She tossed the cap in the sink on her way to the attached garage. After she flipped on the light, she set the bottle on the workbench where her tools were laid out neatly just inside the door. In the center of the garage, the makeshift table she’d fashioned out of a sheet of plywood and two sawhorses held four drawers. She’d finished assembling them the night before for a rolltop desk she was making for her father’s office. Tonight she would begin cutting the pieces for the base. Six years ago, after she bought this house on fifteen acres on the town’s outskirts, she had transformed the garage into a workshop. A decade old, the house was more modern and sterile than she liked. As subdivisions crawled out from nearby cities, construction companies had begun to build cookie-cutter houses, and Wil’s was no exception. She’d been more interested in the land than the house. But the relatively cheap cost of maintaining the small home allowed her to save until she built the house she really wanted.
