Chapter 20
Cal
By the time Dad drops me off at home, it's past nine o'clock. I’m sore, tired from the flight, and looking forward to sleeping in my own bed. I drop my bag just inside the door and head straight for the kitchen. Nate’s there, standing by the window with his arms crossed, wearing one of his usual worn-in flannel shirts and a look that says he’s two seconds from telling someone off.
He doesn’t say anything when I walk in—just grunts and gives a nod. Classic Nate.
I pour myself some coffee from the pot he must’ve made. “Did Hannah go to bed on time?”
“She wanted to wait up for you, but she was out by eight,” he says. “Bethy’s in the bedroom with her.”
"So. Manhattan didn’t chew me up.”
“Shame,” he mutters. “Would’ve saved you the trouble of moving.”
I chuckle. “It went well. Brewer’s offering a full partnership—five custom pieces for his gallery, commissioned, top-dollar clients. He wants exclusivity.”
That finally earns a glance. “So, you're doing this.”
“Yeah. I am.”
“Good,” he says simply. Then, after a beat: “How many zeroes?”
I grin into my mug. “Enough.”
I set the mug down and lean back. “And get this—he wants to license a few of my original designs. Said he knows a handful of boutique retailers who’d pay royalties just to reproduce limited editions under my name. Custom craftsmanship, mass-scale exposure. I keep the rights, they do the work.”
Nate lets out a low whistle. “That’s not just a paycheck. That’s a legacy.”
“Exactly. I’d get to focus on the pieces I love, not just the ones that pay the bills.”
He nods slowly, absorbing it. “I can see why you’re thinking of making the move.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s the kind of shot you don’t turn down.”
He nods once but doesn’t say anything more. Which means his thoughts are on something else. He doesn’t get quiet unless something’s festering.
I lean against the counter. “Everything go okay while I was gone?”
He shifts his jaw. “Hannah was fine. Beth had things handled.”
“But?”
He uncrosses his arms and drags a hand down his face like the memory physically irritates him. “But your neighbor…”
I blink. “Elle?”
He shoots me a look. “No. The roommate.”
“…Tina?”
He exhales sharply. “Yeah. Tina.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What happened?”
“She nearly called the cops on me,” he growls.
“What?”
“I was here to pick up the girls, and before I even make it to the porch, this woman—this intense, brunette firecracker with a track star’s build and a don’t-mess-with-me walk—comes marching up like I broke into your house.”
I’m already biting back a laugh. “Tina’s protective.”
“She’s a menace,” he snaps. “Gets all up in my face and demands to know who I am. Like I’m the sketchy one. So I ask her who she is, and next thing I know, we’re in a full-blown verbal sparring match on your front steps.”
“You serious?”
“I’m dead serious. She accused me of casing the place and started reaching for her phone to call 911. I’m standing there thinking, ‘Is this woman for real?’ Then, thank God, Beth opens the door.”
I can’t help but smirk. “Let me guess. She greeted you like nothing was wrong.”
“‘Hi, Nate,’” he mimics flatly. “Like it wasn’t DEFCON one on your porch ten seconds earlier.”
I shake my head. “Please tell me you introduced yourself.”
“I was about to,” he grumbles. “Then she turns to Beth all smug, and before I can say a word, I may or may not have said, "I'm glad we've figured out who actually belongs here.”
I nearly spit my coffee. “You didn’t.”
“I did. And she did that thing women do—you know, when they raise one eyebrow and silently judge you down to your soul? She did that. And I just stood there like an idiot.”
“So… let me get this straight. You had a showdown with Tina, insulted each other, almost called the cops, and still managed to remember the exact way her eyebrow moved?”
He narrows his eyes. “She’s got those eyes, man. Big, brown, intense. Like she could read your DNA.”
I just stare at him for a second. “You’re into her.”
He scowls. “I am not into her.”
“You described her like she’s your favorite nemesis.”
“She’s five-foot-nine of pure, athletic rage wrapped in sarcasm and perfect hair.”
“Definitely into her.”
“I’m not,” he insists. “You’re lucky I didn’t get arrested on your front steps.”
I chuckle. “Don’t worry, I would’ve bailed you out.”
He grabs his mug and heads for the door. “Can you take Bethy to school in the morning?”
“Will do,” I say. “Thanks for helping out with Hannah.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, stopping at the doorway. “You tell that woman next door to stay on her side of the lawn from now on.”
Yeah, he’s most definitely into her.
***
“Daddy!” Hannah’s voice rings out before I even see her.
Beth is close behind, trying to run a brush through Hanna's hair. “Hold on, Hannah!” she exclaims.
“Hannah Banana!” I scoop her into my arms, then reach over to give Beth a quick hug.
“What time did you get in?” Beth asks, peering over my shoulder to see what’s on the stove.
“About nine,” I say. “Want some oatmeal with fruit?”
“Bananas?” she asks.
“And blueberries,” I say.
They both sit at the table, watching me with wide eyes.
“Well?” Beth says. “How did it go?”
“Yeah, Daddy! Did somebody buy your furniture?” Hannah echoes.
“Yes, they did,” I say, realizing just how much I missed my girls. “I’m going to be making rocking chairs, tables, benches, armoires, dinette sets…”
“So, for sure you’re moving,” Beth says.
“Looks that way,” I admit, shooting her a reassuring smile. “But we’ll be back often. As busy as I’ll be, anytime Hannah’s on school break, we’ll come home to see you all.”
“You promise?” Beth asks, her expression starting to fall.
“Of course,” I say. “There’s no way we’d ever miss a birthday or a holiday.”
"Ugh," Hannah groans. "I forgot my coat upstairs."
"Run and go get it," I say. "We'll wait for you."
Once Hannah is out of earshot, Beth starts tugging at the sleeve of her sweater.
"What is it, Bethy?"
“I don’t know if I wasn’t supposed to tell Elle, but I did.”
“It’s not a secret,” I assure her gently. “It’s okay.”
"Will you talk to her about it?" Beth asks, her tone hopeful.
"If she wants to," I say, handing her a bowl of oatmeal.
"She was shocked," Beth says. "And not at all happy about it."
"I live next door to her," I point out. "And I haven't seen her in weeks. Moving to New York isn't what's putting distance between us. Do you really think it'll make any difference if I'm here or in New York?"
Beth doesn’t answer my question. Probably because she knows I’m right.
“If she wanted to see me,” I continue, “she would've joined us for Thanksgiving dinner. I was the one who reached out and personally invited her. She said she had plans. She didn’t show up because she didn’t want to be anywhere near me.”
Beth shifts in her seat. “That’s not true.”
I glance over.
“She didn’t come because she and Tina spent the whole day at a soup kitchen,” Beth says. “They were handing out meals, coats, and toys to people who didn’t have anywhere else to go. Women, kids... people sleeping in shelters and tents.”
She pauses, then continues, “You know Elle aged out of the system, right? The day she turned eighteen, Meghan kicked her out of the group home with nothing but a scholarship and the clothes on her back. No money. No plan. No family. Meghan didn’t even flinch.
She just handed her a trash bag for her things and told her she’d never see her sister again because the adoption was closed. ”
Beth’s voice softens. “Elle had to survive on friends’ couches, cheap motels when she could scrape the money together—and when she couldn’t, crowded shelters—until her dorm finally opened up.
She was completely alone. And the saddest part is that Meghan knew perfectly well there were people who cared about her and wanted to make her part of their family… us.”
"I wish Elle would talk to me and open up the way she does with you," I say. "I want to be there for her. I want her to trust me. But honestly, I feel like Elle's resentment—toward me, and the whole situation with you, her, and Meghan—is stronger than any love we might feel for each other."
"How can you say that?" Beth says. "I know she loves you and Hannah. What else could be stronger?"
"Bethy, that’s not something you should be asking me," I say gently. "You should be asking her."
***
Hannah is in the shop with me, tucked into her makeshift play-and-school corner. She’s got markers scattered across the table and a piece of paper in front of her, tongue poking out in concentration as she draws. Something Beth used to do when she was little.
I’m a few feet away, polishing a cedar bench I’ve been working on all week.
“Daddy,” she says without looking up, “I want you to show me how to make furniture.”
I pause mid-stroke and glance over at her. Her legs swing beneath the little stool I made her last spring, and she’s got a crayon in each hand, eyebrows scrunched in focus. She looks like she’s planning something big.
“You do, huh?” I set the rag down. “What kind of furniture?”
She shrugs. “Something pretty. For my dolls.”
A smile pulls at my lips. She doesn’t know it yet, but tucked behind some lumber in the back of the shop, is her Christmas present.
A wooden dollhouse kit. Not the kind that comes already painted and assembled, but the kind with raw pieces, blueprints, and real nails.
The kind a little girl can help build, paint, and design with her dad.
The plan isn’t just to give her a dollhouse, it’s to build one with her. Teach her how to read a simple diagram. Use her tiny hands to hold the pieces in place while I guide her through sanding, gluing, painting. I want her to see that she can create something beautiful from a pile of nothing.
“Well,” I say, walking over to her. “how about we build something small first? Like a tiny table for your dolls?”
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
“Really,” I say, kneeling beside her. “You draw it, and I’ll help you build it.”
Her eyes go wide, and she turns her paper toward me. “I already did!”
I laugh, because of course she did.
I take the drawing from her and study the wild shapes and colorful lines.
“You’ve got an eye for design, Hannah Banana.”
“Why just one eye, Daddy?” she blurts out. "I have two eyes for design!"
I laugh again. A laugh that echoes in the large space, filling not only the air, but my heart with joy.
“That’s right,” I say, standing and offering her my hand. “Two eyes are better than one. Now, let’s go pick out some scrap wood and get started.”
She jumps up like I just offered her the moon. Her excitement makes me realize that sharing a love of building with her is the best gift I could imagine giving.
And she’s five—the perfect age to start dreaming with her hands.