Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
CAL
I lay the final fairy door against the workbench, pleased with how the miniature brass hinges catch the morning light.
Three days of careful work—each door unique, each with its own secret compartment behind it.
Molly's idea had been brilliant: tiny rotating book displays that children could discover and change themselves.
It gives them ownership of the space in a way most library furniture never could.
The thought of Molly brings an involuntary smile to my face.
Two weeks since our near-kiss under the constellation canopy, and I still catch myself drifting into memories of it at odd moments.
The way she looked up at me, fearless and hopeful all at once.
The slight tremble in her hand as she touched my face.
We haven't spoken about it. Haven't needed to. Something has shifted between us, a current of understanding that runs beneath our conversations about wood finishes and installation schedules. A shared secret that makes every accidental touch electric.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Molly
Still on for final installation today? The kids are BUZZING about the grand opening tomorrow!
Cal
On my way in an hour. Bringing the fairy doors.
Molly
!!!!!!! Can't wait to see them!
The five exclamation points make me chuckle. Molly's enthusiasm spills over into everything, even text messages. It used to overwhelm me—all that emotion, all that energy. Now I find myself looking forward to it, like stepping into sunlight after too long indoors.
I load the completed doors into my truck, along with my tools and the final hardware needed for installation. The reading nook is nearly complete—just these finishing touches and the project that's consumed my life for the past month will be done.
The thought brings an unexpected pang. When the nook is finished, my reason for seeing Molly every day disappears.
Unless I find a new reason.
The library parking lot is unusually full for a Tuesday morning. I recognize Margaret's car and several others belonging to board members. As I gather my materials, Harold Finch emerges from his Mercedes, briefcase in hand.
"Rhodes," he nods curtly. "Here for the final inspection?"
"Final installation," I correct. "The fairy doors are ready to go in."
Harold makes a noncommittal noise. "The board's doing a walk-through this morning. Standard procedure before any new feature opens to the public."
Something in his tone puts me on edge. Harold's been the only consistent critic of the project, questioning every design choice and budget item. But Molly hadn't mentioned a board inspection today.
I follow him into the library, materials balanced carefully in my arms. The main area is quiet, but I can hear voices from the children's section.
As we round the corner, I see a cluster of people gathered around the reading nook.
Molly stands in the center, gesturing animatedly as she explains something to the assembled board members.
She spots me and her face lights up. "Cal! Perfect timing! I was just showing everyone the final structure before you add the fairy doors."
I set my materials down on a nearby table, nodding a greeting to Margaret and the others. Molly's wearing a blue dress patterned with tiny yellow books, her hair pulled back with a matching ribbon. She looks like she belongs in a children's story herself.
"It's certainly... creative," says a woman I recognize as a board member. "Very whimsical."
"That's the point," Molly says, her smile unwavering. "Children respond to whimsy. It makes reading an adventure rather than an assignment."
Harold circles the structure, peering critically at the reading pods nestled in the branches. "I'm concerned about durability. All these nooks and crannies will be difficult to clean."
"Every component is removable for maintenance," I explain, keeping my voice even. "And the finishes are all commercial grade, designed for high-traffic environments."
"What about safety?" another board member asks. "There are a lot of climbing opportunities here."
"The structure's been designed with safety as the top priority," Molly answers before I can. "No sharp edges, all climbing surfaces are at appropriate heights with cushioned areas beneath, and the sightlines allow staff to monitor without hovering."
I watch her defend our creation with fierce pride, handling each question with knowledge and grace. This is her element: championing what children need in a world of adult practicality.
"It's certainly not what I expected," Harold says, running a finger along one of the carved branches. "I was thinking of something more... conventional. More practical."
"Practical how?" Margaret asks.
Harold gestures vaguely. "Standard shelving. Maybe some colorful seating. Something that maximizes the space for actual books rather than all this... theatrical scenery."
A familiar weight settles in my chest—the doubt that's haunted me since inheriting Grandpa's business, whispering I'm not building what people truly need.
"This isn't scenery," Molly counters firmly but kindly. "It's an environment for exploration. That's what reading is...especially for children."
"I understand the concept," Harold dismisses with a wave. "But was all this custom work necessary when commercial options exist?"
The other board member nods. "It's significantly over budget."
"It's not over budget," Margaret says. "It's exactly what we agreed on. Yes, it cost more than something purchased out of a catalog. But worth every penny. An investment that will draw families for years."
The discussion continues, but I'm seeing through Harold's eyes—impractical, excessive. A woodworker's indulgence rather than a library fixture.
Maybe he's right. Perhaps I got carried away, too caught in Molly's enthusiasm and my desire to honor Grandpa's legacy.
"Cal?" Molly interrupts. "Show them the fairy doors? "
All eyes turn to me expectantly. "Sure."
I retrieve the box from the table, removing five themed doors: an open book, a tiny cottage, and a miniature of the library's entrance.
"These will be installed around the tree base," I explain, my voice sounding distant. "Each has a compartment for books or displays."
"Children can change what's inside," Molly adds excitedly. "Makes them co-creators, not just visitors."
As board members examine them, Margaret studies the cottage door. "Extraordinary craftsmanship."
Harold barely glances before setting one down. "Seems excessive for something children will break within a month."
His comment stings. "They're designed to last generations," I say flatly. "Commercial grade hardware."
"I'm sure they're well-made," Harold shrugs. "But do children really need these gimmicks?"
"They're invitations to engage meaningfully," Molly counters sharply.
Harold raises his hands. "Just questioning expenditures."
The board generally approves the project. As they leave, Margaret squeezes my arm. "Don't mind Harold. The reading nook is magnificent. Your grandfather would be proud."
I nod silently. When everyone's gone, Molly turns to me. "That went mostly well. Are you okay?"
"Fine," I say. "Let's install these doors."
We work silently, me drilling mounting points, Molly holding components. Our usual rhythm feels off-balance now. I'm overthinking everything, doubting decisions I'd been confident about hours ago.
"These really are beautiful, Cal," Molly says, touching the book-shaped door. "The children will be thrilled. "
I grunt, focusing on aligning the next door.
"I love the tiny bookshelf inside this one. Like a library within our library."
"It was your idea," I say without looking up.
"But you made it real. That's what you do—make dreams tangible."
Her sincerity twists something inside me. I want to see myself through her eyes instead of Harold's.
"Harold's right about one thing," I say. "Maybe it's too complicated."
Molly's hand drops. "You don't believe that."
I shrug. "It's valid. Form over function."
"The form creates the function. The magic is the purpose."
"Magic doesn't hold up to daily use by a hundred kids."
She frowns. "What's going on? This doesn't sound like you."
"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think." It comes out too harsh.
Hurt flashes across her face. "Maybe not."
We finish in strained silence. Each fairy door fits perfectly, but I feel I've missed the mark—built something too fanciful.
"That's the last one," I say.
"It looks perfect. Exactly what we envisioned."
"What you envisioned. I just built it."
"This was a collaboration. Your ideas shaped every aspect."
I pack my tools. "The opening's tomorrow, right?"
"Yes. At 10:00. You'll be there?"
"I'll try. Depends on my schedule. "
She looks hurt. "Of course. You must be busy."
I snap my toolbox closed. "Final invoice will be in your email tomorrow."
"Cal." I stop at the door. "Did I do something wrong?"
She stands beside our reading nook, arms wrapped around herself, eyes confused and hurt.
"No. You didn't do anything wrong. I just need to get back to the workshop."
"Thank you for everything. The reading nook is more beautiful than I imagined."
I should explain my doubts, tell her the problem is me, not her. Instead, I nod and leave.
Later, Margaret texts:
Margaret
Will you say a few words at tomorrow's opening?
I think of Molly, of the hurt in her eyes.
Cal
I'll be there.
Then I craft something small from cherry wood, hoping it might say what I cannot.
The library parking lot is packed when I arrive, fifteen minutes early. Families stream in, excited children pulling parents along. I sit in my truck, the wooden token heavy in my pocket.
I almost leave, telling myself the reading nook needs no explanation from its builder.
Then I see Molly through the glass doors, kneeling beside a girl with a stuffed animal. Even from here, I can see her genuine delight. She's wearing a tree-patterned dress, hair loose.