Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
CAL
The email arrives three days after the committee meeting, Margaret's name in the sender field, subject line reading simply: "Reading Nook Selection.
" I stare at it for a full minute before clicking, though I already know what it says.
The sketches have been haunting me since the interview, details evolving in my mind during quiet moments at the lathe.
Dear Mr. Rhodes,
On behalf of the Maplewood Public Library Selection Committee, I'm pleased to inform you that your proposal for the children's reading nook has been selected.
We were particularly impressed with your vision for an interactive, imaginative space that will inspire young readers for generations to come.
Our children's librarian, Molly Harper, will be your primary contact for this project. She'll coordinate with you regarding specific design elements, scheduling, and implementation. I've copied her on this email so you can arrange an initial planning meeting at your convenience .
We're excited to see your vision come to life in our library.
Warm regards,
Margaret Holloway
Library Board President
I read it twice, an unfamiliar feeling expanding in my chest. Not just satisfaction at landing the job, but something warmer. Pride, maybe. The kind Grandpa Joe would have felt.
The second email arrives moments later, from Molly Harper herself.
Hi Cal,
Congratulations! I'm thrilled we'll be working together on the reading nook. The committee was unanimous in our admiration for your design (well, except Harold, but he objects to everything on principle).
Would you be available to meet sometime this week to discuss next steps? I have so many ideas I'd love to share, and I'm sure you do too! I'm flexible on timing—could work around your schedule.
Looking forward to creating something magical together!
Molly Harper
Children's Services Librarian
Maplewood Public Library
P.S. I've been sketching some thoughts about the "fairy doors" you mentioned. Nothing as professional as your drawings, but I thought they might spark some conversation !
Attached is a PDF labeled "Reading Nook Ideas.
" I open it to find hand-drawn sketches of tiny doors with different themes—one shaped like an open book, another with a miniature ladder leading up to it, a third with what looks like a tiny mailbox beside it.
The drawings are charming, enthusiastic rather than technically precise, with little notes scribbled in the margins: "For returning secret library cards?
" beside the mailbox, and "Maybe lights inside? " next to one door.
I find myself smiling at the screen. Her excitement is palpable even through email, a stark contrast to my usual client communications about measurements and timelines.
I type a response, delete it, try again.
Ms. Harper,
Thank you for the notification. I'm available to meet Thursday afternoon if that works for your schedule. Your fairy door concepts are interesting. I've been considering similar interactive elements.
Cal Rhodes
I read it over, frowning. It sounds stiff, impersonal. Not how I want to start this project. I delete it all and try once more.
Molly,
Thanks for the good news. I'm looking forward to the project.
Thursday afternoon works for me if that suits you. 2:00 at the library? Your fairy door sketches are great—especially the book-shaped one. I've been thinking along similar lines.
Ca l
Still brief, but less formal. I hit send before I can overthink it further.
Her response arrives within minutes:
Thursday at 2 is perfect! I'll reserve our small conference room so we can spread out materials. Can't wait!
-Molly
I close my laptop and return to the cherry boards I've been prepping, but my mind keeps drifting to auburn hair and enthusiastic sketches of fairy doors.
Thursday arrives with unexpected nervousness. I haven't felt this way about a client meeting in years. I tell myself it's the project—something different, challenging, with higher stakes than a dining table or bookcase. But as I gather my portfolio and materials, I know it's more than that.
The library is quiet when I arrive, the afternoon lull between the morning children's programs and after-school rush. I find my way to the administration area, where a woman at the front desk looks up with a smile.
"You must be Cal Rhodes. Molly's expecting you in Conference Room B—just down that hallway on the right."
I nod my thanks and follow her directions, pausing outside the door marked with a simple "B.
" Through the glass panel, I can see Molly already inside, arranging what looks like dozens of books, papers, and fabric swatches across the table.
She's wearing a deep green dress that makes her hair look even more vibrant, and she's talking to herself as she moves things around, occasionally gesturing with her hands .
I knock lightly, and she looks up, her face breaking into a smile that seems to illuminate the room.
"Cal! Come in!" She waves me inside with enthusiasm. "I hope you don't mind, but I went a little overboard with inspiration materials."
"I can see that." I step inside, taking in the organized chaos spread across the conference table. Children's books stand open to specific illustrations. Color swatches are grouped by theme. There's even what appears to be a miniature tree made from cardboard and green tissue paper.
"I'm a visual thinker," she explains, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. "When I get excited about something, I tend to... externalize it."
"It's thorough," I say, setting my portfolio on the one clear corner of the table. "I appreciate thorough."
She beams at this, apparently taking it as high praise. "Great! I thought we could start by discussing the overall concept, then get into specific features. I've collected some of our most popular picture books to show the aesthetic that resonates with our young readers."
For the next twenty minutes, Molly walks me through her vision, moving from book to book with infectious enthusiasm.
She shows me illustrations from Where the Wild Things Are , The Giving Tree , and newer titles I'm not familiar with, pointing out color palettes and spatial arrangements that engage children.
"What I love about your tree concept," she says, "is how it creates distinct spaces within a unified whole. Like this—" She opens a book called The Magic Faraway Tree . "See how there are different worlds at each level? That's what children crave—variety within safety."
I nod, studying the illustration. "Different experiences depending on where they are in the structure."
"Exactly! Some kids want to be right in the middle of everything. Others need quiet corners." She flips through another book. "And it should feel like a discovery every time, even when they've been there a hundred times before."
I open my portfolio and pull out refined sketches of the tree design. "I've been thinking about sightlines. The structure needs to allow staff to monitor without making kids feel watched."
Molly leans closer to examine the drawings, her shoulder nearly touching mine. I catch the scent of something floral and warm—her shampoo, maybe.
"This is brilliant," she says, tracing the outline of a reading pod nestled among the branches. "You've created privacy without isolation."
I find myself watching her face as she studies the sketches, the way her expressions shift with each new detail she discovers. There's something refreshing about her unfiltered reactions. It's so different from clients who maintain poker faces to negotiate better terms.
"What about these cubbies?" She points to small spaces built into the trunk. "What did you envision here?"
"Book return slots," I explain. "Kids can 'return' books to the tree itself, then staff can collect them from the back panel."
"Oh! Like feeding the tree with stories. The children will love that." Her smile is radiant. "You really understand how they think."
I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise. "My grandfather taught me to consider how people interact with spaces. He said furniture should invite, not intimidate."
"Your grandfather sounds wise. Was he a woodworker too?"
"Third-generation. Started teaching me when I was six." I hesitate, then add, "This workshop was his. Been in the family since 1952."
Molly's eyes soften. "That's beautiful. A real legacy." She pauses, then asks gently, "Is he the one who used to read to you? You mentioned Where the Wild Things Are during your interview. "
The memory surfaces: Grandpa's rough hands holding the book carefully, his voice changing for each wild thing. The special bench he built just for our reading sessions.
"Yeah. Every day after school. Said stories were as important as sawdust in a proper woodshop."
"I love that." She smiles, then confesses, "My parents thought I'd grow out of my book obsession. When I announced I was getting my library science degree, my dad asked if I'd ever considered 'a real job with benefits.'"
I find myself smiling. "What did you tell him?"
"That helping children discover worlds between pages was the only benefit I needed." She laughs. "Then I showed him the health insurance package and he calmed down."
We fall into an easy rhythm after that, discussing practical aspects of the design.
Molly has thought about everything: traffic flow, durability, accessibility for children with different needs.
She shows me data on which books are most frequently checked out, which storytime themes draw the biggest crowds.
"The fairy doors," she says, pulling out her sketches again. "I was thinking they could be like little free libraries within our library. Each one could hold a single book that changes regularly—a surprise discovery."
"That's smart," I say, genuinely impressed. "We could design each door with a theme that hints at what might be behind it."
"Yes! Adventure, fantasy, science..." Her eyes light up with each possibility.
I begin sketching as she talks, refining the concept, adding details.
It's been years since I've collaborated this way—most clients give general parameters and leave the creative decisions to me.
But Molly's ideas enhance mine rather than redirect them.
There's a synergy that feels natural, unforced.
After an hour of productive discussion, we move from concepts to logistics. I explain my timeline, material selections, installation process. Molly takes careful notes, asking thoughtful questions about how to prepare the space.
"One thing I'm concerned about," I admit, setting down my pencil, "is meeting everyone's expectations. This isn't just furniture. It's a community resource. If it doesn't work the way people hope..."
I trail off, surprised at myself for voicing the doubt that's been nagging at me since accepting the project.
Molly looks up from her notes, her expression serious for the first time. "I worry about that too. Every time I plan a new program or change something in the children's area, I'm terrified I'll disappoint them."
"How do you handle it?"
She considers this. "I remember that I'm not doing it for me. I'm doing it for them. And I trust that even if it's not perfect, the love behind it matters." She smiles slightly. "Children are remarkably forgiving when they know you care."
Her words settle something in me. "My grandfather used to say, 'Make it with heart, and the hands will follow.'"
"Exactly." She reaches across the table and briefly touches my arm—a gesture so natural it takes me by surprise. "And from what I've seen of your work, Cal, both your heart and hands are exceptional."
The compliment lands with unexpected weight. I'm used to praise for my craftsmanship, but something about the way she includes my heart makes it different.
"The community's lucky to have you," I say, meaning it. "Not everyone understands what children need from spaces like this. "
"We make a good team," she replies, gathering her notes. "Your structure, my stories. It's going to be amazing."
As we wrap up the meeting, Molly pulls one last book from her stack. "This was my absolute favorite as a child. Still is, really." She hands me a well-worn copy of The Secret Garden .
"I've never read it," I admit.
"Never?" Her eyes widen in mock horror. "It's about a forgotten garden that comes back to life when children discover it. How spaces can heal people." She presses it into my hands. "Borrow it. For research purposes."
I accept the book, our fingers brushing. "Research," I repeat, unable to suppress a smile.
"I expect a full report at our next meeting," she says with playful seriousness.
As I drive back to the workshop, the book sits on the passenger seat beside me. I find myself glancing at it at stoplights, thinking about Molly's animated descriptions and thoughtful insights.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm eager to start a project. Not just for the craftsmanship challenge, but for the collaboration. For the chance to create something that matters in the way Grandpa's work always mattered.
And maybe, though I barely admit it to myself, for the chance to see Molly Harper's face light up when she sees her dreams taking shape in wood and imagination.
That night, instead of sketching or reviewing measurements, I sit in Grandpa's old reading chair and open The Secret Garden . By the time I look up, it's past midnight, and I'm halfway through the story of locked doors, hidden keys, and places that wait patiently to be discovered.