Chapter 22: The Cabin

The crate in the truck bed held a cradle.

It was pale oak, with a rounded hood and rails of turned spindles, every joint pegged by hand.

I knew the spindles.

Brent had cut them two years ago for a rail he never finished, because we never needed it.

He stood on the curb with his hands at his sides while Wanda held the studio door.

"I finished it," he said. "It isn't a gift. I don't want to hand you anything you have to be grateful for."

"Then what is it?"

"The one thing I did with my hands that I owed you." He cleared his throat. "Burn it, if you'd rather."

I ran my palm along the rail.

It was smooth all the way down.

"Put it in the back room," I said. "Not today. I'm not saying yes."

"I know."

"Come in on Monday and sign where my lawyer tells you."

"I'll be there at nine."

He nodded to Davis, who nodded back, and left.

Wanda carried the cradle to the back herself, grumbling that nobody ever let her lift anything.

I signed my half of the papers that afternoon.

Five weeks later, on a Saturday, I drove out to the lake for dinner at Davis's house.

It was a cabin he had built board by board over six years of weekends, with a deep porch and a stove that threw heat all night.

I had never been inside.

He opened the door in a clean flannel shirt, with his hair still damp.

"You found it."

"You drew me a map on a napkin."

"I wasn't sure you'd use it."

The cabin smelled of woodsmoke and garlic.

He had set a small table by the window, with a candle in a jar and two plates.

I laughed.

"What?"

"You lit a candle."

"Wanda said to." He rubbed the back of his neck. "She said a man who hasn't cooked for a woman in nine years needs help."

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