Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
MOLLY
"Does everyone have a copy of the submission packets?" Elaine passes the last folder to Margaret at the head of the conference table.
I flip open the one in front of me, excitement bubbling through my veins. After two weeks of anticipation, today we finally review the artisan proposals for our children's reading nook. I've already peeked at the library director's copies—I couldn't help myself—but now I get to officially weigh in.
"Before we begin," Margaret says, adjusting her reading glasses, "I want to thank you all for making time for this committee. Especially you, Molly. I know how busy you are with your regular programming."
"Are you kidding? This is a dream assignment." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, trying to contain my enthusiasm to professional levels. "I've been sketching ideas since Diana told me about it."
Margaret smiles. "That's exactly why we wanted you here. Now, we have three finalists for the custom furniture element. Let's start with Modern Kids Designs. "
We spend twenty minutes reviewing the first proposal: sleek, colorful furniture with rounded edges and built-in technology ports. It's nice enough, but feels like something from a catalog. The second submission, from a regional school furniture company, is sturdy and practical but uninspiring.
"And finally," Margaret continues, "we have Rhodes Custom Woodworking."
I turn to the third section of my folder and pause, breath catching.
The preliminary sketches aren't just drawings—they're stories waiting to happen.
A massive, hollow tree trunk with reading nooks nestled inside.
Branches extending outward to form shelves.
Little "fairy doors" built into the base that open to reveal hidden storage.
"Oh," I whisper, unable to stop myself.
Diana leans over. "I know, right? This one's got Molly Harper written all over it."
I trace the detailed pencil work with my fingertip.
Unlike the computer-generated renderings from the other companies, these are hand-drawn, with tiny notes in the margins about wood types and joinery techniques.
There's something deeply personal about them, as if the artist is inviting us into his imagination.
"The craftsmanship in Rhodes' previous work is exceptional," Margaret says, directing our attention to photographs of other completed projects. "This bench, for example, was commissioned by the Westfield family for their garden."
I flip to the image and smile. The bench curves like a storybook illustration, its back carved to resemble an open book with delicate words flowing across the pages. It's whimsical without being childish, the kind of piece that would delight both kids and adults.
"His pricing is higher than the other submissions," Board Treasurer Harold notes, tapping the budget page with his pen. "Is the quality worth the difference?"
"It's custom work versus mass production," Margaret counters. "And he's local. The money stays in our community."
While they debate, I continue studying the sketches, imagining storytime in this magical space.
Children nestled in the reading nooks, eyes wide as I bring characters to life.
The shy ones finding secret spots to read alone.
The natural wood warm beneath little hands as they explore the carved details.
"Molly?" Elaine's voice breaks through my daydream. "What's your professional opinion? Would this design work for your programming?"
I look up, realizing everyone's watching me.
"It's perfect," I say, then catch myself.
"I mean, it has excellent potential. The design incorporates multiple reading spaces for different age groups and learning styles.
The interactive elements would engage our tactile learners.
And the organic shape would complement our nature-themed book collection. "
Harold still looks skeptical. "Can this Rhodes fellow actually build what he's drawn? These designs are quite ambitious."
"That's why we've scheduled interviews," Margaret explains. "In fact—" she checks her watch, "—Mr. Rhodes should be arriving shortly. Shall we take a ten-minute break before meeting him?"
As the others file out for coffee, I linger in the conference room, studying the portfolio more closely.
There's something about these designs that feels different from the corporate submissions.
They have soul. Personality. As if the creator understands that a reading nook isn't just furniture—it's a portal to other worlds.
I'm so absorbed that I don't notice someone entering until a deep voice says, "Excuse me."
I look up, startled, and nearly drop the folder.
The man standing in the doorway is tall—really tall—with broad shoulders that make the standard doorframe seem suddenly inadequate.
Dark hair with hints of silver at the temples.
A neatly trimmed beard that doesn't quite hide the strong line of his jaw.
He's wearing a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to reveal forearms corded with muscle, and he's carrying a leather portfolio that looks well-used and loved.
But it's his eyes that catch me—deep blue and intensely focused, taking in the room with careful assessment.
"I'm looking for the selection committee," he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the quiet room.
"Oh! Yes. That's us. I mean, they're coming back." I stand quickly, bumping the table and sending my pen rolling. "I'm Molly Harper, the children's librarian."
Something shifts in his expression—a slight softening around the eyes. "Cal Rhodes."
My heart does a little skip. This is the creator of those magical designs? I'd pictured someone older, maybe with a wizard-like beard and spectacles. Not this mountain of a man with hands that look equally capable of felling trees and crafting delicate details.
"Your work is beautiful," I blurt out, then feel heat rise to my cheeks. "The designs, I mean. For the reading nook. They're exactly what I—what we've been hoping for."
He steps fully into the room, setting his portfolio on the table. "Thank you. I'm glad they resonated with you."
There's a careful precision to his movements, an economy of motion that makes me suddenly aware of my own tendency to gesture wildly when excited. I clasp my hands together to keep them still.
"I especially love the tree concept," I continue, unable to contain my enthusiasm. "The way the branches form natural shelves, and those little hideaway spaces for quiet reading. It's like something from a storybook. "
A hint of surprise crosses his face, followed by what might be the ghost of a smile. "That was the intention. A place where stories feel possible."
"Yes! Exactly!" I beam at him, forgetting my attempt at professional restraint. "During storytime, I'm always trying to create that sense of possibility. Like we've stepped into the pages together."
Cal studies me for a moment, those blue eyes thoughtful. "You must be good at your job."
"I love it," I admit. "There's nothing better than watching a child connect with a story for the first time."
He nods, and I get the sense he actually understands rather than just being polite. Before I can say more, the conference room door opens and the rest of the committee returns.
"Ah, Mr. Rhodes," Margaret says warmly. "Thank you for coming. I see you've met Molly, our children's programming expert."
The formal introductions continue as everyone takes their seats.
I try to focus on Margaret's opening questions about timeline and materials, but I find my attention repeatedly drawn to Cal's hands as he opens his portfolio.
They're large but surprisingly elegant, with calluses that speak of years of hands-on work.
When he sketches a quick modification to address Harold's concern about storage, his pencil moves with confident, fluid strokes.
"The tree concept came from thinking about how children naturally interact with spaces," Cal explains, his deep voice filling the room without effort. "They want to climb, to hide, to discover. The design incorporates those instincts while keeping safety and functionality as priorities."
"And the materials?" Harold asks.
"Primarily cherry and maple. Durable but warm. The finishes would be non-toxic and low-VOC." Cal glances at me. "Safe for children who touch everything they see. "
I smile, appreciating that he's considered this practical aspect. "They absolutely do. Especially the younger ones—books, furniture, each other. Everything gets touched."
"Hence these rounded edges," Cal points to a detail in his drawing. "And these recessed handles that little fingers can grip easily."
As the interview continues, I'm struck by the contrast between Cal's quiet, measured responses and the imaginative whimsy of his designs.
He doesn't use ten words where five will do, but each one seems carefully chosen.
When Harold presses him on cost, he doesn't get defensive, just calmly explains the value of hand-joinery techniques and sustainable materials.
"What about maintenance?" Elaine asks. "Libraries are high-traffic environments."
Cal nods. "All pieces would be built to commercial durability standards. The finish is designed to patina naturally over time, becoming more beautiful with use. And I provide touch-up kits and maintenance instructions with every installation."
"Patina," I repeat, liking the word. "So it would age like a beloved book, showing it's been well-used and well-loved."
Cal's eyes meet mine, and something passes between us—a shared understanding. "Exactly. The worst fate for wood isn't being used; it's being ignored."
For some reason, this makes my heart beat a little faster.
When Margaret asks about his inspiration for the design, Cal hesitates, then says, "My grandfather used to read to me in his workshop.
He built a special bench just for that. It was wide enough for both of us, with a shelf underneath for books.
" His voice softens slightly. "Some of my earliest memories are the smell of sawdust mixing with the pages of Where the Wild Things Are . "
"That was my favorite book as a child," I say, surprised by this glimpse into his past.
"Mine too," he admits, and for the first time, he smiles fully. The transformation that makes my breath catch.
The rest of the interview passes in a blur of technical questions and budget discussions.
Cal answers each one thoughtfully, occasionally glancing my way when addressing how the space would function for children's programming.
Each time our eyes meet, I feel a little flutter in my chest that I haven't experienced in years.
When the formal questions end, Margaret asks, "Do you have anything you'd like to add, Mr. Rhodes?"
Cal pauses, considering. "Just that this wouldn't be a standard commission for me.
It would be..." he searches for the word, ".
..personal. My grandfather believed that what we surround children with shapes who they become.
If I'm selected for this project, it would be built with that responsibility in mind. "
The sincerity in his voice touches something deep inside me. This isn't just business for him. It matters.
After Cal leaves, the committee discusses all three submissions. Harold argues for the less expensive option, but Elaine and Margaret favor Rhodes Custom Woodworking. They turn to me for the deciding vote.
"The Rhodes design isn't just furniture," I say, trying to articulate what makes it special.
"It's an experience. When children enter that space, they'll feel like they've stepped into the kind of world books promise exists.
That's what we should be offering them—not just somewhere to sit, but somewhere to dream. "
Margaret smiles. "Well said."
The vote is 3-1 in favor of Cal's proposal.
As we gather our materials to leave, Diana nudges me. "So, the woodworker's pretty easy on the eyes, huh? "
"What? I didn't notice," I lie, feeling my cheeks warm.
"Uh-huh. And I didn't notice you practically glowing every time he looked your way." She grins. "Can't say I blame you. There's something about a man who's good with his hands."
"Diana! It's a professional relationship." I gather my notes, hoping my face isn't as red as it feels. "I'm just excited about the design."
"Sure, sure. The design ." She winks. "Though I bet he could design some interesting?—"
"Stop!" I laugh, shoving her playfully. "You're terrible."
But as I walk back to my office, portfolio tucked under my arm, I can't help but replay moments from the interview. The intensity in Cal's eyes when he talked about his grandfather. The careful precision of his hands as he sketched. The unexpected smile that transformed his serious face.
For the first time in longer than I care to admit, I feel a flutter of possibility that has nothing to do with books or stories.
Well, maybe not nothing. Maybe it's the beginning of a new story—one I hadn't planned to read, but suddenly find myself curious to explore.
I set the portfolio on my desk and open it again to the sketch of the tree-shaped reading nook. My fingers trace the pencil lines, and I can almost feel the connection to the hand that drew them. Solid. Steady. Unexpectedly magical.
Just like its creator.