The Carpenter & the Queen (8 page)

A half hour later, with Sam tucked into bed,
Claire retreated to her studio to sketch out her painting idea. She
used a pencil this time to lightly sketch in the lines.

She began at the top where the cathedral
ceiling, obscured in the darkness of night, dropped down to a
series of arches that separated the nave from the aisles on either
side. Torches dimly illuminated the nave that traveled up from the
bottom of the page to the center where the transept and nave
intercepted. Claire sketched in the wooden screen and the
candelabras that fought back the darkness from the side and behind
the choir. In front of the screen, she roughed in a stone altar
with a body on top. The body lay clad in armor, a helmet over the
soldier’s face and a crusader’s tunic covering his chain maille. A
long line along the middle of the figure became his sword, clutched
in his gloved hands.

Claire lifted her pencil from the page,
forming ovals in the air to determine the placement of her last
figure. Satisfied with the proportions, she drew a figure just to
the right and front of the altar. With quick strokes the figure
became a woman in a long dress, just in the act of collapsing in
grief on the marble floor.

Her eyes misted as she studied the drawing.
It would be a painful painting, but one she must do. No more ideas
would come until this one was realized. She could procrastinate
forever, or she could paint this picture through her tears and move
on to something happier.

The blank canvas she had bought recently
leaned against the wall. Claire set up her easel and placed the
canvas on it. Then, she retrieved a binder clip from her desk
drawer and attached her drawing to the top right corner. This was
how she always began a new painting.

She opened her paint box and took stock of
the new tubes. She had what she needed to start. Glancing at her
watch, she saw it was too late to begin that night, especially if
she planned to go through the books for Paul before she went to
sleep.

The painting would have to wait until
tomorrow . . . when Claire would start living her life in color
again.

9

The next day, Paul arrived at the library at
9:30, a half hour after opening so he wouldn’t look desperate, but
early enough that he could look at the books . . . and Claire. He
wanted to ask her out for coffee or even lunch, but she probably
had plans. Besides, where could he take her in this tiny town? The
tables at the pizza place didn’t offer any privacy. The only other
option was the restaurant that was part of the gas station. Taking
an elegant woman like Claire to a truck stop didn’t seem
appropriate, though.

The library was quieter today when he
entered. He scanned the children’s section and saw no sign of Sam.
School was back in session, probably. Paul walked toward the
counter but before he could reach it, Claire floated out from the
back, a stack of books in her arms.

“Good morning,” she greeted, and Paul could
fantasize that she was happy to see him. “I’ve got a bunch of stuff
for you to look at.”

And she did. She had brought eleven books.
All had yellow notes sticking out at various angles.

“You’re welcome to look through everything,
but I marked a few pictures I thought might be helpful.”

Paul was touched but told himself any other
worker would have done the same.

She opened the top book to one of her marked
pages. “This is the one I liked best, but you use whatever you
need.” She grinned again, and Paul could see how easy it would be
to flirt and try to catch her eye, but dopes like him were never
good at charming women’s hearts.

Glancing at the picture, he knew she was
right. This was perfect. The painting was of Maid Marian, wearing a
Lincoln green dress, brown boots, and a quiver slung over her
shoulder. Her bow was drawn. Her long, dark hair flowed behind her
in the wind. After settling at a table near the card index, Paul
pulled out his sketch pad and began copying the drawing with notes
about colors. He stole glances at Claire, who was sorting books and
talking to the head librarian. When she glanced his direction, he
dropped his gaze back to the sketch book, embarrassed. How old was
he—fourteen?

He thumbed through the remaining books and
sketched some more, but not because he needed inspiration. He
needed courage.

At 11:45, Paul knew he could stall no
longer. He had multiple sketches of Maid Marian and a few of Claire
as well, although he had been careful to guard them when she walked
by. All he had to do was offer to buy her lunch—just some subs at
the gas station, a few cups of coffee. Very relaxed. No pressure. A
way of saying thank you.

He carefully stacked up the books and took
them to the counter where Claire stood. “These were very helpful.
Thanks a lot.”

“No problem. Do you have a design?”

“Yeah.”

He could do it. He
would
do it. Just
ask her.

Claire looked at him expectantly. When he
didn’t speak, she said, “Maybe you could bring the piece by when
you’re done with it . . . before you send it off. I’d love to see
it.”

“I’ll do that,” he promised.

Another pause.

“Hey,” Paul began, “since you’re into
medieval stuff, I imagine you’ve been up to see the castle at
Canadian Lakes.”

“There’s a castle there?” Her eyes
brightened. “How far is it from here?”

“About 45 minutes up M-66.”

“I hadn’t heard about it. Sam and I just
moved here a month ago. But I would love to take a look. How do I
get there?”

I could take you.
This was the
perfect opportunity, and the castle was hard to find unless one
knew where one was going.

“I’ll draw you a map,” he said, hating his
cowardice. He opened his notebook from the back to guard against
her seeing any of the drawings he had done of her. He turned to a
blank sheet and drew a map while talking her through the
directions. Then he tore out the page and handed it to her.

“Excellent. Thank you. But what’s a castle
doing in the middle of Michigan?”

“Some contractor built it back in the ‘60s,
meaning to live in it. But rumor has it he only lived there a
couple years before selling it to the golf course.”

“I wonder why he sold it,” Claire mused.
“Sounds like it was his dream house.”

“I don’t know.” Paul worried his bottom lip.
“Maybe he lost his nerve to live there.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. Paul wanted to
curse for having voiced his thoughts. They were too transparent. He
cleared his throat.

“Anyway, it’s a banquet hall now. Lots of
weddings up there in the summer on the balcony overlooking the
lake. Not much should be going on this time of year. But I don’t
know what shape the roads will be in.”

“I’m feeling adventurous. It’s been a while
since I’ve seen a castle.”

“You’ve done a lot of traveling then?”

“A fair bit.”

“Then what made you move here? It’s sort of
the middle of nowhere.”

She smiled. “I could be very poetic and say
I’ve exiled myself to a country retreat. But a relative of mine
passed away and left me his place.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. Who was your
relative?”

“Luther Matthews. Did you know him?”

“By reputation only. That’s quite a house
you’ve got.”

“Yeah. It needs a lot of work.” Her eyes
narrowed as she appeared to study him. “I’ll need some carpentry
work done soon. Can you recommend anyone?”

Here was another perfect opportunity. All he
had to do was ask her number . . . or give her his.

“I don’t know. Most people go to Mt.
Pleasant for custom work. But if I think of someone, I’ll let you
know.”

“Oh.” Her face closed. His chance was
lost.

Paul mentally berated himself the whole way
home. He could have at least given her a name if he hadn’t wanted
to volunteer himself. But no, he had to close up. Always the same
strategy—don’t take risks, don’t say too much. Be safe.

You’re a loser, Sawyer
.

* * * * *

Claire shook her head as she drove to
Blanchard ten miles away to pick Sam up from school. She wasn’t
sure what she had done wrong, but maybe she had been too forward.
Her conversation with Paul had been going well until she asked
about carpenters, and then he shut down. Perhaps she had misread
his interest in her. Was she so desperate for love that she mistook
politeness as flirting?

Chastising herself even after Sam was in the
car, Claire remembered the directions Paul had given her were still
in her purse. She pulled them out and realized she was already
partway to the castle. Why not look now? She could use the
distraction.

“This isn’t the way home,” Sam said as she
turned out of the parking lot.

“I know. We’re checking something out.”

“What?”

“A castle. Someone told me today there’s one
up here a ways.”

“I wanna go home.”

“Humor me.”

About twenty minutes later, they reached the
tiny town of Canadian Lakes, and Claire turned on the road that led
to the castle. It was a curvy residential road with A-frame houses
and other cabin-style homes, most of them closed up for the winter.
She wondered how much places like this cost. Then, she took the
turn Paul had said would give them the best view of the castle
before they got up close to it. Claire felt her breath catch a
little when she saw it. There it was—a real castle in Michigan.

The castle’s style was German with its
multiple towers with crenellated tops. It sat on top of a hill
overlooking the golf course and the lake. A wide cement patio ran
from the left side all the way across to circle toward the back
right. Only three stories tall, the castle sprawled to cover two
housing lots, unlike a true German castle which would have been
small at its base and shot up five or six stories into the air. The
castle walls were a faded cream color with peeling blue roof tiles
and window accents. The place needed some work and wasn’t truly
European, but Claire fell in love with it.

After staring at it from the parking lot at
the bottom of the hill, she drove closer. When they crested the top
of the hill, the castle driveway veered off directly to the right,
leading just 30 yards away to a three-car garage. The blustery
weather and middle-of-the-workday hour meant no one was there.

“Sam, come look at the castle with me.”

He pouted. “I wanna go home.”

“Fine. Stay in the car. I’ll just be a
minute.”

She pulled the keys out of the ignition and
closed the door, confident the car would remain warm long enough
for her to walk around and look in the windows. From what she could
see, the entire bottom floor appeared to be a large banquet hall
with a stage and kitchen. There were two more floors above this.
Claire could just see the banisters from the second story that
looked down onto the banquet hall. The place was rather ordinary
inside, which disappointed her a little. The castle’s allure rested
on its architecture and location. Anyone who had been to a real
European castle knew this wasn’t even close. But it was the closest
she had been to any kind of castle in a long time.

She stood on the long balcony overlooking
the lake below and imagined herself the queen of this domain. She
wished Paul had brought her here. It would have been a good date.
But he hadn’t offered, only given her the information. Her female
radar had detected some spark of attraction between them, but she
must have been mistaken given the way he kept her at arms’
length.

She was destined to be alone. On most days
Claire was fine with this, but today, the reality stung. She
thought of the painting she would start on this evening, of the
woman collapsing in grief, and realized the autobiographical
details went deeper than she had previously understood.

Without a doubt, she was the grieving woman
in her sketch. But the dead knight on the altar was more than just
Will . . . it was hope.

10

Paul heard from his customer for the custom
Maid Marian piece the following day. Pleased with the sketch, the
man approved Paul’s estimate and said he would wait as long as it
took for Paul to finish it.

Over the next week, Paul went to the post
office three times. Each time he hoped he would pass Claire coming
in or out of the library, but he never did. He could go in, maybe
read the paper or thumb through a magazine. But he didn’t. He was a
pawn of his own cowardice.

Fate finally stepped in one evening at the
grocery store. He had just turned into the canned goods aisle when
he saw Claire and Sam at the other end. Claire wore a brown skirt
and black leather jacket with a long pink scarf wrapped around her
neck. She was in the middle of a conversation with another woman
Paul didn’t know. Claire carried herself with a poise that reminded
Paul of news clips he had seen of Princess Diana. What was she
doing in this town? She didn’t belong next to the woman in the
denim skirt and faded red sweater.

Sam paced back in forth of his mother’s
cart, looking more bored by the minute. Paul pretended to be
engrossed in the kidney beans, all the while watching the scene.
The other woman discussed something about soybeans, while Claire
smiled and nodded at the appropriate places. When this went on
longer than Sam could handle, the boy began swinging his jacket,
hitting the cart, the plastic Campbell’s Soup dispensers, and then
his mother’s legs. She gave him the evil eye, but that only seemed
to fuel the boy’s misbehavior.

Having seen this type of scenario played out
many times with his nieces, Paul realized his chance had come to
get Claire’s attention by distracting Sam. This wasn’t a direct
move toward asking Claire out, certainly, but one he was more
comfortable with. He noted ironically that confronting a hostile
child using clothing as a bludgeon frightened him less than
speaking with a beautiful woman.