Chapter 18
Cal
The convention center buzzes with talk of wood grain and every kind of finish known to man. This year, the WCA outdid themselves. Booths line the floor with everything from reclaimed oak slabs to high-end Japanese chisels I can't afford.
I’ve shaken more hands in two days than I have in the last six months. Some folks I’ve met before; some are industry legends I never thought I’d be able to talk to.
My piece—a walnut rocker I’ve been working on for months—sits on display under gallery lights, surrounded by dozens of others, all of them brilliant in their own way. Hand-cut dovetails, live edge slabs, wood so polished you’d swear it was glass.
By the time the dinner gala rolls around, I’m running on fumes and adrenaline.
The ballroom is packed. Tables draped in white linen, servers weaving through with trays of wine and plated duck.
The stage at the front glows under soft amber light, where a line of judges takes turns stepping up to the mic.
They start with the student showcase—some shockingly good entries from high school and trade school programs. Then come the awards for innovation, design, joinery, restoration, sustainable builds.
I try to eat, but the food tastes like cardboard.
A woman with auburn hair and deep set blue eyes sits beside me, a gallery rep from Denver, I think. She keeps brushing her arm against mine. Her perfume’s a little too strong, and for some reason she keeps laughing at things I haven’t actually said.
As we finish the cheesecake—thick, rich, and topped with strawberry preserves—she leans in, eyes bright. “Hi, I’m Daphne.”
“Cal,” I say, shaking her hand.
“I know,” she says with a smile. “I love your work. Are you planning to license your design?”
That’s something I hadn’t thought about.
“That curve along the base,” she purrs, gliding a finger over one of my tattoos as if she’s outlining the rocker, “it’s sensual without being obvious. There’s a kind of… masculine restraint to it. You must put that same kind of care into everything you do.”
I clear my throat. “Appreciate that. It took months to get the balance right.”
“I can only imagine,” she says, voice low, “the kind of hands-on patience that takes.” She slides a hotel keycard under the edge of my napkin. “If you ever feel like… unwinding.”
I blink, unsure whether to laugh or groan.
"I’m flattered,” I say, sliding the keycard back toward her, “but I’m not available.”
She tilts her head, brows raised. “Really? We’ve been here for days, and I haven’t seen you with anyone.”
“I came alone," I admit. "But my heart is back home."
She scoffs softly, but takes the key back. “I wasn't exactly interested in your heart, but suit yourself.”
I glance toward the stage, jaw tight. Elle hasn't spoken to me in weeks, but that doesn’t change anything. She’s the only woman I’ve thought about since the day I met her.
My fingers tap restlessly against my knee, my heart thudding as the announcer begins the final category: the Master Craftsmanship Award for Furniture.
And then, I hear it.
“And first place goes to… Jackson Callahan, for his walnut rocker.”
***
I wake up to a screen full of messages.
My brothers. My parents. Beth.
And Elle.
“Congratulations!”
That one word sits heavy in my chest, like she handed me something so fragile, I have no idea what to do with it.
I lay back against the hotel pillows, still half in disbelief. I actually won.
The room's quiet, but my mind's buzzing louder than a belt sander. I keep going back to the moment they called my name. I must’ve sat there like an idiot for a full three seconds, blinking at the emcee as if there was another Jackson Callahan in the room who built a walnut rocking chair with hand-cut joinery and a seat that took me three tries to get just right.
The applause didn’t feel real until I was on stage. Until they handed me the plaque—solid maple, laser-etched with the words Master Craftsmanship Award.
They also gave me a gift card to a premium tool supplier, tucked inside an envelope, and a handshake from the director that came with an invite to next year’s judging panel.
There were some real artists there. Furniture makers with decades under their belts. Guys who could talk about mortise joints and kiln-dried cherry like they were poetry. I didn’t think I stood a chance.
But maybe that’s the thing about honest work, people feel it, even when they don’t know the name of every tool or technique.
My rocker wasn’t flashy. It was simple, clean. I built it the way I’d build something for someone I love. Like I did with that keepsake box for Elle. Like I do with every piece that leaves my shop.
There was something about being in that room, surrounded by the scent of fresh-cut wood, the low hum of admiration between craftsmen. Strangers who understood what it means to spend eighty hours on one curve, one smooth edge, one impossible fit that finally gives.
It reminded me that this—this life I built with my hands—isn't just work. It’s proof that something broken can be shaped into something good. Something that lasts.
I scroll back to Elle’s message.
"Congratulations!"
I stare at it for a long time, wondering if this broken thing between us can ever be shaped into something good and long-lasting?
The shrill ring of the phone on the nightstand jolts me out of my thoughts.
I reach for the receiver. “Hello?”
“Mr. Callahan?” a polite voice asks.
“Speaking.”
“This is Lydia from the WCA event staff. Sorry to bother you in your room, but someone stopped by the convention desk looking for you.”
My stomach tightens. “Everything okay?”
“Oh yes,” she says with a small laugh. “Better than okay, actually. A gentleman named Richard Brewer—he runs a design firm out of New York—asked if we could pass along his interest in your piece. The walnut rocker.”
I sit up straighter. “He wants to buy it?”
“He does. He saw it yesterday and again last night before the judging. After your win, he asked if it was available. Said he’s prepared to make a very generous offer—and he’d like to discuss the possibility of commissioning more work from you in the future.”
I let out a low whistle. “Wow. Okay. Uh… does he have a card or number?”
“Yes. I left it for you in an envelope at the front desk. Congratulations again, Mr. Callahan. Your work made quite an impression.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up slowly, the weight of the last few days finally catching up to me, and now this.
After breakfast in the hotel restaurant, I stop by the front desk and pick up the envelope. The business card inside is clean, embossed, and expensive-looking.
Richard Brewer, Brewer & Co. – Manhattan, NY.
As excited as I am about the prospect of being commissioned by a firm like his, my mind keeps drifting back to Elle’s message.
“Congratulations!”
Between the offer and her unexpected text, it’s shaping up to be one heck of a morning.
When the phone rings again, I pick it up without checking the caller ID.
“Hello,” I say.
“You sound awfully chipper.”
Meghan. So much for having a good day.
“What do you want, Meg?”
“If you’re in Chicago, and my daughter’s not with your parents, who has her?”
“Since when do you care where Hannah is at any particular time of day?”
“Is she in daycare? Did you leave her with a sitter? And if so, did you vet that person? Check their references?”
“That’s really rich, coming from you,” I snap. “And how do you even know she’s not with my parents?”
“I called and asked to speak with her. They told me she wasn’t there.”
“And they didn’t tell you where she was?”
“They said she was with your neighbor,” she spits. “Who the hell is your neighbor, and why would you leave our child with a stranger?”
“My neighbor is not a stranger. Not to me, and not to my family. She’s spent more time with Hannah in the last three months than you have in the last five years.”
I can practically hear her grinding her teeth, searching for a comeback, but she doesn’t have a leg to stand on.
Because it’s true.
“Who is she, Jackson?”
“She’s someone who’s been there for our daughter in ways you never have.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I can almost see her brows knitting together, anger brewing.
“Do you remember the mother-daughter tea at school?” I ask. “The one you were too busy to attend? Hannah wasn’t about to miss it just because you refused to take her. Our neighbor took her.”
I pause for a beat.
“Emily’s birthday party? Our neighbor helped Hannah pick out a gift.
When Hannah had a fever and wanted her mom?
Our neighbor stayed up all night with her.
And Thanksgiving—you promised you'd see her, but you never showed up. Those are the kinds of letdowns that stay with a child. The ones she won’t forget. ”
There’s a pause.
“Jackson, are you seeing this woman?”
“Really?” I scoff. “After everything I just said, the only thing you care about is whether or not I’m dating her? You’re unbelievable.”
“Are you?” she murmurs.
“No, I’m not seeing her,” I say. And without hesitating, I add, “But I’d like nothing more than to marry her, and let her be the mother to Hannah that you never were.”
There’s a long silence on the other end. No breath, no argument, no venom. Just silence.
Then, a soft click.
She’s hung up on me.