12. Shawn
Shawn
Blaze gets out of the truck before I can put up any argument, so I have to follow. I’m just happy to be with him. I don’t know what’s inside the narrow storefront, but I’m excited to find out.
In turns out to hold dozens of wooden display shelves and tables full of handmade wood items, all for sale. The options range from decorative, like little carved bears on their hind legs, to functional pieces such as cutting boards and breadboxes.
We’re greeted by a small, slightly stooped man without a single hair on his head. “Is that Blaze Hardy?” he asks, craning his neck so he can look us in the eye.
Until now, I didn’t know Blaze’s last name. I like it. Solid and sturdy, like him.
“That’s me, Joe,” he says. “I brought someone who’s interested in woodworking. You got any classes coming up?”
“Shawn Camden,” I say, offering the man a hand, which he shakes with surprising vigor. Stooped he may be, but he’s strong.
“Shawn,” Joe says in acknowledgment. “Well, we’ve got a weekly beginner class starting next week; runs through the week before Christmas.”
It sounds awesome, but I can hardly expect to be at the retreat two months from now.
“And we’ve got a class tomorrow, in fact. Stool building.”
“Got room for one more?” Blaze asks.
“You have eighty bucks, I have room for one more,” Joe says, looking at me. “You got any experience?”
“I took woodshop in college, but that was a long time ago,” I confess.
“It’ll come back to you. Bring work gloves if you have ’em. Two o’clock.”
Blaze grins. “Great, he’ll be there.”
I can’t think of a reason to turn down the offer, so I smile at Joe. “If that’s okay.”
“Just said it was, didn’t I?” he says with New England saltiness. “Holler if you need something.” He retreats to the back of the room where work benches are lined up, with a few in-progress pieces on some of them.
“It’s a workshop in the back and a retail space here in the front,” Blaze explains. “They sell pieces made by their students and by Joe’s wife. Cora’s an award-winning artist.”
I browse the pieces on display, see a couple of items I wouldn’t mind having in my own kitchen at home. One of the simple but impeccably crafted trunks would make a terrific gift for Callie, too.
“This place is incredible,” I murmur to Blaze. “You came up with this on the spur of the moment?”
“Well, you mentioned woodworking. My dad was friends with Joe and Cora. They taught him everything he knew.”
“Well, thanks for thinking of it.” How does Blaze always know the exact thing I need right when I need it? Having something constructive to do with my hands is appealing. “Wait—I don’t have any work gloves.”
“You can borrow a pair of mine,” he says, like it’s nothing. He glances at my hands, frowns. “Unless they won’t fit. Your hands are enormous.”
I hold one up. “My secret weapon. Makes it easier to catch the ball. But they can’t be much bigger than yours.” Impulsively, I grab his hand and press our palms together. My fingers are longer, but our palms are roughly the same size. His skin is warm against mine, and it feels good. “See?”
He looks at me without saying anything, and it reminds me of the moment on the couch after we’d finished the movie when it almost seemed like he wanted something from me. Like maybe he wanted to do something to me.
He had a boyfriend in college.
And I can’t stop thinking about if his beard would be scratchy or soft against my face.
I drop my hand quickly.
“There’s a hardware store over in Naples. We can get you a pair there,” Blaze says.
I like the way he says “we,” like the gloves are a problem we’re solving together.
“You hungry?” I ask.
“Sure.” We say goodbye to Joe after I give him the fee to save my spot in tomorrow’s class. I head for the truck, but Blaze throws his thumb over his shoulder in the opposite direction.
“We can walk. You’ve got two options. There’s a not-bad pizza-and-wings place. Mostly people do takeout from there, but they’ve got a few tables. Then there’s a surprisingly good Mexican restaurant. Best chiles rellenos in Maine.” He cocks his head and adds doubtfully, “Or there’s fast food.”
“What about that place?” I point across the green to a large white Victorian-style house with a small sign out front advertising “Saturday dinner.”
“Oh, the bed-and-breakfast. I forgot they do food on Saturday night. I’ve never been. I’m not sure if you need a reservation.”
“Let’s ask.” It’d be cool to offer Blaze a new experience, since he’s such a dyed in the wool local.
He looks down at his clothes. “It might be fancy,” he says, reluctance in his voice.
“You look great.” There’s nothing dressed-up about his worn-in boots or plain blue jeans, but the brown canvas jacket over his flannel is clean and complements his broad shoulders. “Come on, my treat.”
I start confidently across the green before he can argue, and before I can overthink both my compliment and my offer. He’s done a lot for me; I might as well attempt to return the favor.
But after I climb the five granite slab steps up to the front door of the bed-and-breakfast, I hesitate. Should I go inside? Ring the old-fashioned bell? I glance over my shoulder uncertainly. At the foot of the steps, Blaze looks up at me with an amused expression on his face.
I started this. I can finish it. I turn back and knock loudly on the front door.
A good twenty seconds pass before someone on the other side slowly pulls the door open.
I find myself peering down into the face of a middle-aged woman, her gray hair cut pixie style.
She’s two heads shorter than me, and wearing a version of Blaze’s outfit, with a fleece vest over her purple flannel shirt. I feel overdressed in my sweater.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“We don’t have a reservation, but we were hoping to have dinner,” I say, determined to see this through.
“Sure, come on in,” she says, opening the door wider. “We’re serving in the solarium. Blaze?”
He’s right behind me, crossing into the clean, slightly dim entryway. “Hey, Billie,” he says, leaning over to hug the diminutive woman.
“Call ahead next time and we’ll have bratwurst,” she says, leading us through the house.
We pass an old-fashioned sitting room, updated but with the feel of a bygone era.
I hear noises off to the right, but we go left to the back of the house and into a bright, mostly glass room set up with four or five tables and dotted with pedestals topped by large ceramic pots filled with leafy green plants of all shapes and sizes.
There’s what looks like a miniature citrus tree in a huge container in a corner, and a palm tree that nearly scrapes the glass-paned ceiling.
It’s warm and a little humid in the room.
Billie leads us to a circular white wicker table with two chairs across from each other. The other tables are empty, but she doesn’t seem concerned.
“It’s a set menu. Gail’s making pork chops. Any allergies?” We both shake our heads in the negative, and then she asks what we want to drink. “We’ve got pretty near a full bar, wine, beer, or sparkling water.”
Blaze asks for a beer, so I do the same, and then Billie leaves us alone in the solarium.
I take a seat on the matching wicker chair, feeling a bit like an ogre in a doll’s house.
Blaze takes off his jacket, and I remove my sweater, feeling more comfortable in the somewhat damp heat with the layer gone.
“This is an adventure,” I say, looking around the room. “Cool place.”
“I’ve actually never been here,” he says. “But yeah, it is.”
“I guess you wouldn’t have any reason to stay here. But of course you know the owner.”
“Of course?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know most of the locals.”
He shrugs. “That’s what happens when you live in the same place for twenty-nine years.”
“I’ve lived in my apartment for ten and I barely know my neighbors’ names.”
“Really?”
“It’s different living in a city.”
“That I wouldn’t know,” he says. “But yeah, Billie and Gail were friends of my parents, so I’ve known them forever. Gail’s the cook, Billie’s the business side. They have a booth at the farmer’s market, and Gail makes the absolute best bratwurst you’ve ever had in your life.”
“Sounds like a good team.”
“This was a good idea,” he says. “Thanks, Shawn.”
I feel unreasonably proud for offering him an experience he’s never had before. “Good thing we like pork chops, though.”
He laughs lightly. “True.”
Billie brings us our drinks, then we shoot the shit with her for a few minutes.
A chime comes from somewhere in the house, and she excuses herself, returning a minute later with a young couple in tow.
She seats them on the other side of the solarium, though it’s not that large a space.
The girl seems oblivious, but the guy does a bit of a double take when he spots us across the room.
Blaze pours his beer into the frosted pint glass Billie provided, so I do the same. He raises his drink, and I smile as he looks for words for a toast. “To trying new things,” he says finally.
I touch the rim of my glass to the side of his with a faint clink. “To trying new things.”
As I take a sip, I consider the newness of the feelings I’ve been having over the past few days.
I wasn’t given a choice about coming to Sanctuary Lake.
It was this or losing Callie in my corner.
But her orders to get my head on straight were spot-on.
I clearly hadn’t been thinking very clearly in the run-up to what happened with my Lambo.
I’d needed something to jolt me into shaping up, but who knew that an out-of-the-way lake in Maine and the kind man working there would make me realize I’ve been missing out on big chunks of my life?
I shouldn’t have let baseball consume so much of my soul.
Spending time with Blaze has made me recognize I’ve let certain parts of myself molder and shrivel and nearly die.
But one part of me is very clearly not dead. The part that looks at Blaze and wants something I’ve never wanted before.