Yours Truly (6 page)

Not even a little.

And, GOD, he’d been taking lessons? The little girl in me melted into a puddle and I could feel tears springing to my eyes again.

And for a moment I wished it was all true. That I was getting married to someone—anyone—just so my parents could have this day. So my dad would get to be father of the bride.

I was so going to hell for this. They were going to be crushed when I told them I’d broken up with my faux beau.

Eventually.

Of course, I wasn’t going to do it yet. I mean, my dad had this big appointment, and I couldn’t break their hearts right NOW. I’d have to do it later.

Much, MUCH later.

Like maybe when I was forty. A sixteen year engagement is realistic, isn’t it? And I could break up with him because he wouldn’t go through with the wedding. YES. That was perfect. That’s exactly what I’d—

“Willow, honey? A date?”

“What?” I shook my head. “Uh, no. No date yet. We’re not…uh…rushing into this, Mom. We’re not in a hurry to get married.” She was silent on the other end. “We’re just happy to be together, you know?”

“Oh, of course you are!” She laughed, then said to my dad, “George, Willow’s so in love and we’re finally going to meet him.” My dad said something I couldn’t make out. “We’ll worry about that when we’re there.”

“Worry about what, Mom?”

“Oh, nothing, sweetie.” She mumbled something else to my dad. “Well, we’ll see you tomorrow night. You and Josh, both. We can’t wait!” Then she said goodbye and hung up.

I lay there on the floor, my foot throbbing. How was I going to pull this off? Either I needed to tell them or I needed to find a friend who’d be “Josh” for a couple of days.

Problem was, the best person to pretend to be Fiancé Josh…was Real Josh. But he was going to think I was insane.

Unfortunately, there really wasn’t time to find anyone else, especially if I was going to be realistic—and it looked like I was going to HAVE to be. So, I’d just have to explain the situation and make him understand. And beg, plead, or bribe him to play along.

I looked over at my door. Couldn’t ask him now. He was too busy schtupping the blonde. Besides, he was coming over tomorrow to show me how to fix the chair. I’d ask him then.

I had no other choice.

And I had to look on the bright side. He’d probably be flattered that I actually HAD created a character based on him. Right?

Oh, who was I kidding. It was going to be humiliating, and he was never going to let me live it down.

I could only hope he’d say yes anyway.

six

“D
id you bring your tool belt?” I wiggled my eyebrows at Josh as he lugged this gigantic tool box into my apartment the next day. But then I made a big deal of looking him up and down. “You’re a bit overdressed, don’t you think?” I said. “Or did you miss the part where I said ‘a tool belt and nothing else’?”

“Shit.” He set down his load and ran a hand through his hair. “Was the broken chair just a ruse? Is this actually a booty call?” Head tilted back, he groaned in mock frustration. “Because I TOTALLY misinterpreted the signals. I must be losing my touch.”

“Oh well, maybe next time,” I said with an exaggerated wink, then pointed him toward the chair. “In the meantime, how about you teach me how to fix that loose thingie.”

“Spindle.”

“Right. I’ve glued that there spindle three times but it won’t stay put.” Hands on my hips, I blew the hair out of my face. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Other than not being clear about booty calls so a guy can come prepared?” He knelt down next to me, his eyes on the separated chair legs. “What kind of glue did you use?”

“Uh…like craft glue, I think? It said it was good for wood.”

“I’m sure it is,” he said, his hands reaching out to caress the smooth finished surface of the leg. He peeled dried glue off the end of the spindle. “But it’s not good for fixing furniture. You need wood glue. And a clamp of some sort.”

Crap. “Okay. I guess I’ll run out to get that…”

“No.” He laughed gently. “No need. I have it.”

With his head tucked down so that all I saw was sun-streaked hair, Josh reached into his toolbox and rummaged around. He had the strongest hands—thick fingers with short nails, tan skin stretched tight, a few scrapes and nicks scattered over them, a natural consequence of his work. They moved with confidence and skill, those hands, and for a moment I was mesmerized, imagining the words I would use to describe them. Phrases floated through my mind and I needed a piece of paper to write them down pronto.

He glanced up and caught me watching, so I scrambled to my feet. I grabbed a little notepad off the table and started scribbling, my face turning seven shades of red.

“What are you doing?” he said, his head cocked to the side.

“Just writing down ideas before they’re gone.”

“You turning me into one of your leading men?”

“You wish. More like the goofy sidekick.” I ripped the paper off the pad and stuffed it into my pocket. No need to have him reading it. I sat back down on the other side of the chair to see what he was doing.

“First thing is we get rid of all this dried glue.” He’d already scraped most of it off. He handed me a bottle of wood glue. “Here. Squeeze some of this into the hole.” The glue came out a thick, butter-yellow goo, and filled the little nook. “Now spread some on the end there—you want glue on both surfaces—good. And then we fit them back together.”

“And this is what I did.”

“But you did it with the wrong glue.” He grinned. “Now a clamp. We can use duct tape.” He pulled a long length of tape off the roll, and folded it lengthwise except for the two ends. “So it won’t stick to the chair,” he said. Then he wound it around the legs and pulled it tight, securing the sticky ends together. “And that’s it. Leave it like this until tomorrow, then you can just cut the tape. It’ll be like new.” He looked at me. “You know, you don’t need to break furniture just to get me over here, Will. One word and I’m yours.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I bent down and looked at what he’d done. “That’s ridiculously easy.”

“Yup.” He opened his tool box again.

“And people pay you to do stuff like this?”

Reaching to put away his things, he nodded. “Yup.”

“You’ve got quite a racket.” I leaned one hip against the counter, arms crossed over my chest.

He laughed as he picked up the glue and tape, and tucked them away amidst his tools. “Well, I do MORE than just fix loose spindles.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Any kind of furniture—tables, chairs, benches, shelves, dressers, desks…anything.”

“Your designs?”

“Yup. Some is my stuff, some is whatever the client wants.” He nodded toward my desk. “A lot of what I design is similar to that—sturdy and bold.”

“My dad gave that to me when I moved here. It was his.” An old beast of a thing with thick wood sides, it was plain, simple, and heavy. “I’ve loved it my whole life. He said he didn’t need it anymore, and that I did since I was going to be a writer.” I stared at the desk, seeing my dad sitting at it in my mind’s eye. “I love that desk so much.”

“It’s a beautiful piece.”

I turned to him again. “I’d love to see what you make.”

“Yeah?” He looked surprised, his eyebrows raising high on his forehead, a slight smile on his lips.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “Maybe you can even teach me how to make something? I’ve never built anything out of wood, but you can see by my apartment that I have a severe appreciation for it. Some might call it a sickness.”

It was true. My place was filled with wood—a gorgeous Amish rocking chair I’d picked up at a flea market, a huge wooden coffee table, book shelves, side tables, the little kitchen table we sat next to. No IKEA particle board for this girl. I was all about the solid wood, and almost everything was oak—my favorite. It had the most beautiful grain.

“Not sure this qualifies as sickness…you haven’t seen my place yet.” His forehead wrinkled like he was mulling something over. “Hey, if you’re really serious, I could show you my stuff now. I’ll take you to my workshop.”

My apartment was clean and ready, I’d already been to the grocery store, and my parents weren’t getting in for about five hours.

And I hadn’t asked him yet to be my faux fiancé.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’d love to.”

I only hoped I’d figure out a way to ask him soon.

The first thing I noticed when we walked in was the smell. Wood and turpentine. Just like Josh.

Already I liked it.

His workshop was at one end of this gigantic warehouse down on the Lower East Side. Huge windows at the top of the walls bathed the space in light. Work benches lined the walls, interspersed with a plethora of fun and dangerous-looking saws, drills, and other machinery that I had no idea what they did.

I reached over and smacked his arm. “I can’t believe we’ve been friends all this time and you’ve never invited me here.”

“I don’t invite
anyone
here.”

“Really?”

He shrugged. “I mean, every once in a while a client might stop by to see progress on something or make a design decision, but most of the time I go to them with drawings or pictures. Usually it’s just me. I like working by myself.”

“Hermit. Recluse. Loner.”

“Yeah, yeah. I already said I was wrong.”

“But this girl never tires of hearing it.”

“Ha ha.” He made a face, then turned and waved a hand toward one side of the shop, away from the tools. “Those are the finished pieces I haven’t delivered yet. Or made just for fun.”

Tables, chairs, and cabinets stood to one side. Dressers, shelves, headboards, and chests—it looked like he had it all. I moved through the maze of furniture, examining each piece, running my hands over the smooth surfaces, letting my fingers trace the decorative designs. Each piece was perfection, made with incredible skill and care.

I’d known Josh was a carpenter, but I hadn’t realized he was a craftsman. An artist. I guess I’d always pictured him putting up shelves, or installing kitchen cabinets. It had never occurred to me that he created beauty.

One little side table really caught my eye. It was so simple in design—just a table top and four long, square legs—but the design on the wood was striking. Long, inlaid stripes ran across the top and down one side of the legs. And the feel of it was satin-smooth.

Looking up, I found Josh watching me.

“This I like a lot.” My fingers traced the length of it again. “Bamboo?”

“Yeah, it is.” He grinned. “You know your wood.”

“Clearly, I know YOUR wood.” I joked.

He raised an eyebrow, and my face tingled and grew warm.

“What I
meant,”
I said, clearing my throat, “was that I know my favorite cutting board. And I can also pick out oak and black walnut, but other than that, I’m lost.” I willed my face to return to its natural ghostly pallor, and turned back to the little table. “But this is gorgeous. It’s deceptively simple in design, but intricate when you see it up close. It’s stunning.”

“That’s probably my favorite. Though not my most popular.”

“You designed it?” I said, and he nodded. “Wow. That’s just…how are you not famous when you can do this?” I turned in a circle to take in all of his creations.

“Who says I’m not?”

“Wait…are you? Are you famous in furniture circles?” I grinned. “ARE there even furniture circles? Furniture of the rich and famous? I bet you’re in the furniture secret society.”

“You mean you’ve heard of the Woody Society?” He opened his eyes wide in mock surprise.

“Of course. ‘The Woody Society: Nailed or Screwed, but Always Tongue and Groove.’ Isn’t that on the crest?”

“So you HAVE heard of us.” He leaned back against a workbench and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m impressed. And all this time I thought we’d kept it under the table.”

“Well, you know how hard it is to hide a Woody…”

He burst out laughing. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

We grinned at each other for a moment, then he slowly lowered his hands to cover his crotch.

“Yeah, right,” I said, laughing. “I’m SO sure.” I wandered back into the shop side of the space. Sawdust gathered at the base of the machines like little tan snowdrifts. Everything was covered in a fine dusting.