Chapter 18 - Rebirth of the Workshop
Two weeks after Harper’s sentencing, the loading bay at Whitaker Fine Woodworking was filled with three massive flatbed semi-trucks.
On the flatbeds rested the first phase of the St. Jude’s Cathedral project: forty-eight hand-carved, cathedral-grade white oak choir stalls, each featuring intricate gothic tracery and finished with a hand-rubbed oil wax that glowed like honey in the afternoon sun.
It was the largest single contract in the sixty-year history of the company—a 3.2-million-dollar restoration commission that Dad had spent his final year designing from his hospital bed.
The entire shop crew stood gathered on the loading dock, watching as the crane operators carefully secured the final strapping over the protective moving blankets.
Miles stood beside Caleb, wearing a tiny pair of leather work gloves and a blue shop apron that hung down to his shins. Over the last six months under Caleb’s care, the pale, anxious boy had transformed. His cheeks were tanned from helping Caleb on his small farm, his laughter was genuine, and he had spent every Saturday morning in the shop learning how to use hand planes under the patient watchful eye of Old Frank.
“Look at that grain, Aunt Becca!” Miles beamed, pointing up at the massive carved panel on the truck. “Grandpa Arthur drew that cross on the drafting table, right?”
“He sure did, Miles,” I said, resting my hand on his shoulder. “And you helped sand the edges.”
Miles grinned proudly, puffing out his small chest.
Caleb stepped up beside me, handing me a clipboard holding the shipping manifest and the bill of lading.
“Everything’s inspected and signed off, Becca,” Caleb said, his deep voice warm with satisfaction. “The diocese sent the wire transfer twenty minutes ago. The final balance cleared.”
I signed the manifest, handing the clipboard back to him.
Our fingers brushed against each other. Caleb didn't pull his hand away immediately. He looked down at me, his hazel eyes filled with a quiet, steady warmth that had been growing between us through every fire, every court hearing, and every victory over the past six months.
“Arthur would be proud, Becca,” Caleb murmured softly. “He’d be prouder of you today than on any day in his life.”
May you like
“He’s here, Caleb,” I said, looking around the bustling shop, listening to the laughter of the craftsmen and the clean hum of the saws. “He never really left.”
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