Page 16 of Home Ice

He took it exactly how I’d have wanted him to take it. He held it in both hands, respectful of it, and he pressed the corner home. Then he pulled it apart and put it back together again. A man his size, the corner nearly disappearing between his palms, working it apart and back together like he owed the mechanism his full attention.

“It’s tight right at the end,” he said. “The last quarter-inch.”

“That’s the fit. If you try to use two sloppily cut boards, they go together easily and hold nothing. If they’re cut right, the joint can last a hundred years. Wood moves with the seasons, so you’re cutting for a fit that works in July or December.”

“How do you know it’s right? Before you put it together.”

“You don’t the first fifty times.”

He grinned. “We had a grain drill on the farm. Old Massey auger; my dad’s dad bought it. The gearbox had a tapered shaft, and the whole thing held with the taper. There was no key or bolt. My dad used to say that work keeps it together. I was maybe eight years old. I thought he was trying to sound deep.” He worked the corner apart again, thumb riding the tail. “He just meant the load seats the taper, same as this. It either fits or it doesn’t.”

It either fits or it doesn’t. Rafe walked into my workshop and instantly understood my work. That precision was what I loved about wood. It didn’t play with ambiguity.

Max pulled his phone out again and glanced at it. “Oh no, we’ve got to run. I’ve got a meeting, and Rafe, you have your nap and then your thing.”

“Nap and a thing?” I asked.

“The thing.” Rafe straightened up from leaning over the bench. “It’s a team dinner, and the nap, hockey players do that. It’s sort of more training. Six thirty tonight is the dinner. We fly to Denver tomorrow.”

“Denver,” Max said, gathering his coat off a sawhorse. “Altitude. I’ve shot there twice, and both times it caused problems.”

“Varga has a complete plan for the altitude. It’s on the team chat.” Rafe glanced at his phone. “I’ve got forty new messages since practice.”

“About altitude?”

“About one beer working like three.”

“Your team sounds extremely scientific.” Max patted his pockets as if he were missing something. I walked over to the finishing bench and picked his sunglasses up off it, holding them out without comment.

Rafe set the test joint on the bench, squared to the edge. “Thanks for showing me this,” he said. “This place is really something. I can see why Max brags about it.”

The statement was warm, complete, and right. When Rafe first appeared, I wouldn’t have trusted it could be honest. Now, I realized it was him.

He wasn’t lying to me. Every polite word was true.

I said, “Sure. Thank you.”

“Box,” Max said from the door. “The box. The entire purpose of this expedition. I nearly left the box.”

“It’s on the shelf,” I said. “Where it’s been since it arrived.”

Rafe crossed the shop. “I’ve got it,” he said.

Max stood next to me at the door, winding his scarf as we both watched.

“So, Sunday,” he said. “Dinner. Mom and Dad’s. Taco Sunday is confirmed.”

Rafe carried the box over, and they left. Max said something with both hands, and Rafe nodded while Max held the car door for him.

The shop was mine again.

I can see why Max brags about it. There was no crack in Rafe anywhere, no seam you could get a fingernail into. The next thought rattled me. I’d known him for maybe half an hour, and I already missed him.

That was ridiculous.

I picked up my chisel.

My phone buzzed.