Flannel and Frost
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 10
The sound of metal brackets clinking against one another echoed through the hollow interior of the future hardware store. Bare studs showed where old paneling had been ripped away. The air smelled of sawdust, cold concrete, and the faint mineral tang of the mountain spring thaw seeping through the ground.
Ryan steadied a long shelf board against the wall as Caleb tightened a screw with the kind of casual ease that came from decades of knowing exactly how wood behaves.
“Little more to the left,” Caleb murmured around the nail he held between his teeth.
Ryan shifted. “Like this?”
“Yep. Hold it there.”
The drill whirred. The shelf settled into place, firm and level. Caleb slapped the board with a satisfied grunt.
“Solid. Won’t fall even if some kid tries to climb it.”
Ryan exhaled, relieved. “Good. Last thing I need is being liable for crushing a child with a shelf of gardening tools.”
Caleb chuckled—a warm, low roll of sound. “Relax. We’ll build it right the first time.”
They moved to the next section. Caleb handed Ryan a handful of brackets, then measured the studs with long, practiced sweeps of his tape measure.
“You know,” Caleb said after a moment, “the trick to building something that lasts isn’t fancy tools or perfect lumber.” He tapped the wall. “It’s understanding where the weight wants to go.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “Is that an actual construction principle or one of your philosophical life lessons disguised as one?”
“Both,” Caleb said easily. “Tools and people aren’t all that different.”
Ryan huffed a small laugh. “Here we go.”
Caleb continued undeterred. He aligned another bracket, marking the spot with a pencil.
“Everyone thinks support means holding everything up yourself. All the weight, all the work.” Click—he locked the bracket in place. “But real support is about knowing how to distribute it. How to let parts of the structure help each other.”
Ryan paused mid-measurement. “You always talk like this?”
“Only when I got a captive audience.” Caleb smirked. “Or when someone needs to hear it.”
Ryan refocused on the measuring tape, but the words settled uncomfortably close to home.
Caleb noticed—the man noticed everything—and softened his tone. “You’ve been trying to carry your whole life on your own shoulders, Ryan. Ain’t sustainable. Even a good beam bows if you load it wrong.”
Ryan swallowed. His voice felt small in his throat. “It’s easier to carry something yourself than risk someone else dropping it.”
Caleb’s drill paused in midair. He looked at Ryan—not pitying, just perceptive. Steady as bedrock.
“Maybe,” he said. “But you came here for a fresh start. Fresh starts don’t work if you build ‘em with the same old habits.”
Ryan didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the shelf board, gripping it tighter than necessary.
Caleb gave him a moment, then resumed drilling. “Besides,” he added lightly, “this town’s got plenty of folks willing to help if you let them. Some you’ve already met, some you keep awkwardly bumping into.”
Ryan made a face. “You mean Evelyn?”
Caleb grinned. “Didn’t say that. You did.”
Ryan muttered under his breath and aligned the shelf. Caleb laughed again—quiet, knowing.
A few minutes passed in companionable silence. Another shelf went up. The empty store began to take shape, inch by steady inch.
Caleb finally stepped back, brushing dust off his palms. “See? Starting to look like a real place.”
Ryan looked around—at the emerging aisles, the brightened windows, the subtle impression of potential taking form. A warm feeling came over him—something approaching pride.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “It is.”
Caleb clapped a broad hand on his shoulder. “And just like with these shelves—don’t be afraid to lean on people when you need to. Makes the whole structure stronger.”
Ryan didn’t reply, but he didn’t shrug off the hand either.
Soon, they took a short break, sitting on overturned paint buckets near the back of the store where the morning light thinned into cooler shadows. Caleb passed Ryan a bottle of water and cracked open his own, the sound echoing softly in the half-finished space.
Ryan rolled his shoulders, feeling pleasantly sore. “I swear the brackets multiply when we’re not looking.”
Caleb chuckled. “That’s just shelves testing your commitment.”
A quiet settled between them—comfortable, not strained. Ryan took a sip of water, watching sunlight slant across the dusty floor. It was the kind of quiet that made people naturally drift into reflection.
And that’s exactly what Caleb did.
“You’ve mentioned family a little,” he said casually. “Siblings, parents back East.” He didn’t push, just left the words open enough for Ryan to take or leave them.
Ryan nodded. “Things are ... complicated.” He waited for the usual shift—the polite withdrawal, the awkward silence—but Caleb just nodded once, as if complications were the most normal thing in the world.
Then Caleb said, “Yeah. I get that.”
Something in his tone made Ryan look over. The carpenter wasn’t wearing his usual half-grin. His eyes were softer, shadowed, like memories flickered just behind them.
“My wife, Anna ... she used to say I kept all my feelings in a toolbox no one else was allowed to open.” Caleb smiled faintly, but it was tinged with old ache. “She’s the one who taught me that sometimes you gotta let someone else reach in and hand you the right wrench.”
Ryan blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t know you were married.”
“Was.” Caleb’s fingers tapped against the plastic bottle—slow, rhythmic. “It’s been eight years now. Cancer. Fast.” He exhaled through his nose, a tired, steady breath. “Our daughter, June, was only six.”
A pang moved through Ryan—unexpected and sharp. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” Caleb nodded, staring at the floor for a moment. “Me too. Every day in some way.” He cleared his throat gently, not hiding the emotion but smoothing it into something manageable. “June’s fourteen now. Smarter than me, more stubborn than her mom. Good kid, even when she thinks she hates the world.”
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