Page 11 of The Sandy Page Bookshop

Luke

Luke had a long list of jobs backed up, as was customary during the summer months. It was his busy season, and though he tried to stagger the custom woodworking projects he took on, it was nearly impossible from Memorial Day to Labor Day. He wasn’t complaining.

When he was in high school, Luke’s favorite class was a woodworking elective.

His woodshop teacher taught him the basics of jointing and planing, how to turn a lathe and other specialty skills.

Luke took to the detailed work, from scrollwork to finishing.

His first project was a small stool that his mother still kept in her kitchen.

That slow first year with his father he dabbled in tables and cabinets in the family’s garage workshop.

His father admired his handiwork and started bringing Luke out on small projects, constructing built-ins for mudrooms and butler’s pantries, all the rage in interior renovation at the time.

Houses may not have been turning over like they used to, but residential owners still desired improvements.

Despite the national turn, the Chatham area was a niche market.

Their client base were the owners of hedge funds and summer homes, so while the locals may have taken a hit in the market, most seasonal residents still had plenty of money in the bank to coast through.

There were custom kitchens that needed new cabinetry.

Living areas that demanded built-in entertainment centers, pool houses whose ceilings needed to be vaulted, carriage houses that required small kitchenettes for weekend guests.

Luke had long admired the historic coastal homes in his small town; he knew the merit of cedar shake siding, appreciated the clean lines of a traditional Cape Codder.

With sparkling water views and natural light as focal points of design space, Luke understood that less was more when it came to cabinet faces and trim work.

During that period Luke made a name for himself with his customization.

Word got around and he amassed a small but impressive portfolio.

Soon, Saltwater Woodworks was an LLC. Ever since, there had been no looking back.

Despite the steady workflow, Luke kept the business small and project selection tight.

It was an intentional balance, not unlike the one he utilized in his designs.

Luke did not want to live to work. He did not want the years of physical labor to bow his body and gnarl his fingers as he had watched it do to his father.

Life on the Cape was naturally abundant; who needed more than a sunset over Ridgevale Beach or a paddle across Little Pleasant Bay?

As such, he lived in a small house on Oyster Pond River and ran the business out of an old boathouse in the rear of the property as a one-man show.

Keep it simple and solid, his father used to say.

When Eudora Shipman called him last night, he was surprised.

He’d just seen her a few days earlier walking her cantankerous little dog.

It had been almost two years since he’d wrapped up a project on her house, and her husband passed away shortly thereafter.

Luke had gone to the funeral; they were good people.

“Eudora, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he’d asked.

“I may have a job for you,” she said, sounding a little unsure.

“Alright. I’m happy to come by. How’s Wednesday?”

“Actually, it’s not really my job. Or my house. So I can’t guarantee the work, but I know you’re the right man for it.”

Confused, Luke had set his mug down on the coffee table.

From the time he knew her as a guidance counselor at his old high school to the time he’d done some work on the house for her and Milton, she’d always had a sharp mind.

He sure hoped it was not slipping; he’d heard loneliness and loss could do that to a person.

“So, let me understand, this job is not at your place?”

“You know the captain’s house?” she asked brightly.

“You mean the white Greek Revival off of Shore Road?” It was sometimes hard to keep up with all the nicknames the locals ascribed to some of the older properties.

As it was with small towns, everyone had their own claim to memories in just about every corner and on every street.

It was even more so with historic towns.

Memory talked in a town as old as Chatham.

“Yes! That’s the one. It’s being brought back to life as a bookstore.”

“A bookstore?” Luke usually had his ear to the ground for local news, but when the summer residents poured in and work picked up, he tended to fall out of earshot.

The days were long, the bars and restaurants where he normally picked up news were clogged with tourists, and by evening all he wanted to do was park his truck in his own driveway and put his feet up.

Or take his kayak out to a quiet spot on Oyster Pond with his dog, Scout.

Like most locals, during tourist season Luke tended to avoid town.

“I must have missed that news,” Luke allowed, and instantly his mind flashed to the woman with the blond ponytail he’d seen at the Powell cottage almost two weeks ago.

The Powell family was long gone, but when he’d driven by that day he’d had the crazy thought that the woman in the front yard might be Leah Powell. But that was just memory talking.

“The poor woman who is trying open it seems to be in way over her head. She thinks she can open in a matter of weeks, but the place is in such disrepair.”

“That’s a shame,” Luke told Eudora, but he still didn’t understand what any of this had to do with him. After he wrapped up his current project at Stage Harbor he had another he was already behind on.

“That’s why I’m calling,” Eudora went on, as if reading his mind. “Would you please stop by the place tomorrow and take a look?”

“You mean at the Greek Revival?” It was still unclear where this job was located. Or what the job might be. He had no time to help a wash-ashore with her new business.

“Yes, the old captain’s house. She needs help.”

Luke exhaled. “And you are affiliated with the bookstore owner how?”

“I’m not.”

Eudora may well have lost a few marbles, Luke realized with a pang of regret.

“Eudora, it’s very nice of you to want to help this woman, but I’m very busy at the moment.

Even if she were looking to hire, the soonest I could go is next week sometime.

Besides, it sounds like she isn’t really looking for help. ”

“Leah.”

“Excuse me?”

“Leah Powell. She’s the small business owner.”

Luke’s breath caught in his chest. “She’s the one opening the bookstore?”

“Trying to. But at this rate, I don’t see how she can.

The house is rotting. The front steps are broken.

Lord only knows what’s going on inside, but I overheard that it will never pass inspection.

She probably has no idea how strict commercial regulations are.

And this historic district, well, we know how fussy they can be… ”

He’d stopped listening as soon as he heard the name. “I’ll go over first thing after work tomorrow.”

“Really?” Eudora let out an ecstatic gasp and somewhere in the background Alfred barked. “Oh, thank you, Luke! You’re a good egg, you know that?”

He didn’t know anything about that, but he did know one thing: Leah Powell was not a wash-ashore.

When he left his job on Stage Harbor Road, it was already four-thirty and Route 28 through town was a traffic jam.

Luke tried not to count all the Connecticut and New York plates, but they outnumbered the Massachusetts ones by a long shot.

Just as the Land Rovers outnumbered the pickup trucks this time every year.

But every seaside town depended on summer tourism.

From the shops and restaurants to the Chatham Bars and Wayside inns, right down to the ice cream truck that ran laps between Ridgevale, Harding’s, and Cockle Cove beaches, this time of year was most challenging and most income-earning for all the locals.

Come September, the town and the beaches would be theirs again.

And Luke’s wallet would be full if his body sore.

His current job was in the final stages, and it was one he’d enjoyed.

The family was doing a full kitchen reno and had hired Luke to craft their island and cabinetry, as well as that of the butler’s pantry.

He liked the family, and he liked their taste when it came to the wood elements of the design: they’d chosen classic Shaker-style panels and doors that would be painted in cloud-gray.

The focal piece, however, was a large hearth-style hood over the eight-burner Viking range.

The butler’s pantry would have a striped butcher block counter.

The custom order had taken months, but they were finally at the installation phase which was always exciting to him.

Once he was done, though, there was another project waiting for him in South Chatham.

He didn’t know what Eudora expected him to do with Leah Powell and her bookstore plans.

From what little he’d heard, Leah was just a tenant in the house, renting out the retail space downstairs.

Any carpentry work was up to the owner, not the renter.

Besides, the work he did was expensive. Tenants didn’t invest in rental spaces.

Still, his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

He looked down now at his shirt and smoothed the front.

Much as he’d hated to admit it, he’d taken care to pick out a blue chambray that he knew complemented his eyes.