been sitting at my desk for the past few hours, scrolling through Londyn’s website, mesmerized by her raw talent. Since our paths crossed yesterday, I’ve barely been able to think about anything else.
About anyone else.
As I told her I would, I texted her yesterday to make sure she got home okay. Then, as any normal thirty-six-year-old male who was supposed to be paying attention in a meeting would do, I completely zoned out and focused on my phone, waiting for her response. When it came, I couldn’t open my messages fast enough. It took all my resolve not to continue our conversation. I didn’t want to scare her by being too forward. So instead, I’ve resolved myself to cyber-stalking her website and Instagram, marveling at her flair for design.
I can draw up schematics for some of the most complex buildings in existence. Skyscrapers that extend hundreds of feet into the air. Stadiums that boast the latest in comfort and technology. Real estate developments that offer potential buyers everything they can ask for in their forever home, while at the same time being eco-conscious and sustainable. But that’s all technical. There’s no art to it. No creativity.
What Londyn can do to a dilapidated dresser and turn it into a functional kitchen island… It is art.
The more I peruse her work, the more curious I grow about the woman I prevented from being the unfortunate victim of an asshole speeding in a pickup. How did she become interested in this kind of work? Who taught her how to do it? How does she see an entryway storage bench when she looks at an old, beat-up dresser?
As I continue scrolling through her Instagram, I can’t help but smile at a few of the selfies she posted — sawdust covering her hair and body, a drill in her hand as she stands by what will become another masterpiece. There are even a few personal shots of her in workout clothes, a pair of boxing gloves on her hands as she goes at a punching bag. The line of her arm is perfect, her muscles defined as she makes contact with the bag. It only increases my curiosity about her.
The buzzing of my phone pulls me from my thoughts, and I swipe off the alarm I set so I wouldn’t be late for today’s event of torture, otherwise known as a golf tournament. I take one last look at Londyn’s website, then push back from the desk, making my way down the hall and toward the kitchen.
When I round the corner, a child’s excited squeal fills the space, warming my heart.
“Morning, Uncle Wes!” Imogene exclaims, jumping down from the stool abutting the giant kitchen island, wrapping her tiny arms around my waist.
“Morning, lovebug.” I tousle her golden blonde curls, then turn my attention to my younger sister, Julia, as she pours some batter onto the skillet, the Saturday morning tradition of making pancakes underway.
You’d think after spending all week whipping up delicious treats to sell in one of the half dozen bakeries she owns, she’d want a break from cooking on her days off. But Julia doesn’t view it as a chore. It’s her passion, thanks to our meemaw’s influence.
“Mommy making you breakfast?” I ask as I prepare a cup of coffee.
She beams a toothy grin, displaying where a bottom tooth is missing. “Are you going to eat with us?”
Julia turns, leaning her short, petite body against the counter. She wears her typical uniform of a tank top and yoga pants, her blonde hair pulled up into a messy bun. “Uncle Wes has to go play golf with Pappy today.”
When my niece frowns, I’m on the brink of telling her I’ll skip it to spend the day with her instead. That’s the effect this little girl has on me. I’m unequivocally wrapped tightly around her little finger. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
While Julia and Imogene live in Charleston, whenever her husband, Nick, is traveling for work, she tries to come to Atlanta to check on the Buckhead location of her bakery. It’s not always possible during the school year, but now that it’s summer, Julia hopes to spend as much time as possible here in Atlanta.
Some men my age would hate the idea of sharing his home with his sister and six-year-old niece, but I love having them here. Makes this house a home, which is why I’ve insisted they stay here instead of the apartment above the bakery.