Without waiting for him to say anything else, she ran her hand over the dining table. It looked similar to the table in his parents’ house. No wonder he’d gotten so weird when she’d asked about it. He’d made it! And although this table had a similar style, she could see a marked difference in skill level between the two. He was growing, getting better, becoming a true artisan at his craft.
“Okay, so how much for the table?”
Lock’s head tilted to the side. “How much?”
“Yeah. Ma would love this and Christmas is coming up.”
“Uh…”
“And don’t try and out-haggle me. I’ve learned from the best.”
“I don’t haggle.”
“All right. How much then?” She gestured to herself with her hands. “Hit me with it. I can handle it.”
“Gwen…” he seemed so confused “…you can have it.”
“Have it?” Gwen looked at the table that was slowly going from Christmas gift to her mother to Christmas gift to Gwenie.
“Lock, I can’t take this. I mean you’ll lose what? Four, five grand for it? Okay, it’s true, the sex is great and all but four or five grand? That’s a lot of money for the sex to live up to.”
“I don’t mean…” He dropped his head but she saw the smile. He wasn’t laughing at her, it was a surprised smile. A smile of pure pleasure. “What I mean is I don’t sell my work. At least not yet.”
It took her a moment to understand him. “You don’t sell your work? At all?”
“No.”
“Why? What are you waiting for?”
He shrugged. “I’m waiting for it to be…better.”
“Better?” Wow. The man had higher standards than she realized. “Lock, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but…you’re an idiot.”
“How do you mean that in the nicest way possible?” Lock demanded, never knowing which direction Gwen would come from.
“I mean, you’re an idiot if you’re not selling this stuff. And I don’t mean at yard sales. I’m talking about selling it to a furniture specialist shop. Where rich people go. You want rich people to buy your shit because they tell their rich friends and they tell their rich friends and on and on.”
“None of these are ready for sale,” he argued. “These are all just…drafts.”
“Drafts?”
“Right. Because I’m still learning.”
“Okay. So you’re saying everything isn’t perfect yet.”
“It doesn’t need to be perfect.” Just as close as humanly possible. “But I have to be comfortable getting money for it.”
“Fair enough.” She pointed at the dining table. “So what needs work on this?”
Lock walked over and refreshed his memory on the dining table he’d made a year ago. “Um…this.” He crouched down and pointed. “See those crossrails? They’re slightly…off.”
“Off?”
“Uh-huh.” He stood up. “I’ll make another one and try and fix that.”
“Right. Okay. And you said you had to take care of something here, right? What was that?”
“Since my uncles goaded me into coming here, I figured I could grab a chair I made for Jess, and we could drop it off at her place. If I give her the chair now, she can’t guilt me into going to her baby shower later…and she’ll try.” Oh, she would try.
“Can I see the chair?”
“Sure.” He walked her over to the chair and took off the drop cloth he kept over it to protect the wood.
Gwen studied it for several long moments before she dropped her head into her hands and groaned.
“Was it the Viking runes?” he asked, wincing. “Too much? I wouldn’t put it on anyone else’s chair, but this is Jess and she’s—”
“You’re not charging for this?” Gwen cut in.
“No.” He looked at the rocking chair, admiring the lines but easily spotting all the flaws. “I made it as a gift.”
“Let’s say you didn’t make it for a gift, but you simply made it. Would you sell it then?”
Lock frowned. “Probably not.”
“Another crossrail problem?”
Lock laughed. “No. Not this time. It’s just…I’m not real happy with this joint. Right here.”
She nodded. “Is that a problem that would have Jess falling on her ass when the chair broke?”
Insulted, Lock said, “Of course not. I’d never give her anything that wasn’t absolutely sturdy and reliable.”
“So it’ll last, let’s say, a hundred years or so?”
“More than that, I hope. And it can handle at least fifteen hundred pounds.” He knew this because he’d sat in it as bear. If it could handle his weight, it could handle a pregnant little wild dog.
Abruptly, Gwen paced away from him.
“What?” he asked, already planning to start a new chair for Jess tomorrow. “Is it that bad?”
“No, Lock. It’s perfect.” She whirled on him again, but he was glad she didn’t do that 180-degree thing with her head instead. “But, hon, I was right…you’re an idiot.”
“Why am I an idiot?”
“You’re an idiot because you’re not selling this.”
“It’s a gift.”
“Not the chair, you mongrel. I’m talking about all of it. You have a fortune sitting here.”
“No,” he said, even as his pulse raced. “It’s not—”
“What? Perfect? Art is supposed to have imperfections. That’s what makes great art.” She stopped, blinking in surprise. “I can’t believe I remembered that from Sister Ann’s stupid art history class. And let me tell ya…not exactly an ‘A’ student with her.”
“Not a big art history fan?”
“Not a big fan of Sister Ann. She was the one who started all the nuns and Father Francis calling me the devil’s whore and Blayne the devil’s whore’s lackey, which did nothing but hurt Blayne’s feelings.”
As always, amused by Gwen’s random comments, Lock smiled as he reached down to lift up the chair he would be giving Jess, but Gwen placed her hand on the seat, halting him.
“Wait.”
He looked up at her.
“Are you telling Jess you made this?”
Immediately, Lock shook his head at the uncomfortable thought. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Don’t be silly. She’ll appreciate it more if you tell her.”
“I don’t want to tell her.”
“So you’ll lie to her.”
“I won’t have to lie to her. She never asks, so there’s nothing to admit to.”
Gwen’s eyes narrowed the tiniest bit, and he knew he was in trouble. “How much stuff have you given her?”
“A few things,” he hedged.
“And you haven’t charged her for any of it?”
Her voice was even and controlled, but he could still hear the outrage in it. “No. I haven’t charged her. And I don’t plan to start now.”
As always when annoyed, Gwen placed her hands on her hips, those Philly girl nails of hers tapping against her cargo pants. “What is your deal with her?” Before he could answer, she held up her hand and went on. “What if she asks? Then will you tell her?”
“She won’t ask.”
“But if she does?”
“She won’t.
Her eyes flashed wide in warning. “But. If. She. Does?”
“Breaking one simple sentence into several sentences won’t change the fact that she won’t ask. She never asks and, like most dogs, Jess is a creature of habit.”
Gwen suddenly relaxed, which made Lock tense up instead.
“How about a bet then?” she asked.
“I don’t gamble.”
“Because once you start you can never stop or because you have moral issues with it?”
“Because I hate to lose.”
She smiled. “That’s valid.”