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CHAPTER ONE
RHETT
The table saw screams through the last plank of red oak and the shop goes quiet again.
My kind of quiet. The kind where nobody's asking me to sign up for a raffle or judge a pie contest or donate a handcrafted cutting board to whatever fundraiser Maple Lane Falls has cooked up this week.
October in this town is a contact sport.
Every storefront on Maple Lane is buried under pumpkins, corn husks, and enough twinkle lights to be seen from the goddamn International Space Station. Lisa LeBlanc, the parks manager, has been emailing me since August about "community involvement opportunities" and I've been deleting them since August because I don't do community involvement.
I do wood.
That came out wrong. But also, accurate.
The plank I just cut is going to be the top of a console table for a couple in Galena celebrating their thirtieth anniversary. Red oak, live edge, hand rubbed with tung oil. Quiet, beautiful work that doesn't require me to smile at strangers or make small talk about the weather.
Three years I've been in Maple Lane Falls. Three years of keeping my head down, building furniture that people drive hours to pick up, and perfecting the art of being left alone. My shop sits at the far end of town where Maple Lane dead ends into gravel and pine trees. Far enough from the Fall Fest chaos that I can pretend it isn't happening.
Most years, that works.
My phone buzzes on the workbench.
Ms. Shelly:
Rhett dear, I saved you the new Enzo Ferretti thriller. Also Lisa is looking for you. Hide.
A grin I can't help tugs at my mouth. Ms. Shelly at The Book Nook is the only person in this town who gets unlimited access to my good side. She reminds me of my grandmother. Same sharp eyes behind reading glasses, same way of saying exactly what she means while making you feel like she's doing you a favor.
Me:
I'll pick it up Thursday. And I'm not hiding. I'm working.
Ms. Shelly:
Same thing with you, honey.
Fair point.
The bell above my shop door jangles and every muscle in my back goes tight. Nobody walks in without an appointment. That's not a rule I enforce. It's a rule the town learned after Tommy Kessler wandered in to ask about a bookshelf and I told him to come back when he had measurements or don't come back at all.
Tommy told his wife. His wife told Lina at the café. Lina told the entire Friday night crowd. Now the whole town knows Rhett Gallagher is "particular about his space."
Particular. That's the polite version.
The door swings open and a wall of autumn air rolls in carrying the smell of cinnamon and something fried and sweet.
Then her.
She's short. Five five, maybe, in boots that have a little heel to them. Curves wrapped in a burnt orange sweater dress that matches the trees outside like she coordinated with nature on purpose. Natural hair in a big puff that frames her face, gold hoop earrings, brown skin that catches the late afternoon light through my shop windows in a way that makes me grip the edge of my workbench.
She's carrying a clipboard in one hand and a paper bag from Pistachio Sweets in the other. Her smile could guide planes in for landing.
"Hi! You must be Rhett."
I set the plank down. "Shop's by appointment only."
"Oh, I know. Everybody told me." She walks right past my workbench like I didn't just say that, eyes scanning the half finished pieces against the walls. The console table. A set of floating shelves I'm building for a restaurant in Chicago. The rocking chair I started last month for no reason I can explain. "Wow. You made all of these?"
