His Christmas Craftsman

Just go up there and ask about a dining table. Sarah wouldn’t steer you wrong.

Same psych-up I used before taking a hit from a guy thirty pounds heavier. You do it because it’s the right thing to do.

The conversation from dinner two nights ago still echoed in my head. Tommy had been giving me grief about my empty house again. Sarah had finally lost patience with both of us. Meanwhile, our teammates Tyler and Kevin looked amused, but stayed quiet. They’d heard variations of this lecture for a couple of months now.

“Stop trying to buy furniture online.” She’d pointed her fork at me like a weapon. “You keep saying you want pieces that’ll last. That mean something. So go talk to someone who actually builds them.”

“I don’t know anything about—”

“You know about wood.” Sarah had cut me off. She’d been married to my best friend for five years, so she had the authority to do that. “You’ve been working with your hands since you were twelve. Go see Nico Stolyarov. I buy pieces from him for clients all the time. Everything he does is gorgeous. He doesn’t do bachelor pad nonsense.”

I finally went inside. Climbing the worn wooden stairs, I caught the scent of wood shavings. Christmas music drifted down. It was an acoustic guitar version of “Silent Night.” The sound of a hand plane moving across wood accompanied the melody.

The workshop door stood open, probably for ventilation despite the December cold. I paused outside, taking in the scene through the doorway.

The space was bigger than I’d expected, maybe a thousand square feet. Windows on three sides would flood the room with natural light during the day. Now, with evening settling over Boston, a warm yellow glow came from work lamps and a string of simple white lights draped along the glass. It was the kind of understated holiday touch that made the workshop welcoming rather than commercial.

And there, bent over what looked like a dining table in progress, was presumably Nico Stolyarov.

My first thought was that Sarah hadn’t mentioned how young the guy was. Late twenties, with dark hair that needed a cut and fell forward as he worked. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans that had seen better days. A fine coating of sawdust covered both. His movements were precise and economical as he guided the plane across the wood’s surface, creating thin curls that peeled away like ribbons.

There was something almost meditative about watching him work. This man’s entire focus was on the inches of wood beneath the plane’s blade. I leaned against the doorframe, content to observe for a moment longer.

Which turned out to be a mistake, because the old building’s floorboards chose that instant to creak under my weight.

Nico’s head snapped up, and I got my first look at his face. Sharp cheekbones, a jaw that probably looked stubborn even when he wasn’t frowning, and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. For a second, we stared at each other. Then Nico straightened and set the plane aside with the careful precision of someone who respected his tools.

“We’re closed.” Nico’s voice was low and unhurried. “If you’re looking for the restaurant, it’s downstairs.”

“Actually, I’m looking for you.” I stepped into the workshop, pulling off my winter coat. “Nico Stolyarov, right? I’m Jake Sullivan. Sarah Fitzgerald sent me. She said you might be able to help with some custom furniture.”

Nico’s expression shifted from wariness to careful neutrality. It was the look of a man deciding how much to give away.

“Sarah’s an interior designer,” Nico said. “She usually handles her own client consultations.”

“I’m not her client. Her husband is my teammate.” I moved deeper into the workshop, drawn by both Nico and the half-finished table he’d been working on. The wood was a rich, warm cherry that seemed to glow under the lights. “Tommy Fitzgerald? He’s our goalie. Sarah got tired of listening to him and my teammates complain about my empty house.”

“You’re a hockey player.” It wasn’t a question, and Nico’s tone didn’t change, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes.

“Defenseman for the Blizzard.” I stopped next to the table, running my fingers along the edge where Nico had been planing. The wood was silk-smooth. “This is beautiful work.”

“Most hockey players want leather recliners, big sectionals, and huge TVs on the wall.” Nico watched my hands on his work with the same careful attention he’d been giving the wood. “Man cave furniture.”

I looked up from the table to find his blue eyes fixed on me with startling intensity. “Do I seem like a man cave kind of guy?”

For the first time since I’d arrived, Nico’s expression shifted toward something that might have been amusement. His gaze traveled from my button-down shirt to my dark jeans and back up to my face.

“If Sarah sent you, probably not.”

I moved around the table, noting the way Nico had joined the planks, the attention to grain direction. “This is cherry, right? Looks like it came from the same tree.”

“Yeah, bookmatched.” Now there was definite interest in his voice. “The grain mirrors from the center line. Most people don’t notice.”

“Most people don’t know to look.” I found myself standing closer to Nico than I’d intended, close enough to notice the fine dusting of shavings in his dark hair. “My grandmother always said you could tell everything about a craftsman from how they treated their wood.”

“And what does this tell you?”

The question was quiet, almost challenging. I had to tilt my head down slightly to meet Nico’s eyes. The Christmas music, the smell of wood, and the warm pool of light from the lamps created a comfortable, almost magical, setting.

“That you respect it. That you’re not in a hurry. That you care more about getting it right than getting it done.”

Surprise, or maybe recognition, flashed across Nico’s features. He reached past me to a shelf lined with wood samples. Our shoulders brushed as he selected a small piece of the same cherry.

“Here,” Nico said, holding out the sample. “Feel the difference.”

I took the piece, our fingers brushing in the exchange, and an unexpected jolt of awareness shot up my arm. From Nico’s sharp intake of breath, I knew I wasn’t the only one who’d felt it. The wood was smooth as glass under my thumb.

“It’s perfect,” I said in a whisper.

We stood there for a moment, the sample piece warm between my fingers. The Christmas music shifted to a quartet playing “Joy to the World.”

Then Nico stepped back, breaking the spell. “What else did your grandmother teach you?” He fixed me with a quizzical expression.

“She had a workshop in her barn. She taught me the basics when I was a kid. Because of her, I don’t want to be a man cave kind of guy.” I paused for a beat before I added, “Except for the big TV. There has to be a big TV.”

“Of course there does.” Nico’s voice was all professional now. “What exactly are you looking for?”

I forced myself to focus on the question. But part of my attention stayed on the way Nico moved gracefully around the workshop.

“A dining table that seats eight. And a bookshelf for the living room.” I paused, then added, “A bed frame, eventually. King size.”

“Eventually?”

“I just bought the house,” I explained. “First time I’ve had a no-trade clause. I figured it was time to stop living like I might have to move on short notice. I want furniture that’ll last.”

Nico nodded and hummed what sounded like approval. “Good furniture is an investment. Pieces you build a life around.”

“Exactly.” I leaned against the workbench, settling in despite Nico’s earlier declaration that they were closed. “The few things in my house right now came from a furniture store website. It’s fine, but it’s not... It doesn’t feel like home, you know?”

“Wood has memory.” Nico ran his palm along the surface of the table he’d been working on. “It remembers the tree it came from, the hands that shaped it. Good furniture becomes part of your story.”

The way he said it, quiet and matter-of-fact, made my chest tighten as I remembered Nana. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Since I was eight.” Nico moved to the tool wall, where an impressive collection of hand planes and chisels hung in perfect order. “My grandfather was a master craftsman in Russia. He taught me before we came to America.”

Talking about his grandfather brought out a slight accent where his consonants went a little soft. It wasn’t as pronounced as the Russian hockey player on that streaming series about the two rivals. Did it ever get that strong? What other topics brought out his accent? Those thoughts were best kept to myself.

“He taught you well.”

Nico’s smile was small but genuine. “He would have liked that compliment. He always said that American woodworkers were too eager, too impatient. That there’s a rush to the finish without respecting the process.”

No wonder he’d seemed to like what I’d said before. “And what about you?”

Nico turned back to face me. “I think that most Americans want furniture fast and cheap. They don’t understand that good work takes time.”

I nodded. That same current from when our fingers brushed was back, humming in the space between us. Nico studied me, and I made myself hold still and let him.

“I could do the dining table first,” Nico said finally. “Cherry, like this one, but bigger. Eight chairs to match. It would take about three weeks, maybe four with the holiday rush. It probably wouldn’t be done by Christmas.”

“That’s fine.” I pulled out my phone. “What do you need from me? Measurements? Deposit?”

“Measurements, yes. And we should talk about design details. Leg style, edge treatment, finish.” Nico hesitated, then added, “I usually ask for half up front, but Sarah’s recommendation... I trust her judgment.”

“She said you were the best furniture maker in Boston.”

“Sarah’s a good friend.” Nico’s cheeks flushed, and I found the reaction unexpectedly charming. “But she’s also right. I am the best.”

The matter-of-fact confidence should have been arrogant. But coming from Nico, as he stood in his workshop surrounded by the evidence of his skill, it came across as honest.

“Good. I want the best.”

We spent the next twenty minutes on details. Table dimensions, the number of leaves for expansion, whether I wanted the chairs to have arms. Nico asked more questions than I’d expected. Details about my house, my lifestyle, how I planned to use the furniture. It was less like a sales consultation and more like a collaboration.

“I should probably let you get back to work,” I said eventually, though I was reluctant to leave the warm cocoon of the workshop. “You did say you were closed.”

“It’s fine.” Nico was sketching rough dimensions on a piece of paper, his handwriting neat and precise. “I usually work late anyway.”

“Fewer interruptions?”

“Something like that.” Nico looked up from his notes, and I caught him studying my face again. “Most people don’t understand what I do here.”

“And I do?”

“You asked about the joinery. You noticed the grain matching and talked about your grandmother.” He paused, then added, “Most people see furniture. You see the work.”

That put me right back in Nana’s barn, sawdust in the air while she worked. “My grandmother would’ve loved meeting you. She always said craftsmanship was a dying art.”

“What was her name?”

“Mary Sullivan. Everyone called her Nana Mary.” I smiled at the memory. “She had these incredible hands that could fix anything, build anything. She taught me that wood talks to you if you listen.”

“Does it?” Nico’s voice was soft. “Talk to you?”

I met his eyes. “Sometimes. When I’m lucky.”

I didn’t want to leave, but I had no good reason to stay, either. Whatever was building between us had stopped feeling like simple appreciation for good work, or the relief of being understood. And between that and the memories, I didn’t know where to put myself.

“I should go,” I said, since it seemed safe, but I didn’t move.

“The table will be ready early in the New Year,” Nico said. “Come by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have sketches for you, and I’ll pull the boards I have in mind. You should see the wood before I start cutting.”

“Great.”

Nico walked me to the door, and I grabbed my coat on the way. At the top of the stairs, I turned back.

“Thank you. For taking the commission, but also for...” I paused, trying to decide exactly what I needed to say. “For understanding what I’m looking for.” That didn’t quite cover everything I was thinking, but it would do.

“Furniture that tells a story,” Nico said.

“Exactly.”

I was halfway down the stairs when Nico called my name. I looked back to find him silhouetted in the workshop doorway, backlit by Christmas lights.

“Your grandmother was right. About craftsmanship being a dying art. But some of us are still trying to keep it alive.”

“I know. And I want to do my part.”

As I walked to my truck, Nico’s words echoed in my head. The memory of those blue eyes burned into my mind. Driving home through the festive streets, I was already planning my next visit to the workshop.