Chapter 4 - The Visit to the Workshop
On Wednesday afternoon, after picking the girls up from their summer art class, I drove down to the industrial district on the edge of town.
Harold’s woodworking workshop sat in a quiet metal building surrounded by stacks of raw timber, smelling rich with cedar, pine, and freshly cut oak. A hand-painted sign out front read Peyton Custom Woodworks.
When I walked through the side door, the heavy whine of a table saw died down. Harold turned off the machine, adjusted his safety goggles, and wiped a layer of sawdust off his denim apron.
In the corner of the shop, sitting on a clean workbench, were two delicate, unpainted wooden monarch butterflies, hand-carved with extraordinary detail.
"Karen," Harold said softly, stepping down from his workstation. "You didn't have to come out here."
"I brought you some chicken casserole," I said, setting the insulated bag on a clean table. "And two little girls who wanted to give you a hug."
Juniper and Magnolia peeked out from behind my denim skirt.
Harold’s eyes softened instantly. The tired, worn-out line of his shoulders seemed to ease as he dropped to one knee on the sawdust-covered floor, opening his arms wide.
"Come here, my sweet bugs," Harold rasped.
The girls didn't hesitate. They ran across the concrete floor and threw their arms around their grandfather's neck. Harold squeezed them so tight his knuckle joints turned white, burying his face into Magnolia’s soft curls.
"I'm sorry," Harold whispered to them, his voice breaking openly. "I'm so sorry I didn't stop her sooner. I'm sorry I let her make you feel like you didn't belong."
"It's okay, Grandpa," Magnolia said, pulling back to wipe a smudge of dark sawdust from his cheek. "Mommy showed us the gold paper. We're permanent."
Harold let out a watery, beautiful laugh. "You're more than permanent, Maggie. You're the best thing that ever happened to this old family."
I stepped closer, letting the girls wander over to look at the carved wooden butterflies on the bench.
"How are you holding up, Harold?" I asked quietly.
Harold stood up slowly, wiping his eyes with a red bandanna from his pocket. "I haven't slept more than two hours a night since Saturday, Karen. I keep looking back over forty years... wondering how I missed the rot inside my own home."
"Gloria was hurt, Harold," I said gently. "Losing a child at seventeen is a terrible trauma. But she chose to turn that hurt into cruelty."
"She did," Harold agreed, his jaw tightening. "And that's why I can't go back. She called the shop yesterday twenty times. She threatened to call the police, she threatened to sue me for spousal support, she screamed that I was ruining our family name... but not once—not once, Karen—did she ask how Rod was doing. Not once did she ask if the girls were okay."
He walked over to his desk, picking up a Manila envelope similar to the one sitting in my kitchen drawer.
"The private investigator called me two hours ago," Harold said, holding out the envelope. "They found her."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "They found Evelyn?"
"She lives in Austin," Harold said, his hands trembling as he opened the flap. "Her name is Evelyn Vance now. She’s forty-five years old. She’s a pediatric nurse at the children's hospital. She has two boys of her own."
I stared at the black-and-white photograph Harold pulled from the folder.
The woman in the picture had soft, kind eyes, dark wavy hair, and a warm, wide smile as she stood outside a hospital entrance in scrubs. And there, sitting right at the edge of her eyes, were the exact same gentle creases that appeared whenever Juniper laughed.
"She looks like Juniper," I breathed softly.
"She does," Harold choked out, a fresh wave of tears hitting his eyes. "Gloria was right about one thing... God did give her a second chance when you adopted the girls. But she was too blind and filled with spite to see it."
"Are you going to see her?" I asked.
Harold looked at the photograph, then looked across the shop at Juniper and Magnolia, who were carefully touching the wings of the wooden butterflies.
"I called her this morning," Harold revealed, his voice shaking with profound awe. "I spoke to her for forty minutes, Karen. She didn't scream at me. She didn't hang up. She cried, and she asked me about her mother. And then she asked me if she had any brothers or sisters."
I reached out and laid my hand on Harold’s forearm. "What did you tell her?"
May you like
Harold looked me straight in the eyes, his face shining with a new, fierce clarity.
"I told her she had a brother named Rod who loved his family with everything he had," Harold said. "And two little nieces who were waiting to meet their aunt."
