LITMIR.BIZ

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glazed over during the applicable part, his thoughts on the grieving boy and intriguing woman instead of his current task.

      He restarted the last section of the video and watched it again. The simple action of repeating the segment brought back a memory of JJ, standing outside Hollywood’s ArcLight Cinemas at the prescreening of The Journey.

      Dad, what happens when someone has to leave to go to the bathroom or something? How do they know what they missed without talking during the show?

      Jack had laughed that the boy, only six or seven at the time, already knew the rules of silence during those screenings. Then he’d explained that most often the audience could determine what they’d missed by the foreshadowing layered throughout the earlier frames, or by the dialogue or actions in the scenes that followed. Or they could simply buy another ticket and see the movie again. That last portion of Jack’s answer had been overheard by a reporter and included in reviews about the film. JJ had been thrilled to have had a part in the written reviews.

      And Jack had looked forward to the day when he’d see his son following in his footsteps.

      Ready to begin working and get his mind off the past, he shut the computer. He’d watched the portion on building the frame several times already and knew he wouldn’t make it much further than that today.

      It wasn’t as if he was in a rush to build everything for the cabin, anyway. Jack had no idea what he’d do next, after making all of his own furniture. But he’d find some way to pass the time. Something to learn. Something to do. Some manner to push through the eternity of days God probably had planned for him. Days without his wife and children. Days to remember what he’d had, and what he’d lost.

      For some reason, a vision of Elise, her mouth agape as she tried to understand why he hadn’t notified anyone about seeing Cody, flashed through his mind. He wondered if she had children of her own. She appeared to be about his age, thirty-two, or a little younger. Late twenties or early thirties. And very attractive. He’d thought about that several times since yesterday too. Her heart-shaped mouth, dark chocolate eyes, flushed cheeks. Those rose-tinted cheeks, however, were probably more a result of her shock at learning he’d seen Cody the day before and hadn’t called anyone.

      There was something fascinating about a woman fiercely protecting her own.

      He huffed out a breath. It didn’t feel right thinking of her as attractive, or fascinating, or anything else. He’d loved Laney and didn’t plan to care about anyone that way again. It hurt too much when God took her away. Even so, he couldn’t stop glancing at the end of the trail and wondering if Elise would return.

      Standing, he moved to the piece of mahogany already positioned for sanding on his sawhorses and prepared to uncover the beauty that would form the top of the dresser. Surely that would keep his mind off things he shouldn’t be thinking.

      He eyed the expensive piece of wood and wondered if he could do it justice. Typically, Jack didn’t attempt anything he couldn’t do well. Laney had often joked that she hadn’t found an aspect of life where he didn’t excel.

      “You never saw me try to build furniture, did you?” he asked, though Laney certainly wasn’t around to hear.

      Jack’s heart thudded in his chest. She’d have gotten a kick out of seeing him talk to himself, as well as watching him try to learn the mechanics of carpentry.

      His father was a carpenter.

      Elise’s words trickled through his thoughts, reminding him of the boy who’d also lost his entire family.

      Jack couldn’t deny that he wanted to see Cody again. Nor could he deny that he wanted to see Elise again too. But he’d come here to get away from memories of the past, and a woman who cared so deeply, as well as a traumatized boy who desperately needed help, wouldn’t do anything to keep those memories at bay. However, Jack’s desire to reach out to a youngster struggling with the same grief that pierced his senses outweighed his instinct to protect his heart from more pain. He hadn’t lied to Elise; he wanted—needed—to help the kid. But helping Cody would be near impossible if the boy wouldn’t stick around long enough to interact with Jack.

      He decided to replace thoughts of Elise and Cody with his concentration on the task at hand. Besides, the dresser would never get finished if he simply stood here looking at the woods all day watching for two people who might never return. He’d come here for peace, for solitude. He shouldn’t want visitors.

      He shouldn’t.

      Jack breathed in the distinctive scent of sawdust and turned his attention to the mahogany. Before coming here, he’d never thought about the process of building furniture, but since he started, he couldn’t help but notice the parallels of creating a functional piece from mere wood and the Creation. God had crafted something beautiful out of nothing.

      Jack’s mind tripped over an idea, where a furniture builder spent hours upon hours generating a prized masterpiece, pouring his heart and soul into something that would stand the test of time, but the piece has no idea about its maker. The product of the creation has no appreciation for the love and care that went into its very existence.

      Or does it?

      As he gently sanded and slowly exposed the beauty of the wood grain, Jack honed the idea.

      What would happen if, by the passing of the beloved piece of furniture from one generation to the next, a story unfolded about the love of that original creator displayed to each of his descendants, as long as the generations remembered him, appreciated him and made an effort to pass on his legacy? The depth of the love would only intensify and increase as generation after generation cared for its existence, protected it with their heart and soul.

      How would audiences best relate to the scenario?

      Jack played with thought after thought, idea after idea, until hours had passed. And then he realized he’d sanded the same spot for way too long, and the wood was no longer a piece of beauty. The marred blemish claimed all attention, extinguishing the perfection surrounding the scar.

      Why were eyes always drawn to the flaw?

      This would never be a piece to pass down to generations. He’d ruined it. Because he hadn’t been paying attention. Frustrated, he picked up the once expensive piece of wood, now worthless, and hurled it aside with gusto.

      A movement to his right caught his attention, and he glanced up in time to see Cody retreating backward into the woods. How long had he been standing there while Jack lost himself in the plot? And in the pain of his past?

      Jack had waited all day to see the boy, and now that he’d returned, he’d scared him away when he took his frustrations out on a piece of wood. “Cody?” Another urge to pray pushed forward, but he ignored it. “Why don’t you come here and see what I’m doing? I’m building—attempting to build—furniture. Working on a dresser.”

      The boy wore a long-sleeved navy T-shirt with an old-fashioned red, white and blue Ford Mustang emblem on the front, jeans and tennis shoes, black with white soles and laces. His shoestrings weren’t tied, and Jack hoped he didn’t trip, but he also didn’t want to say anything about it. He wouldn’t do anything to threaten Cody’s slow, timid progression across the yard.

      The boy scanned the area, particularly the sawhorses and tools, and then his attention moved to the discarded piece of wood. Veering to the left, he moved within a few feet of Jack in his quest to reach the mahogany. He was taller than Jack originally thought, thinner too, with long, lean fingers that cautiously reached toward the wood. He crouched beside the wide plank, then ran a palm reverently down its length.

      Jack held his breath, waiting to see what the boy would do. Cody looked up, his eyes filled with pain, with a confusion Jack felt to his soul. Although he didn’t speak, no words were necessary. And another whisper of an idea flitted across his brain. What if an entire movie followed the chronicles of an autistic boy, a brilliant, grief-ravaged boy who refused to share his thoughts with a world that didn’t care.

      But Jack cared.

      And

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