new story, sort of. written a while ago for that compilation book that i've given up on ever getting together. perhaps sometime in the spring, once i've graduated and am more focused on working and saving up money for grad school. because i like the abuse, apparently.

the title refers to a carpentry term. because Nathan's a carpenter. i'm so very clever. ...it's ok, you can hold the polite applause. ("golf clap?" "golf clap.")

hope you guys enjoy this one. i'm thinking it'll be somewhere around five chapters.

saturday, 27 november, 2010. 11:33 pm.

The smell of lake woke me.

Some days it's oppressive and some days it's not. Today, it came through my cracked bedroom window with brute force, so strong a body could near on taste it should they breath too deep.

I love it.

My eyes slid open and checked the clock conveniently placed for my routine wake-up position--it was just after seven, and my right arm from the shoulder down was heavily numb. I rolled onto my back and my arm throbbed with cold feeling, nerves sparking as I flexed a fist a couple times.

When I felt capable, I pushed up on one hand, feeling a crick in my neck shake loose with a dull crunch.

A rustle and clink announced I had company, nails clicking on polished wood floor as a beast of reckoning walked over to the bed and lowered to its haunches, staring with brown eyes almost liquid with ever-hopeful longing. We visually communicated, souls bonding and all that, before I gave in with a low sigh.

Body up and out of bed, I walked naked to the dresser and pulled out underwear, cotton pants, and some silly retro t-shirt my niece bought me for some birthday or holiday.

"…Well, to the kitchen with you."

My voice spurred the beast of reckoning into action, his mouth parting in a goofy grin as he took off down the hall. Ram was a mixed breed--of what and what, I couldn't say other than something big and something bigger. Sweet, stubborn, and mine since I found him tangled in a plastic can ring when he was deceptively tiny.

Following in the dog's wake, I walked barefoot from my room to the kitchen. His food bag was behind a cabinet door in the chef's island, and he dutifully sat there, willing the door to open of its own volition. When it didn't, he licked his chops and looked at me instead, tremoring body showcasing his powerful need of breakfast.

"Yeah, yeah."

Once my hand was in the bag, I was quick to bring out a couple scoops of food, lest I lose something important in the process. He scarfed down like I was going to take away anything he couldn't finish in ten seconds flat--like I've ever gotten in the way of the behemoth and sustenance.

I am, my friends, not stupid.

His tongue left damp splotches on the floor as he sought any errant pieces of food before walking off satisfied, and my lips quirked into a fond grin as I muttered an unheeded, "Bad dog."

I went about fixing my own breakfast, spreading cream cheese on nearly raw toast as I thought about the work pieces waiting for me downstairs.

Someone once said that if you wake up and all you can think about is writing, then you're a writer. Well, I'm not a writer, not in words, but I write the equivalent of novels in wood. Stools, tables, rockers. I make trunks and chests, armoires, and the like. Only once have I made cabinets, but they were too much of a headache for me to ever tackle again. Of course, I'd made them for my brother, which accounts for most of the pain I continue to associate with the whole mess.

Carrying the toast downstairs, I entered my workshop. It encompasses the entire basement level of the house, though one wall in the main room was made of glass, doors leading from the house to an eventual wood dock moored in the lake. When the house was made, it was cut into the slope of the hill surrounding the lake. So, though I work from my basement, the area felt more open and full of light than one would normally expect.

There were a few pieces that needed touchup working, but I chose to sit at my drafting table instead, fleshing out concepts and drawings I'd worked on the night before.

-

Some time passed before a light knock against glass startled me, glancing over to see a familiar face sheepishly peering in. I grinned a greeting, and Brand let himself inside with comfortable familiarity, though still looking sheepish.

"Didn't mean to bother you, but I did try upstairs first."

The bell rings upstairs, but there's always a good chance I'll be too absorbed to hear it.

I mock-frowned; "If Ram wasn't so attuned to your van, he'd bark, you know."

"That old softie?" he teased, and I shook my head with a grin, unwilling to debate a losing point.

"Anyway. Are you here for the dining set?"

I swiveled my stool to get up, because he was already nodding.

"And the two chests, if you have those ready."

"You took one just last weekend."

He nodded; "Sold it to a couple visiting from Maine. They didn't even blink at the markup, which is rare for tourists, you know? Apparently, these two knew a good thing when they saw it."

I was pleased, mentally calculating my cut, which is always slightly higher from Brand than from the other two local shops I use to sell my pieces. It's because of this that I almost always let him have first pick of new items, and am not above creating a few unusual pieces specifically on request.

We didn't talk much as we transferred the dining set and two chests to his van, but that wasn't out of the ordinary. Brand was never much of a talker--as I've been told I'm not much of a talker either, his silence never bothers me.

Once everything was loaded, he nodded a farewell, saying, "Payment will come middle of the month, as usual."

"Sounds fine. Thanks for coming by, Brand."

He nodded, and I left to head back to my desk, mind already immersed in the designs taking shape on paper.

---

Several days later saw me putting literal shape to one of the designs, having finished the touches required for the other pieces before starting something new.

When working with the heavier tools, I tend to wear jeans to better protect myself from debris, and I had on a pair of old denims worn soft through use. My niece, Hatti, claims they turn my "utterly unremarkable buns" into "complete boingers". When asked for clarification, she'd given a saucy grin and stated that any gayboy who saw my buns in these jeans was going to get one boinger of a stiffy.

She's eleven.

Where the hell did she learn to talk like this to her uncle?

I heard the front door open and shut, Ram's nails clicking excitedly before footsteps made their way to the door at the top of the basement stairs. Only one person is confident enough to walk into my house unannounced.

Sure enough, I recognized Hatti's quick tread on the stairs, though she made little noise--she was never one of those children you had to scold for walking heavy.

"Heya, Nate."

"Uncle Nate," I reminded, tone absent while putting aside a mortising chisel.

"Uncle Something-Or-Other," she amended amiably as I lifted work goggles from my eyes up to rest at the top of my head.

"Shouldn't you be in school?" I asked, and her eyes rolled.

"It's Saturday. What school. Isn't that what you have a calendar for? To keep track of days?"

I raised an eyebrow; "No, I have it so I can bean insolent niece-beasts when they're getting too big in the seat of their pants."

The threat terrified her. Yes, yes it did.

"Puh-leaze. But, speaking of seat of your pants, you're wearing the jeans again! Is Brand supposed to show up today?"

I blinked at the juxtaposition of my jeans and Brand, but gave up trying to make sense of it by saying, "He was by earlier this week. There's no reason for him to come by again."

"Too bad. …Anyway, I was thinking…."

"Whatever you were thinking, I'll probably end up saying no, so let's save time, shall we?"

My face was deceptively grim, although she didn't fall for it, just as she hasn't fallen for it for the past ten years.

"You're super mean, you know that? I was just coming over to ask if you wanted to head to the café for lunch with me. But no, you had to be a jerk. Big ol' mean Uncle Nate."

I winced at the mention of the café, and she was quick to mention, "Dad won't be there! He's in Fairburn until late; Mom had an appointment for her eyes."

Hatti's father is my brother--five years older and the epitome of a horse's ass.

"If Ashton's not running the café, who is?" I asked, tempted despite myself.

"Aunt Lora, probably. Or Mark."

From her mother's side of the family, and thus, safe. Still, I wavered.

"Bit early for lunch, isn't it?"

"Na-ate, it's almost two!"

I glanced at one of many clocks I keep downstairs in a futile attempt of making sure I don't spend more time working than is healthy for a sane individual. I mean, Ashton spends nearly every waking moment at the café, and he was scary enough before.

Seeing that it was indeed almost two--which meant I'd been working nearly six hours already--I caved.

"Alright, Batti, we can go grab some lunch before you drive me crazy."

She beamed and hurried upstairs. Even though I was covered in dust and shavings, I forwent changing clothes, grabbing my wallet and a pair of shoes before allowing myself to be shooed out the front door.

For all that I tease and act like she's a complete nuisance, Hatti is the only relative I can withstand for any extended length of time. She has none of the pettiness of her father, and none of the genuine distaste for my proclivities as do members of our extended family.

But, to be fair, most of my brother's attitude towards me stems from his bitterness at my inheriting our grandparent's lakefront home. He'd always been sure it'd be his someday, always talking about what he'd do with this room or that room when we were kids. It'd been a real shock for him that the house was mine, though he had vested rights in the use of the dock.

Still.

It was only as I left the small porch that I thought to ask how she'd made it to the house--I'm about three or four miles outside of town, most of which consists having to drive on a busy highway.

"Rode my bike."

I frowned; "Your parents keep telling me not to let you do that."

As though I call her up and entice the child to disobey orders by coming to visit--if she had to wait for my call, she'd probably be married before I got around to it.

She shrugged, unconcerned, and I sighed, telling her to put her bike in the back of the work van so I could drop her off someplace in town after lunch.

-

Although it was after the normal busy lunch hour, the café was still relatively full, regulars calling greetings as we walked in and sat at a table off to the side, invisible to anyone just walking inside.

A slim teen bustled by and did a double-take at seeing me, his face splitting into a welcome grin as he flashed two fingers to show he'd be back as soon as possible.

Mark was sixteen, not yet in the full of his growth, slim in the way of young men and as short as his mother. Although we were only related by marriage, I usually give him something for Christmas and his birthday, because he's a good enough kid.

He brought a soda for Hatti and plain, unsweetened tea for me as he came back, not bothering to hand us menus as he waited to see what we'd be having. I let her do the ordering--a catfish sandwich for her, and meatloaf with mashed potatoes sans gravy for me.

"S'been a while, Nate, people got to talking," he teased as he wrote everything down in a quick scrawl.

"What else does this town have to talk about other than some odd hermit living up near the lake?" I quipped, and he thought a moment.

"Well, actually, talk's going around how Mrs. Mojier was seen in town two nights past, higher than a kite on booze. Been so long, people'd thought she mighta gone on the wagon again."

I made a noncommittal noise, and he shrugged, leaving to hand our order off to one of the family members acting as cook for the day.

Though Hatti chattered enough for the both of us, my mind stayed on Alice Mojier. She was divorced with a couple children. The oldest, a girl, was six years older than me and lived out of state, and the youngest had been two below me until he got himself killed in a motorcycle accident just out of high school. Her middle son, however, was a year older than myself, and he owned one of the three local shops geared towards tourists and antiquity dealers.

Brand.

His mother was a local curiosity--often drunk, sometimes disorderly, but she contributed to every fundraiser, volunteered at nearly every local event.

She once caught me with my hand down my pants at a carnival when I was around Mark's age, and instead of becoming angry or disgusted, she'd bared one small glimpse of pale breast before winking and leaving me in peace. Even as young as that, I'd known the direction of my proclivities, but that flash of forbidden skin had been enough to make me come.

I have never come across her alone again, not face to face, but even today, when I think back at that memory, a thrill runs through my veins.

"Na-ate!"

I blinked at Hatti's petulant tone, and slid a grin across my face to announce I was back in her hemisphere again.

"You never listen to me, do you?"

Her question was one of knowing, and my grin was sharper as it grew more teasing.

"Why should I? Once you've had one conversation with Hatti Harper, you've had them all."

She growled and ruffled her feathers, but really, deep down, she was just as amused as me at our interactions. She is one kid who knows how to take a joke.

We were nearly done eating when she suddenly gave a discreet point, my eyes following to see an average-looking guy walk in and sit down at a table alone. When Mark came by to take his order, the man's words were abrupt and curt, the kid's face impassive as he scribbled something down and quickly left.

"He might be cute, Uncle Nate, but he is so mean."

"Brand is not mean," I said automatically.

"Is too. My friend Lisa was at the store yesterday, and he was yelling at the cashier. He called her a 'barnacle of idiocy' and walked off without taking anything he'd brought to the counter."

"Hatti, if the cashier you're talking about was that young girl they hired last month, she is a 'barnacle of idiocy'. She's slow as hell and fucks up the simplest of transactions."

Her eyes rolled; "So-rry for making fun of your boyfriend."

I frowned; "He's not."

"Whatever . …Can you drop me off at Lisa's?"

That was her way of punishing me, and I took it with grace.

I followed her outside after slipping a generous tip on the table, slinging my arm around her shoulders as we walked to the van in comfortable familiarity. Driving her to her friend's, we passed through the tourist district, and her eyes signaled out one shop in particular.

"You know, I think Ms. Brooks cheats you."

"How's that?"

"She sells your stuff higher than the others. Way higher, sometimes. And sometimes, she'll sell something you've made but it has someone else's name on it."

Hatti might only be eleven, but her business sense and shrewdness was definitely inherited from Ashton.

"Someone else's name? Whose?"

She shrugged; "Whenever she sees me come in, she changes it right quick."

Stomach icing over, I gave a tight nod.

"Thanks."

-

After dropping her off, I decided it was time to pay some people a visit. The first shop I went to was run by an older couple who specialized in trinkets and the like, and I used them to sell my smaller trunks and jewelry boxes. They greeted me warmly, and we chatted about this or that before I left, seeing that everything was as it should be.

Ms. Brooks' boutique was next, and I was relieved to see a young girl behind the counter.

She was polite, unobtrusive as I made a nonchalant walk through the store--two of my items were indeed listed under the name of a more well-known artisan, the prices higher than any of my commission prices called for. Done walking through, I approached the counter.

"Is Ms. Brooks in?"

"Oh, no, sir. She's out of town for the next three days. Perhaps you could leave a message?"

I pulled a business card from my wallet and slid it across the counter, saying, "Could you have her call me once she's back in town?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Harper."

Her smile was genuinely warm to the point I couldn't help but return it, and her gaze followed me from the store.

I walked from there to Brand's and found another young sales clerk 'holding down the fort', though male this time. I vaguely recalled his face, though I couldn't think of his name. Just one of those you see around town.

At any rate, he recognized me well enough, greeting me by name and asking if there was anything I'd be needing.

"Just looking."

It was quickly apparent, however, that everything was in good form, and my inspection changed to that of admiring some of the other pieces available. There was a table in particular, a fantastic work done in a shade of blue--simple and clean, I greatly admired it. My hands ran along the joints and seams, enjoying its workmanship.

"Fantastic, isn't it?"

The male voice caused me to startle, though the plain man standing nearby didn't acknowledge that I'd been that engrossed.

"It is," I finally managed, and Brand nodded.

"Found it at an estate sale downstate last year. Excellent shape, considering, but I'm having a hell of a time selling it."

"Removing the color would do wonders. I mean, it's sturdy and well-made, great shape. It's the paint, I think. Too light. Makes it look washed out when it'd fare better left natural."

"Would you…I mean--"

"Yes. Yes, I would."

I hadn't meant anything more by it, but it was almost as though maybe I had, because our gazes caught before he covered the awkwardness by nodding.

Maybe it was the jeans, after all.

--- --- ---

I spent hours working on the table once I had it down in my shop--stripping it down to its base to reveal oak, reworking a loose fitting, making sure it was in perfect form before I applied its new stain. I'd been right, the stain did wonders, and the table went from being fantastic to simply gorgeous.

Though I'd never admit it to anyone, I was pretty sure I got one 'boinger of a stiffy' for that table. The longer I worked on it, the more I was sure Brand was never going to get it back.

End of discussion.

A/N: until next time.