Chapter 117: Tower of Trust
Jon's Perspective.
It was a Saturday afternoon painted with the kind of perfect, cloudless blue that makes you feel like anything is possible. The sunlight streamed through my car windows, illuminating the undeniable evidence of my latest misadventure: a cat tower, slumped awkwardly in the backseat. The thing was a disaster—overpriced, underwhelming, and, judging by Ghost's reaction, a personal affront to feline dignity everywhere. He'd given it a look that could have withered plants, as if the very sight of this cat tower was an insult to his ancestors.
Determined to salvage something from this fiasco, I found myself parked outside Sam's house, clutching one of the tower's wooden squares like it was a peace offering. I didn't have a clear plan, but hope was a stubborn thing, and I figured maybe—just maybe—Ron could help me make sense of it.
The front door swung open, and Diane greeted me with her signature warmth, the kind that made you feel instantly at home. "Hi, Jon. Here to see Sam?" Her voice carried the gentle tease of someone who'd known me long enough to read between the lines.
I grinned, trying to match her cheerfulness. "Actually, I'm here to see Ron today. Though I wouldn't mind running into your daughter later," I added, letting the humour hang in the air.
She laughed, the sound easy and genuine, and waved me inside. I made my way down the familiar stairs, each step taking me deeper into the heart of the house—the basement workshop. Down here, the air was thick with the comforting scents of sawdust and machine oil, a blend that spoke of projects past and the promise of new creations. This was Ron's sanctuary, a place where the hum of power tools drowned out the world, and every surface bore the marks of careful craftsmanship. It was a space that radiated purpose and responsibility, where even the clutter felt intentional.
Ron glanced up from his workbench, safety goggles perched on his forehead, his expression as stoic as ever. "Jon," he greeted, his voice gravelly but not unkind.
"Hey, Ron," I replied, my casual tone slipping into the conversation.
He nodded once, a small gesture that, in Ron's language, meant more than words ever could. It was his way of saying, Nice to see you, kid. Hope you're doing alright.
I held out the wooden piece, feeling oddly self-conscious. "Bought Ghost a cat tower online. He won't go near it. Thought maybe you could take a look and tell me what went wrong."
Ron took the piece from me, examining it with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for crime scenes. He turned it over in his large, capable hands, sniffed it as if he could smell the disappointment baked into its fibers.
"This," he declared without a hint of hesitation, "is garbage." With that, he tossed it into the trash can behind him, not even bothering to aim. The move was so swift and final, it almost felt ceremonial.
For a moment, I stood there in stunned silence, then felt a surge of vindication. Jon Hale, defender of kittens, officially validated by the master himself.
"Your cat's got taste," Ron added, a rare compliment delivered with his trademark deadpan.
"I know, right?" I laughed, relief flooding through me. "Honestly, I just hoped you might have a suggestion for something better."
Ron's response was subtle but unmistakable—a tilt of his head, a single raised eyebrow. For Ron, this was the equivalent of a bear hug.
"You want to do this right?" he asked, voice low and serious.
"Of course," I replied, not quite sure what I was signing up for.
"Then we don't buy something. We build it."
I blinked, caught off guard. "Wait, really?"
He was already moving, unlocking a rack of wood at the back of the workshop. "You think I'm letting your cat live in some mass-produced wooden mess?" His tone was gruff, but there was a hint of something else beneath it—a quiet acceptance, maybe even affection. This was Ron's way of saying, You're dating my daughter, so I guess I care about your cat now.
I couldn't help but grin as I followed him, watching as he pulled out boards of varying sizes and colors. "Thanks, Ron. Honestly, I was just hoping for a recommendation, but this… this is more than I expected."
He didn't reply, but I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—a Ron smile, as rare and fleeting as a shooting star.
We spread out pieces of pine, cherry, and maple, the grains and textures each telling their own story. Ron launched into an explanation of wood types, discussing the balance between strength and softness, the importance of vertical versus horizontal support, and why the finish mattered almost as much as the structure itself. His words were practical, but his passion was unmistakable.
I listened intently, nodding along and committing every detail to memory. It became clear that this wasn't just about building a cat tower anymore. It was about building something together—for Ghost, yes, but also as a way to connect with Ron, to learn from him.
As we measured out the base panel and marked the cut lines with chalk, I felt a shift inside me. This was about more than wood and screws. It was about showing up, about being present, about learning from someone who had mastered the art of making things that last.
"Let's get to work," Ron said, his voice steady and sure.
I picked up the pencil, ready to follow his lead, and smiled. "Lead the way, boss."