The Carpenter & the Queen (7 page)

“Thanks. We’ll see how it goes.” He glanced
at his watch. “Better go.”

The sidewalks were still slushy. Paul picked
his way carefully next door to the library. He didn’t need a new
injury. He realized when he opened the library door that he
couldn’t remember if he had ever been inside.

The activity and noise level startled him. A
woman with two children in snow suits perused the fiction section.
The children sucked lollipops and kicked each other with their snow
boots. To the left, just in front of the small reference section, a
bearded man in orange coveralls chewed his lip as he pecked out
words on a computer keyboard. In the center of the room, an elderly
lady conversed loudly with the librarian. Paul had not met her, but
given her resemblance to Mona, her identity was easy to guess. Paul
planned to lean against the counter until she was finished with her
discussion about the Corn Festival. He glanced behind him to the
children’s section and noticed a little boy with sandy blond hair
and glasses. The boy wore headphones and turned the pages of a
book. When he looked up, Paul smiled at him. The boy frowned.

“May I help you?”

The voice came from a woman, probably in her
mid thirties, behind the counter, and one look at her caused Paul
to inhale sharply. He noticed first the smile that illuminated her
peachy complexion, then her eyes, glowing embers of dark brown. Her
blond wavy hair was cut just above her shoulders, her bangs pinned
to the side with a bobby pin. Her green silk blouse and tan suede
jacket accentuated her curves. She tucked her hair behind her ear
with her left hand. No wedding ring.

“I’m hoping you can help me find some
reference books with medieval pictures,” he said.

“What type of pictures?”

“Women mostly, especially anything related
to Maid Marian.”

She raised an eyebrow.

Paul set the printed photos of his
customer’s pieces on the counter. “I need to make a queen that will
match these.”

She pulled the photos closer and examined
them. “Wow!”

“Yeah. I’ve got artistic license to do what
I want, as long as it fits in with the rest.”

“That’s quite the challenge. We’ve got some
strategy books, but not many photos of sets . . . at least, that I
know of.”

“I’ve already checked my stuff at home.
Something like this exists in pewter, but the design doesn’t help
me.”

“You’ll need some children’s books perhaps,”
she suggested. “Maybe medieval clothing, paper doll books, prints
of famous paintings . . .”

“That’d be great.”

She came out from behind the counter and
motioned for him to follow her to the children’s section. As she
passed the blond boy, she roughed his hair.

“I thought I saw a castle book here,” she
said. “That might have something.”

The little boy had turned from his desk and
was watching them. Paul noticed his brown eyes. Was this her
son?

“So, you’re an artist?” the woman asked.

“I guess. I would have said carpenter.”

“Jack of all trades, then?”

He didn’t complete the phrase. “I’m a rare
breed.”

She studied the shelves, pulled off a few
books, then held one up to him. “I think the people are too small
in this one.”

Paul squinted at the busy page with
characters that were the perfect size for
Where’s Waldo?
“I
already need glasses. . .”

She grinned and handed him another. “This
might be too cartoony.”

Paul agreed. He thumbed through the other
choices, but none held the inspiration he required.

“What other options do we have?” he asked.
“Isn’t there an inter-library loan, or something?”

“Governor cut that in the budget, otherwise
I could have gotten you some great stuff.”

“So, what are my options then?” “Drive to
Grand Rapids?” He was already figuring the cost of gas into his
estimate.

“Maybe not,” she said, lowering her voice.
“I’ve got some medieval picture books and Robin Hood stuff at home.
I could bring it by tomorrow and you could take a look at it—in
here, of course.”

“That’s very generous of you.” Paul felt
pleased at the promise of seeing her again. “Are you a medieval
historian?”

“Amateur enthusiast. Well . . . geek.”

“Are you one of those people who wear the
costumes to Renaissance Fairs?”

She laughed in a musical way that did not
sit with Paul’s preconceptions of how a librarian should laugh.
“That’s an interesting question.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Paul’s
mouth. She was flirting with him. If only he could think of
something clever to say, but his wit was paralyzed. He couldn’t
bring himself to take it further. “I’d appreciate anything you
could show me. When should I come by?”

“Before lunch would be best.”

She smiled so freely. He could get used to
such a smile.

“My name’s Paul, by the way.”

“I’m Claire. And that’s Sam.”

The little boy lifted his head at mention of
his name.

“Snow day,” Claire explained.

“How old are you, Sam?”

Claire raised both eyebrows at her son,
prompting him to answer. Sam turned back to his book, and Claire
sighed. “Eight.”

“Does he play chess?”

“Oh, he plays. His strategy is creative at
times, but he’s getting better.”

“I’ve got nieces who are the same way.” Paul
surprised himself at his willingness to volunteer information. “I
figure it’s a learning curve.”

“In the meanwhile, I’m losing badly,” Claire
admitted.

“Join the club.”

Paul knew this was the time to leave, while
he still sounded witty.

“See you tomorrow morning, then. And thanks
for your help.”

As he drove home, Paul would not allow
himself to consider anything in too great of detail too early.
However, he was looking forward to returning to the library the
next day, and it was the first time in a long while that Paul had
looked forward to anything.

8

“Caught a live one, have you?”

Francine nodded toward the library door Paul
had just exited.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Claire was still so surprised at herself that she was unwilling to
admit anything.

“I saw you flirting.”

“I was only being friendly. Good customer
service, you know.”

Francine didn’t look convinced. “He’s
divorced. From Chicago. My sister’s had the biggest crush on him
forever.”

Claire’s heart sank a little. “I hope that
works out for her.”

“No, you don’t,” Francine teased. “She’d
talk him to death anyway. She’d talk any man into an early
grave.”

Claire chuckled as she pulled some books out
of the return bin and checked them back in.

“You dated much?” Francine asked.

“Not at all.”

“Oh, come on! In four years?”

“Nope.”

“What’s with men these days? You’re a
beautiful woman.”

“I’ve got a lot of men in my life,” Claire
said with a shrug. “Sam and Garrett keep me busy.”

“That’s a rotten excuse.”

“And I still miss Will.”

“If you’re waiting for that to change,
you’ll be single the rest of your life.”

When Claire and Sam got home from the
library that afternoon, Sam ran to his PlayStation, tired of a day
spent looking at words. Claire climbed up the stairs to the room
where her books were now organized into new bookshelves. The
medieval books sat on the second shelf from the bottom.

Taking her own books to a library customer
probably set a bad precedent. Claire had been too forward as well.
She hadn’t meant to be, but something inside her switched on when
she was talking to Paul. Instantly, she felt guilty and somehow
disloyal to what she and Will had shared. Many of these books they
had bought together. She couldn’t show them to someone else, even
if they weren’t about her.

But weren’t they? Wasn’t that why she had
bought them—because she needed to believe that her life was a fairy
tale—or could be?

She wished she hadn’t offered to share, but
she couldn’t break her word. And what could it hurt to have Paul
come around the library? She pulled out several books, stopped by
her desk drawer to grab a pad of sticky notes, and went downstairs
to her room. She would enjoy looking through the stack tonight once
Sam was in bed. Tomorrow, she would keep the books in a bag, and if
Paul didn’t come, then no one had to know she had brought them.

After supper, Sam wanted to play chess.
Claire wondered if his overhearing her conversation with Paul had
inspired the desire. After he had cleared the table, Sam went to
get the game while she loaded the dishwasher. When she joined him
in the dining room, he was just setting up the pieces.

“I want to be black,” Sam said.

“Are you sure? White goes first.”

“Black is cooler,” Sam replied. “Darth Vader
wears black.” He had just completed his row of pawns and now was
working the second row.

Claire started picking out her pieces and
placing them on the board. “Your daddy liked to play chess. He
learned how to play from a buddy of his when they were on temporary
duty in Bosnia.”

“Did Daddy win a lot?”

“I don’t think so. He bought this set at the
PX when he got back. Sometimes his friend came over to play in the
evening, but I never stayed to watch.”

“Because you were taking care of me?”

“You weren’t born yet. I was painting. I
used to do that a lot.”

Sam looked up to the wall beside the table
where one of Claire’s paintings, an early rendering of the castle
Burg Eltz, hung.

“I’ve never seen you do that,” he said.

“Sure you have. It’s just been so long you
don’t remember.”

“There are a lot of things I don’t remember.
Do you think there’s something wrong with my brain?”

Claire held back a smile. “No. You’re fine.
We just forget things. It’s what happens.”

“So it’s okay that I forget stuff about
Dad?”

“You were so small,” Claire comforted.
“There’s no way you could remember everything about him.”

“Do you?”

She bit her lip, considering her answer. “I
remember the important things, like how much he loved me and you,
how he loved being a soldier. I remember when you were a baby, he
brought you in to where I was painting because he wanted you to see
what I was doing.”

She felt the familiar restriction in her
chest as she recalled the memory. “I remember he said, ‘Sammy, this
is what Mommy looks like when she’s happy.’”

“Is that why you don’t paint anymore?”

“You mean, because I’m not happy?”

Sam nodded.

“Different things make us happy at different
times in our lives. It doesn’t mean we’ve lost anything.”
At
least, I hope not
. “Now, let’s play a game. You start.”

Sam frowned at the board then jumped out of
his chair. “I’ll be right back.”

She heard him pound up the stairs and pound
back down a few seconds later. When he entered the dining room, he
was carrying her queen.

“I think she should play,” Sam said.

Claire fought irritation that Sam thought of
the piece as a toy. She wasn’t sure she wanted it handled so
freely.

“She’s prettier than the regular one,” Sam
said. “I wanted her on my side.”

“She doesn’t match the set,” Claire
protested. “Daddy bought that for me a long time ago. I don’t
really want us to play with her.”

“Can I use her? Please? To help me remember
Dad?”

“You weren’t even born yet when I got
her.”

Sam let out a little whine and stuck out his
bottom lip. “Please?”

She sighed. “All right.”

Throughout the game, Claire’s head was
filled with memories of what it felt like to stand in front of an
easel and pull beauty out of a blank canvas. She remembered how the
wooden brush handle felt in her palm, how the bristles slid through
mixed daubs of paint. She saw herself staring at a canvas as though
it were a window into her past life. How many times, in those first
days of grief, had she felt unseen eyes watching her every move?
Perhaps she had sensed herself, four years later, looking back at
that time of grief and moving on.

A picture appeared suddenly before her eyes.
Claire knew exactly what her first painting would look like. The
scene was so clear in her head that it obliterated her view of the
chess board.

“I just won,” Sam announced.

He moved his queen (her queen, really) to
knock over her king. She looked at him in surprise.

“How did you do that?”

“I just captured your pieces and got your
king.”

“Oh. Good job.”

Sam frowned in suspicion. “Were you paying
attention?”

“Honestly, no. I’m sorry. Let’s play another
game, and I promise I’ll focus this time.”

She did manage to keep her mind on Sam until
he was in the shower. As he sang little songs to himself in the
pounding water, Claire sat on the couch and stared at the opposite
wall. It was a blank, boring, wasted space. With the right shelves
or cabinets, this could be the perfect spot to display her European
souvenirs and memories of Will while making room for the new life
she and Sam were creating. She could call Garrett, and he would
gladly pick up something at Ikea on his way from Detroit, but she
rejected that for several reasons. This old house wasn’t exactly a
good match for modern lines. Also, Garrett would want to install
the pieces for her. While he was capable, the venture would take a
great deal of time and disrupt her routine for longer than she
would like. Claire needed something custom made that would blend in
with the house’s architecture. She wondered what that would cost
her or even where to look. She would ask around at the library
tomorrow, see if anyone knew anything.

Wait. Hadn’t Paul said he was a carpenter?
Claire felt a little embarrassed for thinking of this, but it
couldn’t hurt to ask, could it?