up his end, and they pressed it against the wall.

  “That him in the picture?” Paul inclined his head toward the photo that had been removed from the wall and now lay on the bed.

  Sam nodded. “He was in the army.”

  Paul pulled out his level to check the placement and had Sam lower his side.

  “I’m going to be in the army, too,” Sam volunteered.

  “Oh yeah?” Paul glanced up and down the moulding for one last check then held up the nail gun, careful to keep his finger far from the trigger. “This is gonna be loud, so get ready.”

  Paul pressed the muzzle against the wood then pressed the trigger. Sam jumped a little at the noise but kept a steady hold on the wood.

  “I’m gonna come down toward you,” Paul warned. “When I get close, you’ll need to move.”

  Sam watched intently as Paul put in two more nails, then moved when Paul was ready to put in the final one. The first board up, Paul, reached down for the next. He used to do this kind of thing while kneeling, but since that wasn’t an option anymore, he had to stand and bend, which felt awkward in the tight space between the furniture at the center of the small room and the wall. His back would go out if he had to do this for too long.

  Sam held the opposite end of the next piece as Paul checked the level and put in the first nail.

  “Can I try that?” Sam pointed to the nail gun.

  “Better not. It’s pretty dangerous.”

  Sam looked disappointed. “I’d be careful.”

  “I know. But I don’t think your mom would be too happy with me.”

  “She’s going to get me a BB gun this summer. She promised.”

  “Nice.”

  “She said I have to wear glasses when I shoot it. But I’m not gonna hurt myself.”

  Paul paused to consider his response. “Maybe not. But she’s the boss.”

  “When do I get to be the boss?”

  “If you get married, never.”

  As soon as he said it, Paul wished he hadn’t. That statement was a little too bitter for an eight year old, especially the son of a woman he was interested in. He needed to explain somehow, or at least soften the tone. So he added, “But if you love her, you won’t care.”

  Sam raised his eyebrows but did not question the remark.

  Once the chair rail was up, Paul had Sam help him move all the furniture back where it all belonged, and with Sam’s instructions, hung the pictures on their proper nails. When they were finished, Paul gathered his tools, stacked them by the door, then went to find Claire. She sat cross legged in her bedroom, rolling white primer onto the lower half of walls covered in cabbage-flower paper.

  “Isn’t this stuff awful?” she commented when she heard him knock on the open door. The windows were all open in order to control the paint fumes, but they made the room chilly. “I mean, who even likes these flowers when they’re real?”

  Note to self, Paul mused. No cabbage flowers . . . ever.

  “No idea,” he said aloud. “Right out of the eighties, huh?”

  “Yeah. It’s in good shape, though. I thought at first I’d take it off, but it’s stuck on there pretty good, unlike that junk in Sam’s room. Took me two evenings to peel all that off the wall.”

  Her bed was piled with odds and ends she must have pulled off her dresser, which was now covered with a drop cloth spattered in white. Paul noticed some European flags, a ceramic vase, a beer stein, and a collection of pewter castles.

  “I’m thinking of going with a mint green color,” Claire said. “Very modern and zen-like, don’t you think?”

  “Sure.” Paul had no idea if it was a good color choice or not. “These all your travel souvenirs?”

  “Yeah. Most of them.”

  A figurine caught his particular interest, and Paul moved in closer to examine it without picking it up. “Is this a chess piece?”

  “Yeah. Got it at a garage sale.”

  “You don’t have the whole set?”

  “No. I guess pieces were already missing, so the guy was selling it off piecemeal. Always makes me sad, though, to think of
the set broken up.”

  “It happens, though,” Paul said, thinking of Linda.

  Claire turned to look at him. “Yes,” she said sadly. “It does.

  On the way home, Paul reflected how much one could learn about a person from seeing the inside of her house. Claire loved Europe, castles, knights and queens. She also had an affection for small things. Almost all her souvenirs were tiny, close to doll-house size. From her paintings and from the way she decorated, Claire loved color and light. But most importantly, Claire had a piece of her heart missing just like he did, and Paul desperately wished for a way to tell her that he understood.

  12

  March 2005

  Claire had spent the day at home since Sam had a fever and couldn’t go to school. He dozed on the couch most of the afternoon while Claire worked on the computer then finished her painting. Most of the work had been done at night, since she imagined the mourning scene itself taking place in the darkness. She had learned over the years to paint at the time of day best suited to the painting itself. However, the final evaluation must be done in natural light. Noting the time, she saw she needed to fix supper and check on Sam again. He had been sleeping thirty-minutes ago, but she wanted to be sure. Plus, Paul was coming over tonight with the lower half of the shelving unit.

  The shadow wasn’t quite right on the folds of the woman’s dress. Claire mixed royal blue with burnt umber and purple to get the shade she was looking for, then dabbed at the dress, remixing her colors often. A few last strokes and a moment of contemplation confirmed her decision. The painting was finished.

  She stepped back, allowing herself to feel for the last time the grief that had consumed the last four years of her life and bled out with every brush stroke on the canvas. For most people, crying brought healing. For Claire, painting had brought that healing in a way that tears had been unable to. She knew now she had been foolish to wait so long to take up her brushes again, but to be honest, she hadn’t wanted to let go of her grief, at least, not until the last month or so. Holding on to the past was much easier unless one saw the promise of the future.

  Claire didn’t like to put her faith in what wasn’t certain, but she had a lot of hopes, reluctant as she was to assign a name to them, and she didn’t want her grief to make her unavailable to any “happily ever after” that came along.

  Satisfied that the painting was complete, Claire washed her brushes in the upstairs bathroom sink and headed down the stairs.

  * * * * *

  Paul had felt the storm coming since yesterday, so he wasn’t surprised to see the freezing rain when he drove to Claire’s. Claire and Sam had just finished supper when Claire let him in. Paul could smell chicken. He wondered if Claire was a good cook. She probably was, if the smells were any indication. Maybe someday he would have a chance to find out, although he wasn’t sure how he was going to work that out.

  After she let him in, Claire went to clean up the kitchen. Sammy, glassy eyed and sleepy, sat on the couch with a blue blanket wrapped around him. His hair stuck up at odd angles around his face.

  “You look rough,” Paul teased gently.

  “I’m sick.”

  The boy stared in a sort of trance past Paul into the air.

  “I won’t bother you if I work on the shelves here, will I?”

  Sam shook his head.

  Paul brought in the four pieces from the back of his truck that he would attach onto the wall. He used his stud finder to locate the right place for the brackets, then marked the placement with a pencil he kept behind his ear. Sam slid to lie down on the couch again, all the while watching Paul’s movements closely. Claire came in and went to the couch, put a hand to Sam’s forehead and frowned.

  “No school for you tomorrow, young man,” she said.

  Sam didn’t even smile in response. The kid really was sick, Paul thought.

  “Do you need my help with anything?” Claire asked Paul.

  He checked the brackets he had just hung to be sure they were sound. “You can help me mount the cabinets. I need somebody to keep them steady.”

  She knelt on the floor beside him. Immediately, the air felt warmer. Her hair close to his face, he could smell something sweet and fruity—probably her shampoo. When she leaned in to tilt the cabinet for him, her shoulder pressed against his. His level of distraction reminded him that it had been a long time since he had been this close to a woman he thought beautiful. He was so distracted, in fact, that he had difficulty keeping the electric screwdriver on the screw. It slid off twice, once scraping his finger. But finally, when the work was done, Paul and Claire stood up to survey the built-in.

  “We still have the upper units, of course,” Paul commented. “That will balance it out better.”

  “It looks great so far.”

  Leaning down to study the finish on the wood, Claire ran her hand with the grain along the top of the cabinets, then traced the seam of two of the units with her index finger. Opening a cabinet door, she inspected the shelves inside, checking the supports. He had always wanted someone to appreciate his work in this way. Paul felt as though time had stopped and he was watching himself and Claire in the scene.

  She flashed him a smile that immediately turned into a questioning look.

  Paul realized his mouth was open. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

  “You do beautiful work. I can’t wait to see it finished.”

  This was the perfect opportunity to ask her out for the weekend. She could even bring Sam, if she needed to. But he lost his nerve again. So many years of shutting people out made vulnerability a Herculean effort.

  “I’d better be going. Weather’s getting bad.”

  “Is it? I haven’t been out all day.”

  “Ice storm, maybe.” Paul slipped on his boots in the foyer.

  “I’m glad I wasn’t planning on going anywhere, with Sam not feeling well and all.”

  “Well, if the roads get bad and you need anything, give me a call.”

  Paul gave Sam a small wave, which Sam returned in even smaller scale.

  “I appreciate that.” Claire’s polite tone indicated she had no intention of calling him.

  “My truck’s got pretty good traction with all the sandbags in the back,” Paul continued. “So I could make it out here, even if the roads are bad.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be fine. But thanks.”

  Her smile was tight and closed as she told him goodbye. She was a loner, like him, he guessed, tired of other people offering charity. He couldn’t blame her. He had preferred to be left alone as well, until he met Claire. What a coward he was to tell her to call, when he should be the one calling.

  Paul chastised himself the entire drive home. When something needed to be said, he could never say it. And when he did speak, he said all the wrong things. He had a good momentum going last month, but he had lost it now and he wasn’t sure he could get it back.

  13

  Sam felt sick enough that Claire put him to bed early. With the weather worsening, she was happy she wouldn’t have to drive him to school in the morning, although school might be cancelled anyway—all the better since that meant no work for Sam to make up. As for the storm, she had medicine and the refrigerator was stocked, so she wasn’t too worried. Whatever the weather might do, she and Sam would wait it out. As long as they were warm and dry, they had nothing to worry about.

  She didn’t even worry in the night when the electricity went off. Instead, she turned over in her warm bed and went back to sleep.

  A terrible crash outside the house a few hours later finally forced her to emerge from her cocoon. Shivering in the cool house, she peaked out the bedroom window but couldn’t see what had made the noise.

  “Mommy?”

  “Don’t worry, honey!” Claire called back. “Just stay where you are. I’m coming.”

  Feeling her way out of her room down the hall and into Sam’s room, Claire wondered how the house could get so cold in just a few hours.

 
“What was that noise?” Sam asked when Claire reached his bed.

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t see anything out the window. But I’m sure we’re fine.”

  “It’s cold in here.”

  “Yeah, the electricity’s out.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Come get in my bed so we can both stay warm. I’ll find the flashlights.”

  She stumbled into the kitchen and pulled a flashlight out of the drawer. Sam seemed relieved when she shone the light into her own face so he could see her.

  “We’ll be fine,” Claire assured him.

  Once they were both in bed, Claire pulled out her cell phone and dialed the power company to report her outage. Maybe she could be one of the first on the repair list if she called in the middle of the night. She might also get an estimate of how long it would take to regain power.

  The company’s automated phone system put her on hold. Claire found herself dozing in bed with the phone pressed to one ear. She wasn’t sure how long this had been going on when her cell phone started beeping, indicating a low battery. Obviously, she had fallen asleep, and before she could do anything, the phone cut off, out of power. Just her luck. There wasn’t anything to do except go back to sleep and wait for dawn.

  When she awoke at dawn, the house was cold. She would have to get a fire going in the fireplace, although she wasn’t sure that she had any wood. Sam remained asleep. Claire noted from his damp hair that his fever had broken during the night.

  She peaked out the windows and gasped to see a world coated in at least an inch of ice. One of the big oak trees at the edge of the lawn had lost a huge branch. That must have been the crash she heard in the night. While the ice was pretty, Claire fully appreciated how dangerous it was. No one, not even the electric crews, would be making much progress on roads that treacherous.