Nathan is in his workshop, of course; the cabin which was his home when he first arrived at this little lakeside paradise of ours has been transformed into his workshop. Better lighting, more ventilation, less furniture. The bedroom is now an office, the kitchen is still a kitchen with the same antique appliances, but the rest is open-plan, with a workbench and all his tools. He’s a craftsman, now, an artisan. He has a little shop in town where he sells his handmade bookshelves, dining room sets, sideboards, end tables, desks, and anything else he takes his fancy to craft, as well as his now-trademark and locally famous wildlife carvings. Which are, I’m proud to say, garnering attention beyond our little community. There’s even been talk of a few places in Atlanta giving him shelf-space.

Mainly, he just likes working with wood. Making things. Letting the wood tell him what it wants to be and helping it become that. He loves doing it, and he’s amazing at it. And the beautiful fact is, he’s doing well enough at it that he can almost entirely support us with his woodworking business.

Which, of course, we don’t need. He had quite a bit saved from his career as a Hollywood set builder, as well as a few real estate investments a friend once convinced him to buy into which have panned out profitably. And I have the massive windfall Adrian left me, which I’ve invested so we’ll be comfortable for the rest of our lives.

More importantly, we can focus on doing what we love, and raising this baby.

I stand in the open doorway of Nathan’s workshop, watching him. He’s oblivious, for the moment, absorbed in his latest piece. It’s a rolltop desk, modeled after an antique one he found on the side of the road on one of my house calls a few weeks ago. He made one copy of the desk, and it sold so fast he’s planning on making a few of them.

I love watching him work. His gaze is soft, sort of distant, as if he’s listening to a voice only he can hear. No two pieces he makes are ever alike; each one receives a unique thumbprint of artistry, a touch here and here, which makes it beautifully and uniquely itself. This one, for example, is getting an elaborate system of cubbyholes and hidden drawers which the previous one lacked.

Eventually, he notices me, sets his tools down and hurries over to me. “How long have you been standing there, honey?”

I lift up on my toes to kiss him. “Oh, not long, just a minute or two.” At that moment, the baby does a cartwheel, which I assume will be followed by an extensive program of calisthenics and gymnastics; I press Nathan’s palm to my belly over the movement. “Here, feel.”