The Gift

Nola Carpenter, the sister of the main character Lindy Thomas in my novel Mother of the Year, never did get her own storyline in the book. I thought I'd let her have a little moment in the spotlight here.

Her husband was sweating, and she liked it.

Typically, her persnickety self was repulsed by wet spots on the back of a man’s T-shirt. But on her man, it was a sign of hard work, usually for her benefit, and Nola was grateful.

She wasn’t sure, however, if she was entirely grateful for the monstrosity that now towered over her in their backyard. He was calling it “The Biltmore for Birds.”

He’d planted this unwieldy configuration of tree limbs and two-by-fours smack-dab in the middle of their lawn. It was over six feet tall, with wooden crates for shelves—to hold pots of flowers, he explained—and seventeen hooks (yes, she counted) for hanging baskets and bird feeders. Not to mention the dead tree limbs nailed on to provide a “natural” feel. He’d drilled holes in them for plugs of suet.

Don Carpenter was just that, a carpenter. Precise with wood, lathe, and sander, his thoughtfulness more than made up for his lack of an artist’s eye. All winter he’d promised a surprise for her this spring; he had been keeping long hours in the pole barn. Many nights she heard classic rock above the noise of his sander past dark.

“And look here!” He pointed proudly to the ground under the contraption. “I’ll lay some paving stones so you can pick out a bird bath and set it here, and—Oh!” His face lit up suddenly. “I can run a wire up through the base of this thing, and we can hook up a running fountain if you want! What do you think, Nola-Cola?” It was his pet name for her. He said it was because she was syrupy-sweet, but she knew she was more acidic than saccharine.

His grin was like sunlight spilling onto December snow. The armpits of his shirt were damp now with sweat, and his T-shirt clung to the belly he’d accumulated over the years. Tufts of gray hair around his balding head stuck out at odd angles, but the smiling wrinkles around his eyes always did her in.

He was happy to make her happy.

It filled her with mixed feelings. Warmth and gratitude, of course, but also sadness. Like she didn’t deserve this man who adored her even after thirty years of marriage. Despite her sometimes-prickly nature, her perfectionism, her high standards—even her cold touch at times. He was May, she was March; he was a goldfinch, she was a hawk.

So she refused to let her eyes linger on the crooked shelves that she knew would cause dirt and water to slide out of the flowerpots. She bit her tongue instead of pointing out that a birdbath placed right below the feeders would only get clogged with seed.

The thing was enormous and hideous, but it was love carved from wood. Love measured in hours of planning, trips to the hardware store, and gathering tree limbs strong enough to hold several feeders. It was love in the form of hidden grins and muffled chuckles as he tried to keep it a surprise.

She wiped sawdust off his shoulder and gave him a genuine smile.

“It’s perfect, Donny.”

She thought of her sister Lindy, mourning the sudden loss of her husband, and it made Nola want to grab this sweaty man with the ridiculous grin on his face and never let go.

---