“Where are we going?” she asks as he pulls her through the second half of the maze, toward a grove of trees.
“Don’t you trust me?” Declan teases.
“Of course I trust you,” she answers instantly.
“Finally,” his voice is husky with emotion. The air is colder in the shade of the trees. Sun filters through the canopy painting them in dappled light.
“Look,” he points.
A white stone building with a red clay roof and two large bay doors. Outside massive logs are stacked in various states of decay or construction. London smiles and squeezes his hand gently. “It’s your shop!”
“Yes, come inside.”
Excitement flutters, and she realizes that this is important to him. It feels intimate, the sharing of secrets. Trusting each other and supporting each other's hopes and dreams. Was that in their vows? She wishes she could remember.
“Mind your step.” He releases her hand to unlock the doors and swing them open. He uses logs to hold the large sections open.
London walks slowly into the large room and is struck by the smell of freshly cut wood and sawdust. It covers the floor in a thick carpet. Squatting down, she lifts a handful and smells it. “Oh, that's lovely,” she murmurs, allowing it to rain from her hands back to the floor.
Declan watches the way she takes the room in using all her senses. From her sight, to touch, to smell, and he wonders if he kisses her, would she do the same? He's moving to her without even realizing it.
London is fascinated by the textures that fill the room. The walls are lined in shelves, tools, and projects in various states of creation. She runs her hands over the table, jumping when a splinter sinks into her finger.
“Let me,” Declan pulls the splinter, “you should be careful,” he whispers and stares down at her.
“Thank you,” she smiles, and chills erupt all over her body. Her eyes move past him to a corner of the shop. “Oh,” she gasps and walking swiftly. “It's a piano?” She asks, even knowing the answer. It's easily identifiable by the three-paneled jigsaw scrollwork. London runs her fingers over the filigree scrollwork and smiles at the brilliantly colored red silk backing.
“Yes,” he watches her hands and jealously strikes. Clearing his throat, he explains, “The silk serves two purposes. It permits the music to radiate out to the player and displays the intricate detail carved into the wood.”
“It’s lovely. What type of wood is it made from?” she asks.
“This one is made of mahogany and rosewood,” he is impressed that she cares to ask.
“I miss it. I used to play as a child, though not on anything this beautiful,” she explains. Her hand trails over the curved leg, “How did you get the curves? Do you hand carve them?”
“I'll show you,” he smiles and gestures to a corner. “I do like to carve some of the details. This shop is not set up like the one you visited in New York. I hope to bring Sheridan Furniture into the future with a larger set up using some of the most cutting-edge technology, like steam bending the wood.”
“That's fascinating, steam bending? How does it work?” she listens as he speaks with such passion about his work.
“That is why I sold shares in the company, to be able to finance the next step without sinking all of our family money into the business.”
“Very good,” London nods and watches as he points out tools and explains the job of each. “Most companies don't realize that. Using investors is smart on multiple levels. It keeps interest in your product and eyes on your company, which only builds your brand.”
Declan grins at her, “I admit my heart is here, buried in the wood, working, smelling and …”
“Creating,” they say at the same moment. London laughs with him, and he guides her to the door. She glances wistfully at the piano in the corner, “You're a craftsman, Declan, don't ever lose that, it's a gift.”
He nods and closes the doors, not trusting himself to speak just yet. “What are your plans today?” he asks as they walk back through the garden to the gazebo.
“I need to go to town,” she replies.
“Why?” he asks. London hesitates and smiles with embarrassment as she answers.
“I need to send telegrams to my broker.”
Declan laughs softly, “I thought you used all your money?” he asks as they reach the center of the garden.
“I did, but I also advise clients on how they need to invest.” Declan stops walking and stares at her with shock. “It’s a second stream of income.”
“How did you do that and work for the Hubbard’s?”
“That was simple, I used the telegraph they had installed in the office.”
“They have a personal telegraph, and you know how to use it?” he asks with awe in his voice.
London laughs at his reaction.
“It was necessary to learn,” she says. His laughter echoes through the garden, sending birds flying away.
“Really? I don’t see what’s so amusing,” she sniffs as if hurt by his amusement.
He steps into her space, gripping her waist. Both of them freeze, and his smile fades as he lowers his mouth towards hers.
“London, I’m going to kiss you now,” he murmurs just before their lips meet.
She knows she should stop him, but she can't bring herself to care. It feels like they are alone in the world, and nothing else matters, but this second. Softly his lips brush hers, delicately he tastes her, as if afraid she will evaporate. London
