Except it is.
These are not my flowers. I’ve never seen them. I don’t know the hillsides they came from or the spring light he described or the exact shade of pink that wasn’t flat, darker toward the center and lighter at the edges. I don’t know what it means to come over a ridge and have a whole slope of them appear.
But my hands believed him.
I reach for the tung oil without thinking. It’s on the shelf above the bench where it always is, the rag folded over the neck of the can, and I shake a small amount onto the rag and wipe it across the scrap piece in one smooth pass.
The spruce warms under the oil. The burned lines deepen. The flowers settle into the grain as if they were always waiting there.
The oil is always the dangerous moment. Before that, a design can still be marks. Good marks, bad marks, careful marks, but marks. Then the finish hits, and the wood decides what it is willing to become. Sometimes it reveals what you’ve done. Sometimes it tolerates it. Sometimes the whole piece comes awake under your hand and looks back at you like it knew before you did.
This one wakes.
I came out here this morning to fill a gouge and test a pen. Now there are five palevelaraon oiled spruce, and I’m thinking about hillsides.
Not the phlox hillside in North Carolina, though that’s the only reference I have. Not the photograph by the window. Not any place I’ve actually stood.
Hishillside.
The scrap piece sits on the bench with its five flowers, and for one impossible second, I can almost smell them.
Sweet, not heavy. Present. Exactly as he said.
I stand here longer than necessary, the rag still in my hand, the scent of tung oil and char in the workshop, the morning light catching on the oiled spruce.
Then I put the rag aside, cap the oil, and tell myself this is nothing.
I leave the workshop lamp on when I go in for lunch.
Chapter Six
Honey
I’m in the middle of sanding a joint on the quilt-pattern commission when Patrice calls.
I know it’s her before she explains. She’s the only client who’s emailed me twice in two weeks without a question, just thinking out loud about her design. Wolf motif, full soundboard decoration. I set down the fret saw and pull off one glove.
“I know this is a lot to ask,” she says, and I can hear her steeling herself. “But I think I want an elk instead of the wolf, and I need more time to be sure. Is there any way to push me back?”
I look at my order board. Patrice is next. Behind her: Kragen.
“How much time do you need?”
“Six weeks? Maybe eight?” Another pause. “I feel terrible.”
“Don’t. You’re not bumping anyone; you’re just moving yourself. Everyone else stays where they are. I’ll fill your slot and be in touch when your new window opens.”
She thanks me twice and hangs up.
I look at Kragen’s file. Custom mountain dulcimer, wider neck, no decorative work.
A plain commission is faster than a decorated one. No pyrography, no design planning, no hours with the burning pen. The fact that his requires custom templates—wider neck, adjusted fret spacing—is additional structural work, yes, but structural work moves differently than decorative work. Cleaner. More straightforward.
This is just good scheduling.
I pick up my phone.
It rings twice before he picks up, and his voice when he answers is lower than I remember from the consultation.
