Daniel walked her to the front gate, which was a low wooden one that opened with a slight creak. She glanced back at the workshop. "Would it be strange if I visited again?"
"Not if you want to," he said. "I can't always promise I'll be free to sit."
"You wouldn't be expected to."
"Then you're welcome. Just call first if you're coming a long way. I don't want you driving over when I've gone to pick up lumber."
Driving home, Victoria realized she had been given something unfamiliar: a welcome with a boundary attached. Daniel was not rearranging his life to make her comfortable, and he was not telling her to stay away. She found both aspects reassuring. By the time she reached her estate, she could remember the sound of Alice's laughter more clearly than the subject of the strategy meeting she had attended that morning.
The next week, she called before visiting. Daniel answered while carrying a repaired cabinet door through the workshop and told her he would be finishing a job until five. Victoria said five thirty would suit her. She arrived with a bag of fresh bread from a bakery on the way, then spent twenty minutes helping him clear a table for the evening instead of asking an employee to do it.
On her third visit, the old dining table was finished. The scar down the center was still visible if a person knew where to look, but the surface was strong and smooth. Victoria placed her fingertips over the repaired seam and asked whether hiding the damage completely would have been possible. Daniel said yes, but only by replacing more of the wood than the customer wanted to lose.
"Sometimes repair means keeping the history," he said. "Not making it disappear."
Victoria thought about the little ring in her wallet, the fracture in its stone, and the child in the faded photograph. She had spent years surrounding herself with polished surfaces that revealed nothing about what they had survived. The thought disturbed her enough that she carried it into the next morning's meeting, where the design director was presenting a new collection intended to resemble expensive antiques without ever having been used.
"Why are we manufacturing the appearance of a life?" Victoria asked suddenly.
The director stopped mid-sentence. No one in the room knew how to answer. Victoria studied the presentation and realized she wasn't asking a question she could dismiss with a clever marketing slogan. She wanted to know when a business devoted to making furniture for homes had begun to treat evidence of real living as an imperfection that needed to be removed.