Chapter 4
Chapter four
Ben
The problem with handcrafting Victorian storefront trim after midnight was that every flourish started looking the same.
I squinted at the scrollwork, trying to decide if it matched its partner or if I'd carved one loop too many.
Up in the catwalks, ropes creaked as they settled.
The ghost light cast long shadows across my workbench, and snow tapped against the high windows like impatient fingers.
The wood deserved better than my distracted attention. I had quartersawn oak, tight grain, the kind that sang under a sharp chisel when you worked with it instead of against it. My grandfather would've knocked me upside the head for letting my mind wander.
Though he probably would've understood why I was distracted. Green eyes. That lithe body that moved with a quiet elegance. The surprise in his expression when joy broke through despite his best efforts to scare it away.
My phone buzzed. Holly, of course.
"The winter sage bloomed early tonight," she said without preamble. I heard the jangle of her bracelets through the phone. "Which means you're still fussing with that molding instead of sleeping. The yarrow also suggested you might have company soon."
I smiled. "Your plants are awfully chatty about my personal business."
"They care about you, dear. As do I." Her voice softened. "He's walking up Cedar Street right now. Two cups of coffee—one black, one with cream."
"Did you—"
"Just thought you'd want to wipe the sawdust off your face." She hung up.
I looked down. Sure enough, pale dust covered my flannel. I brushed it off and had just raked my fingers through my hair when the stage door creaked open.
"Hello?" Alex's voice echoed through the empty theater, tentative but warm. "I saw your truck outside..."
He emerged into the work lights carrying two cups, steam curling up around his face. He'd changed from his rehearsal clothes into dark jeans and a blue henley that set off his impossibly green eyes.
"Figured you might need this." He handed me a cup, and his fingers brushed mine. "Holly said black coffee was your poison of choice."
"Holly says a lot of things." I accepted the cup gratefully. "Most of them are true, unfortunately. Thanks."
The theater's atmosphere was different with only the two of us in it. Smaller somehow. The Christmas lights we'd strung along the balcony rail glowed soft gold, and outside, the snow had picked up, blurring the streetlights into halos.
"I couldn't sleep," Alex admitted. "Too much choreography running through my head. And I kept thinking about..." He gestured vaguely. "Everything."
"Yeah." I knew what he meant. So many things. The narrowing physical gap between us yesterday. Our almost-kiss. How the garland had bloomed where our hands touched, like the valley itself was casting a vote.
He stepped closer, studying the trim pieces I'd been working on. "This detail work is incredible. The proportions are perfect for the period."
"You know Victorian architecture?"
"I've seen enough theater restorations to recognize quality craftsmanship." He traced one finger along the scrollwork. "This must take forever."
"The good things usually do." I watched his careful exploration of the wood. "Want to see how it's done? This piece still needs its match."
He hesitated. "I'd probably mess it up."
"Can't mess up wood by touching it. That takes a blade and bad judgment." I handed him a spare piece of oak, narrower than mine but from the same board. "Here. Feel the grain direction first. That's what tells you where each cut wants to go."
His fingers moved over the surface, learning its texture. They were elegant hands, a performer's hands, but they had strength in them, too. "It's like... reading Braille almost. Is that the wood's language?"
"Yes." He learned quickly. "Most people try to force their vision onto the material. It's a lot easier if you listen to what it wants to become."
"My grandmother used to say something similar about acting. She said, 'Listen to what the story needs, not what your ego wants.'"
I picked up my chisel. The blade was sharp enough to shave hair. "Watch. First, you establish the baseline..."
The chisel moved through the oak with a whispery sound that meant the alignment was perfect—grain direction, blade angle, pressure. Thin curls of wood peeled away clean. The scent of it filled the air, sweet and dry, mixing with the cinnamon from the garland and the coffee in our hands.
"You want to try?" I offered him the chisel.
Alex set his coffee down. "What if I ruin it?"
"Then we start over. I've got plenty of oak." I moved beside him, close enough to guide his hands. "Here—like this. Don't grip it like you're strangling it. Let it rest in your palm, balanced."
His fingers adjusted, and I covered his hand with mine to show him the angle. "Now feel the grain. You want to cut with it, like..." I moved his hand in a slow practice motion. "Following the natural line."
"Like choreography," he murmured. "Following the body's natural movement instead of fighting it."
"Yeah. Just like that."
He made the first cut, tentative but clean. A perfect curl of wood spiraled away from the blade.
"I did it!" Pure delight animated his voice. He looked up at me, grinning, and an electrical charge bounced between us.
"You're a natural. Try another."
I steadied his hand as he carved out the basic pattern. Snow continued to fall outside, visible through the tall windows, catching the streetlight. The ghost light cast our joined shadows across the workbench, merged into one.
"Why restoration?" Alex asked quietly, his focus still on the wood. "You could design custom furniture anywhere. Boston, New York..."
"Had offers in Boston, actually." I guided his hand through a trickier section where the grain twisted.
"High-end pieces for people who'd never touch a chisel themselves.
Good money, terrible soul." I nodded to the theater around us.
"This place has stories. Every worn floorboard, paint layer, or nick in the wood has a memory attached to it.
Bringing that history back to life fits better than anything I could build from scratch. "
Alex's chisel paused. "My grandmother never missed a show. Starting with when I was Ensemble Member Number Six." His voice caught. "She would have loved this theater. The way you've restored it."
"She did love it," I said gently. "She came to every production these past few years. Always sat front row center. Always had notes about my set designs—good ones, too."
He blinked hard. I watched him fight back tears.
"She told me once," I continued, "that she was saving the center seat next to her. Said she knew you'd come home eventually, when you were ready."
A tear ran down his cheek. He grunted and wiped it away roughly. "Sorry. I don't usually—"
I set down my chisel and turned him to face me. "You don't have to apologize for missing someone you loved."
"It's just... everywhere I look in this town, I see her. And it hurts, but it also..." He gestured helplessly. "It helps a little. God, that doesn't make sense."
"Makes perfect sense to me." I brushed sawdust off his cheekbone without thinking. "The hard memories and the good ones, they're cut from the same wood. Can't separate them, even when it aches."
He leaned into my palm slightly. "Do you always talk in carpentry metaphors?"
"Occupational hazard. My grandfather was worse—measured everything in board feet, including his affection." I let my hand drop. "Said love was like dovetail joints. Looks impossible when you're cutting the pieces, but when they slide together just right, nothing can pull them apart."
The side door of the theater banged open.
We jerked apart like teenagers caught making out. My hip slammed into the workbench, scattering wood curls.
"Emergency!" Jack burst in, cashmere coat billowing like he was making a stage entrance. "I need an acting intervention. Charice will be here any minute, and I still can't nail the declaration of love scene without breaking into nervous laughter."
His voice bounced off the domed ceiling and came back amplified. He looked at us and stopped short. "Oh. Am I interrupting?"
"No," Alex said.
"Yes," I said at the same time.
Jack's eyes gleamed. "I'll just—"
Alex cut in. "You'll explain what you need help with. Quickly, because it's after midnight."
"Right. Okay." Jack perched on a sawhorse, nearly tipping it over. "So Charice and I keep cracking up during Fred's big romantic speech. We can't get through it without giggles. The show's in nine days, and we sound like we're performing comedy, not romance."
"Have you tried..." Alex paused. "Never mind. You don't need my input."
"Actually, I absolutely need your Broadway expertise. Please?"
The side door opened again, and Charice appeared in reindeer-covered scrubs, her braids pulled back with a headband that jingled. "I heard wailing from the parking lot. What's Jack destroyed now?"
"My artistic dignity!" He sighed dramatically. "Also, possibly Ben's sawhorse."
"Your artistic dignity will survive." She grinned at us. "Sorry to crash your evening. Jack insisted this couldn't wait."
Holly breezed in through the stage door, arms full of fabric.
"Don't mind me!" She sailed past us toward the costume room. "Dropping off these finished doublets. The velvet finally stopped sulking."
She disappeared into the wings before I could question her statement. It was subtle as a brick through a window, but at least she was gone quickly.
"Please, Alex?" Charice's smile was genuine. "The pediatric ward kids are so excited about this show. I'd hate to disappoint them because we can't stop giggling."
I watched his resistance crumble. "Alright. Show me what you're working with. But Jack? Dial back the hand gestures about eighty percent."
They ran the scene. Jack clutched his heart dramatically while declaring his love for Susan from the toy department. When he compared her eyes to "sparkling cash registers of love," Charice broke down, snorting with laughter.
"See?" Jack threw up his hands. "Impossible."
Alex crossed his arms, studying them. The director took over from the anxious performer. "The problem isn't the words. It's that you're performing the romance rather than the truth beneath. What draws Fred to Susan beyond surface attraction?"
Jack consulted his script. "She... organizes rubber ducks creatively?"
"Work with that. Tell me more, and make it specific."
"She arranges them like they're having adventures. Little duck families on vacation, ducks having tea parties..." Jack's face lit up. "Fred loves how she makes ordinary things magical."
"There!" Alex's enthusiasm erupted out of him. "And what does Susan love about Fred?"
Charice caught on immediately. "He gets excited about quarterly reports because he sees stories in the numbers, not merely data."
"Exactly. Play that connection. The romance grows from recognizing each other."
They reran it. This time, Jack's over-the-top declarations translated into genuine warmth. When he noticed Susan's duck display, he expressed real delight. Charice responded to his enthusiasm naturally, and suddenly they weren't actors performing—they were Fred and Susan, finding each other.
"That's it!" Alex glowed. "See how much stronger it is when it's rooted in truth?"
"Like you and Noel, Jack," I added. "Channel that energy."
Jack flushed. "I don't know what you—"
"Please." Charice rolled her eyes. "You practically float when he's around. The nurses take bets on how long it will take for your feet to touch the ground."
"I hate you both," Jack muttered behind a smile.
They ran it once more, and the scene sang.
"You're brilliant," Charice told Alex, squeezing his arm. "Thank you."
"I only gave some basic feedback—"
"You gave us permission to be real." Jack sounded sincere. "That's harder than technical notes."
Alex ducked his head, uncomfortable with the praise.
Charice checked her phone. "I need to get home before my kids wonder if Santa stole their mom. Jack, you want a ride?"
"Sure. Thanks again, Alex." He paused as he headed for the door. "And sorry for interrupting whatever we interrupted."
"We weren't—" Alex started.
"Merry Christmas!" Jack called.
The door closed behind them. Silence settled around us, thick with things unsaid.
Alex busied himself collecting our coffee cups. "I should let you get back to work."
"Or you could stay. Help me finish carving your piece. If you want."
He looked at the trim, then at me. "I want," he said quietly.
We returned to the workbench. This time, when I stood behind him to guide his hands, he leaned back, letting himself relax into my arms.
"Ben, thank you for tonight. For making me feel like maybe I can do this again." He turned slightly, and his face was mere inches from mine. "Direct, I mean. Create things."
"You never stopped being able to," I said. "You only forgot for a while."
"I should go," he whispered.
"Probably," I agreed, not stepping back.
We stood there, caught in an impossible moment, neither of us quite willing to be the one who broke it.
Finally, Alex exhaled and stepped away. The loss of his warmth was like a shower of cold water.
"Tomorrow?" he asked. "Rehearsal?"
"I'll be here."
Alex gathered his coat. At the door, he paused and looked back.
"Ben? That thing your grandfather said about dovetail joints?"
"Yeah?"
"What if one of the pieces isn't ready to fit yet?"
I took a deep breath. "Then the other piece waits. However long it takes."
He left without another word. Through the window, I watched him walk down Cedar Street, snow settling in his dark hair, while he shoved his hands deep in his pockets.
I turned back to the workbench and picked up the piece he'd been carving. His cuts were clean and sure, following the grain. The wood had taken his touch and made it beautiful.
I set it carefully beside my matching piece. They'd fit together perfectly when the time came. They were cut from the same board, after all—meant to be paired and balanced.
Only nine more nights until Christmas.
Nine more nights to convince Alex Garland that home wasn't a place he'd left behind.
It was right here, waiting for him to claim it.