Page 131 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Not when the sun is shining and I’ve got a girl to pick up and a baseball game to watch.

First, I have to finish my work.

On the long table in front of me sits a half-finished bouquet—metal stems forged and curved by hand, the heads carved from wood and inlaid with brass at the centers. Industrial and soft all at once.

Like her.

Against the far wall hangs a stretched panel of hand-tooled leather, sunflowers rising in relief from the surface.

Each petal shaped, pressed, stained by hand.

The texture catches the light differently depending on where you stand.

I’ve been playing with scale again.

Small. Large. Bold. Unapologetic.

It feels different working on these.

Not like I’m hiding.

Not like I’m proving something.

More like I’m saying something.

My mind drifts.

Back to her.

Always to her.

Clara.

She’s at Kelly’s today, working at the small kitchen table, laptop open, fingers flying over the keys.

I can picture it too clearly.

The way she chews her bottom lip when she’s concentrating.

The way she hums under her breath without realizing it.

She told me last night that she started.

She’s outlining a book.

A novel.

My chest had done something stupid and proud at the same time.

On one hand, I’m thrilled she’s writing.

That she feels safe enough here—in this mountain town, in this chaos of wood and sawdust and imperfect people—to chase the thing she’s always wanted.

On the other hand?

Her stay is temporary.

Temporary accommodations.