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His mouth twitched, then he nodded. “I’ll do that. Meanwhile, would you like to visit my workshop tomorrow?”
I struggled to tamp down my excitement. “I could make that work.”
August 18, Sunday
I RODE the bike I’d found in the barn through town, past a couple of neighborhoods until I found Sawyer’s house. It was a compact A-frame cabin, furnished with worn wood furniture and lots of unpretentious plaid.
“I like it,” I said when he showed me around. “It suits you.”
“I’ll take that,” he said, then ushered me outside to a wood-clad building that housed his “workshop.”
I turned in place to take in the stained concrete floor and the immaculate well-lit work areas. Along one wall was a library of every kind of natural material. Blocks of stone were neatly organized and labeled. His works in progress were elevated on platforms, with hand tools and mechanical tools arranged nearby.
I stopped to admire a towering black bear standing on hind legs, with two cubs at its feet. The piece was as tall as I was. “This is stunning,” I said. “What kind of stone is this?”
“Obsidian. It’s a commission from a state park.”
“And that one?” I pointed to a horse sculpture that was waist high.
“Alabaster, which is becoming more rare. A horse owner in Florida commissioned this piece.”
I walked around, touching everything I dared, asking questions and becoming more and more impressed.
“You are so talented,” I said.
He smiled. “So are you.”
I shook my head. “It’s not the same.”
“Sure it is. We both make something where there was nothing before.”
I conceded his generosity. “Okay, it’s similar. But seriously, Sawyer, I’m bowled over by your skill.”
“Thanks. I enjoy this work a lot, but repairing headstones is more fulfilling.”
“The town is lucky to have you,” I murmured. “And this is a great studio.”
“Workshop,” he corrected.
“This is more than a workshop,” I insisted. “A workshop is, well… like Rose’s workshop.”
His expression changed, but he recovered. “You found Rose’s workshop?”
“I was exploring. She was in the middle of refinishing several pieces of furniture.”
“It was a hobby of hers when she was a teenager. I didn’t know she’d started that up again.”
“She had. I thought I’d finish restoring a rocking chair she was working on. It’ll be my gift back to the house when I leave.”
“Right,” he said, nodding. “Hey, let me show you the stones I’m planning to use on the labyrinth.”
I followed him, but I could tell he was a little upset. I just couldn’t tell if he was upset that I was finishing Rose’s chair, or that I had reminded him that I’d be leaving.
August 19, Monday
I’D DECIDED to pull out my laptop and get it set up, reasoning I’d eventually have to send Bruce a digital manuscript. To my relief, he’d texted that he loved the first three chapters of the book and couldn’t wait to read more.
I couldn’t wait to write more. After I set up the laptop, I spent the morning transcribing my hand-written pages into a file. Because of the daily writing stints in the cemetery, I’d gotten to chapter ten, and I was very pleased with the story so far. After I entered the pages, I inserted a USB drive to back up the files, then I walked downstairs to let Satan have at my notebook.
