36
The paintbrush glided over the surface as William added the final coat of varnish to the chest he’d made Blanche. He’d written his usual letter to Blanche this morning. She’d be disappointed, once again, by the lack of depth in his sharing, but he wasn’t ready to tell her what was happening. First he needed a few more days to realign his life with much prayer, much Bible reading, and long talks with Reg. Reg. He got a lump in his throat thinking about the man.
William brushed one final fluid stroke, a relaxed movement from one side to the other. There. Who would have thought he could make something with his own hands?
He capped the tin and laid the brush in the turps. Then he washed his hands and whistled a tune he’d heard on the radio.
“You’re sounding jaunty,” Reg said as he cross
