workshop?”
He considered the question.
“Yes.”
Dad then looked at me.
“And you?”
I laughed in surprise.
“I’m an accountant. My last successful woodworking project was a birdhouse that leaned.”
“You were nine.”
“It still leaned.”
But Dad remained serious.
“The letter says Ruiz Brothers Workshop.”
“That was Granddad’s idea.”
“What’s yours?”
No one had asked me. Mom was sewing a button, Veronica had brought pastries and Derek waited quietly. I didn’t want half a workshop; I wanted more than calls and transfers connecting me to my family.
“I could handle the business side,” I suggested. Derek blinked.
“What?”
“Books. Contracts. Pricing. Tax planning.”
“You hate furniture.”
“I hate sanding.”
“Everybody hates sanding.”
Dad nodded gravely.
“That is true.”
I spelled out the division of skills.
“You’re good at restoration. Dad knows design. I know numbers.”
Mom raised her head.
“And Veronica knows clients.”
Veronica almost spilled her coffee.
“What?”
