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“I mean, I like what you have now, but some whiskers wouldn’t be bad either.”
“When I do some heavy-duty cutting with a chainsaw, I wear a heavy-duty mask. I don’t want to fill my lungs with sawdust after all. A big, thick beard wouldn’t let me wear it right. Maybe when it's time for a replacement I’ll find one that’s more beard friendly, but I’m ultimately a pragmatist: I don’t want to mess with something that’s working for me.”
She’s following my examination of the gazebo’s wood closely, still very interested in me being very interested in things.
“I guess you have the fresh outdoor air to counter all the sawdust though,” she says. “I’m really enjoying how clean it feels, after being in the city for so long.”
“You can taste the air through the scent of the brisket?”
She gives me a playful glance. “You know what I mean.”
“Maybe you’re more of an Evergreen Valley girl than you think you are, Char. It’s different out here. Slower pace. Less people, but you get to know them more.”
“Maybe I am. I came out here to try to figure out what I’m doing with my life. Right now I have no idea.”
“No dreams?”
“Sort of? I don’t know. I never got to slow down enough to really think about it all. Just going from job to job, and when I’m not employed.”
As I run my hand over the next bit of wood, I’m stopped. Something’s latched on to my shirt. Instinct takes over, I just try to power through, it and then I realize my mistake.
“Watch out, your shirt is caught on... Oh no,” Char says, her warning half a second too late.
I first look at the culprit. A nail that’s not hammered down all the way. Hunter or I made a mistake here, and we’d just have to fix it.
“Oh no, there’s a hole in your flannel,” Char says. And I confirm her worried-sounding statement.
“Damn, and I really liked this shirt.”
“It’s fixable,” she says. “Don’t talk about it in past tense yet.”
“Nearest tailor is in the city, and I don’t think I have the patience to drive that far for a shirt.”
“You don’t have to go anywhere. Stay right here.” She runs off the gazebo and down to her car. She digs through it, before coming back with a pink canvas bag. “Take off your shirt.”
My smile widens. “I thought you didn’t want to be so forward.”
She turns red, suddenly realizing her phrasing. “Well, I can’t exactly do the needlework with you wearing it. Unless you like being poked with sharp things over and over.”
“I’ll try anything once with you, babe.” I unbutton my shirt, and the two of us go over to a much flatter surface on one of the picnic tables near the gazebo.
She lays it out, focusing on the hole and pulling out a needle and thread.
“Didn’t expect a city girl like you to be a seamstress.”
“I’m broke and have been for a long time. I’d be even more broke if my grandmother didn’t teach me how to use a needle when I was a kid. I've saved so many pieces of clothing from the trash, and every time I do that, I save a little money repairing them.”
She gets to work, closing the hole in the flannel, mending the tear caused by the unruly nail.
I watch her as she’s focused, in her element. She’s enjoying herself doing this. “Have you ever thought of making a career out of this?”
“I can fix clothes, but mostly what people want are ones who can do needlework for making new stuff, and I’m not really sure how to do that.”
“You got talent in repair. I feel like you could move that over to other things pretty easily.”
“I’d need to take a class or something. Or have a lot of free time to teach myself. And I got neither the money nor time for those.”
“You just need the help to get the time so you can do those things.”
