He could make each side from a single width of walnut. Dovetailed
corners. A small brass hasp and lock. Why not? He could make the whole
thing out of one eight foot piece and have two boards left over for
something else or for extra if he screwed up the dovetails.
"Here you go," he said to Verdi. He replaced the offending piece of
pine with the original scratched walnut. "Nothing but the best for Team
Oliver." He looked at the heart. "Team O." Verdi forgave him without
moving. "Bedtime," Oliver said.
On Monday, Oliver cut pieces for the sides, top, and bottom of the box.
He bought a dovetail saw and made several cardboard templates for the
joints. It was a way of thinking about them. They were tricky, had to
interlock perfectly, one end male, one end female.
"What have you been up to?" Jennifer Lindenthwaite asked on Tuesday
morning.
"Making a box," Oliver said.
"Oh, that's exciting."
"It's harder than it looks--for me, anyway."
Jennifer wanted him to look at her and not at an imagined box. She was
a solid blonde, Nordic, with broad cheeks and a big smile. "I worry
about Rupert when he does things around the house. Something usually
goes wrong.
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