Chapter 2: The Scent of Sawdust

Chapter 2: The Scent of Sawdust

Elara woke to two distinct sensations: the comforting, earthy scent of cedar sawdust and the cold, hard knot of anxiety in her stomach.

She was in a bed that wasn’t hers, in an apartment she hadn’t rented, in a town where she knew a grand total of one person. And that one person, her reluctant savior Julian Croft, was a complete and utter enigma.

Pushing herself up, she surveyed her new temporary home. The apartment above the workshop was clean, spartan, and overwhelmingly brown. Polished wood floors, simple pine furniture, beige walls. It was a blank canvas, patiently waiting for a splash of color. Her own belongings, piled in the corner, looked like a flock of tropical birds had crash-landed in a Quaker meeting house. Her vibrant turquoise suitcase, a portfolio bursting with rainbow-hued digital prints, a canary yellow cardigan slung over a chair. She was an anomaly here, a glaring splash of pigment in a world of muted, orderly shades.

Her first goal of the day was simple: thank Julian properly. Not as a damsel in distress, but as a tenant, a neighbor. An equal, if she could manage it. Her second goal was far more daunting: figure out what to do about the Artful Dodger, currently languishing in the town’s only garage.

After a quick shower and dressing in jeans and a bright magenta sweater—a small act of defiance against the sea of beige—she ventured downstairs. The air grew thick with the scent of wood as she approached the large sliding doors of the workshop. The low whine of a power sander hummed from within.

She peeked inside. The space was cavernous and meticulously organized. Tools hung on a pegboard in perfect, silhouetted rows. Stacks of lumber were sorted by type and size. Golden sunlight streamed through the high, dusty windows, illuminating dancing motes of sawdust. And in the center of it all was Julian.

He was focused on a large piece of what looked like a tabletop, his broad back to her. The muscles in his shoulders moved with practiced efficiency under his gray t-shirt. He was a part of this space, as solid and unyielding as the oak he was working. He was a wall, and she felt a fresh wave of insecurity. How could her cheerful gratitude possibly make a dent?

Taking a breath, she knocked lightly on the doorframe. “Mr. Croft? Julian?”

The sanding stopped. He turned, his face impassive, his gray eyes giving nothing away. He wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, leaving a faint dusty streak. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” she said, forcing a bright smile. “I just wanted to thank you again, properly, for everything. The ride, the apartment… you really saved me last night.”

He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “It was no trouble.” He turned back to his work, his body language a clear dismissal.

Elara’s smile faltered. She felt like an interruption, a brightly-colored nuisance in his well-ordered world. But she couldn’t just retreat. “I was going to call the garage about my car,” she pressed on, “and I wanted to talk about rent for this place. I insist on paying.”

“Garage is Miller’s,” he said, his attention still on the wood. “They’ll call you with an estimate. We can sort the rest later.”

His answers were efficient, practical, and utterly devoid of warmth. Every attempt she made to open a conversation was met with a polite but firm dead end. It was like tossing pebbles at a cliff face. They just bounced off and fell silently to the ground. She was a guest, a problem he had solved, and now he was back to his routine. A routine that clearly didn't include her.

“Right. Okay, then,” she said, her voice smaller than she intended. “Well, I won’t keep you.”

He didn’t reply, the sander whirring back to life as she retreated up the stairs. The sound felt like it was erasing her presence from his world. Defeated, she sank onto her unfamiliar sofa. Her sunshine personality, the one thing she usually relied on to win people over, was useless against the quiet stoicism of Julian Croft.

The next two days followed the same pattern. She would offer a cheerful “Good morning!” as she left to walk into town, and receive a noncommittal grunt in reply. She’d see him through the window, moving between the house and the workshop, a silent, solitary figure. She tried to catch his eye, to offer another smile, but he seemed to exist in a bubble of his own making, a space she was not invited to enter. The polite distance was a wall she simply couldn’t climb, and the loneliness of her grand adventure was beginning to feel less like freedom and more like isolation.

On the third afternoon, nursing a cup of tea and staring at a blank sketchbook page, a new sound broke the familiar hum of the workshop. Laughter. High-pitched and bright, it was a sound as colorful as her paintings.

Curiosity piqued, Elara opened her door and peered down the outdoor staircase. A little girl with her father’s serious gray eyes and hair in two bouncy pigtails was chasing a Monarch butterfly across the grassy patch between the workshop and a neat, two-story farmhouse she now knew was Julian’s.

The girl suddenly stopped, her butterfly forgotten. She had spotted Elara. She tilted her head, a gap-toothed smile spreading across her face.

“Hello!” the girl called out, her voice clear as a bell.

“Hello,” Elara called back, a genuine smile touching her own lips for the first time that day.

The girl didn’t hesitate, running to the bottom of the stairs and looking up. “Are you the new lady living in the wood-smell house?”

Elara laughed. “I guess I am. My name is Elara.”

“I’m Lily,” the girl announced proudly. “I’m eight. Daddy said you got stuck in the rain. Did your car drown?”

“Something like that,” Elara admitted, charmed by the girl’s unfiltered curiosity.

Just then, the workshop door slid open and Julian stepped out. His eyes immediately found Lily, and his entire posture softened. The hard lines around his mouth eased, the guarded watchfulness in his gaze replaced by a deep, quiet affection. It was like seeing the sun break through the storm clouds.

He saw Elara on the landing, and a flicker of that now-familiar reserve returned, but it was tempered by his daughter’s presence.

“Lily,” he said, his voice softer than Elara had ever heard it. “Don’t bother Miss Vance.”

“I’m not bothering!” Lily protested, turning to Elara for confirmation. “Am I?”

“Not at all,” Elara said quickly. “It’s nice to meet you, Lily.”

Lily beamed, then thrust a piece of paper she’d been clutching into the air. “Look what I drew! It’s a dragon, but he’s a friendly one. He breathes sparkles, not fire.”

Elara came down a few steps to get a better look. On the page was a wonderfully chaotic drawing of a green, lumpy creature spewing a rainbow of glittery scribbles. As an artist, she felt an immediate connection.

“Wow,” she said, her voice filled with sincere admiration. “I love him. Especially his wings. You’re really good at making them look like they’re moving.”

Lily puffed up with pride. “Daddy helps me with the shapes sometimes.” She looked from Elara to her father, a sudden idea lighting up her face. “Elara, can you draw? Daddy says your boxes have picture-things in them.”

Before Elara could answer, Julian stepped forward. “Lily, time to wash up for dinner.”

“But Daddy—”

“Now,” he said, the word gentle but firm. Lily’s shoulders slumped, but she obeyed, giving Elara one last wave before skipping toward the house.

Julian lingered for a moment. He looked at Elara, still perched on the stairs, and for the first time, his gray eyes held something other than polite distance. It wasn’t quite warmth, but the icy wall had thawed, just a fraction. He had seen her through his daughter’s eyes: not as a problem or a tenant, but as a person who understood sparkle-breathing dragons.

He gave her a single, slow nod—a gesture that held more communication than all their clipped conversations combined. Then he turned and followed his daughter into the house.

Elara stayed on the steps, the scent of sawdust mingling with the evening air. She hadn't broken through Julian’s wall. But his bright, curious eight-year-old daughter had just unknowingly tossed her a key. And for the first time since the Artful Dodger had coughed its last, Elara felt a spark of genuine hope.