Chapter 12 Moses #2
“It’s not that it’s too much,” Moses said carefully after a moment of silence. “It’s beautiful, Rhett. Truly. I can see why you’re drawn to it.”
“But?” I prompted, hearing the hesitation in his voice.
“But I’m trying to be practical. Boston to here is what, a two-hour flight plus driving time? Atlanta’s closer, but still a commitment. How often would we realistically use this place?”
I’d anticipated this concern. “Boston to Charlotte is under two hours,” I confirmed. “A regional airline now flies Charlotte to Asheville three times daily, and from there it’s about an hour’s drive. Not ideal for a weekend trip every week, but manageable for longer stays.”
“And our careers? Your architectural practice in Boston, my bar in Atlanta?”
“This is where technology helps,” I replied.
“Much of my design work can be done remotely. I’ve been shifting toward smaller, more personal projects anyway, residential designs that don’t require constant presence in the office.
As for your bar, you have Bronwyn. She’s been running things while you’ve been here for the reunion, right? ”
Moses nodded, conceding the point. “She has, and quite capably. But that’s for a defined period. Asking her to handle extended absences regularly is different.”
“It would require adjustments,” I acknowledged. “For both of us. But the question is whether those adjustments would be worth it. Worth having a place that’s ours, where we could build something together without either of us having to completely uproot our lives immediately.”
Moses was quiet for a long moment, his expression thoughtful as he gazed out at the property. “Can I ask something that might sound strange?”
“Of course,” I said, curious.
“Why here?” he asked, turning to face me fully. “Why near Gomillion, of all places? We both left. We both built lives elsewhere. Why come back to the place that caused us so much pain?”
It was a fair question; one I’d asked myself repeatedly since first seeing the listing. “Initially, it was practical. Geographically, it’s a reasonable midpoint between Boston and Atlanta. But the more I thought about it, the more the location felt right in other ways too.”
“Such as?” Moses prompted, his expression open, curious.
“Such as the symmetry of it,” I explained, trying to articulate feelings I’d only partially processed myself.
“Coming full circle, in a way. Taking a place that represents pain and reclaiming it, transforming it into something new. And practically speaking, we know the area. We have connections here, Bronwyn, Vanessa. It wouldn’t be starting completely from scratch. ”
Moses nodded slowly, absorbing my reasoning. “That makes sense. More sense than I’d expected, actually.”
“I don’t need an answer today,” I assured him, sensing his continued uncertainty. “This is just the first step. Seeing the property, considering the possibility. No pressure.”
“I appreciate that,” he said, his expression softening. “And I do see the appeal, Rhett. I really do. It’s just a lot to process after everything that’s happened this week.”
“Of course it is,” I agreed, reaching across to take his hand. “We have time. The property’s been on the market for three months already. It’s not going anywhere immediately.”
Moses squeezed my hand, gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you for showing me. For thinking of this. For...everything, really.”
A comfortable silence settled between us, broken only by the distant call of birds and the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze. After a while, Moses stood, pulling me to my feet beside him.
“Show me the rest of the property?” he suggested, a new lightness in his voice. “If we’re considering this place, I want to know every inch of it.”
The shift in phrasing, from “you’re considering” to “we’re considering,” didn't escape my notice, sending a flutter of hope through my chest. “Absolutely,” I agreed, trying not to read too much into the subtle change.
We spent the next hour exploring the acreage, following a well-maintained path that wound through the woods to a small clearing with a view of the distant mountains.
Moses seemed to relax more with each step, asking thoughtful questions about the property’s history, the local area, and potential maintenance concerns.
As we made our way back toward the house, I spotted a weathered building partially hidden among the trees that I hadn’t noticed during my previous visit.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing toward the structure.
Moses followed my gaze, his expression curious. “Looks like an old shed or workshop. Want to check it out?”
Together, we diverted from the path, approaching the building cautiously.
It was indeed a workshop of sorts, its wooden walls weathered but still solid.
The door wasn’t locked, and it swung open with a protesting creak to reveal a dusty interior filled with abandoned woodworking tools and equipment.
“The realtor didn’t mention this,” I commented, examining a lathe that appeared to be at least fifty years old but remarkably well-preserved.
“Oversight, or a selling point they missed?” Moses mused, running his fingers along a workbench that spanned one wall.
“Selling point, definitely,” I decided, taking in the space with newfound appreciation. “This could be restored, turned into a proper workshop. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at furniture making, a natural extension of architecture, working with smaller scales.”
Moses watched me with a soft expression I couldn’t quite decipher. “I can see it,” he said, quietly. “You, in here, sleeves rolled up, sawdust everywhere, completely absorbed in creating something beautiful with your hands.”
The image he painted resonated deeply, a possibility I hadn’t fully articulated even to myself. “It would be a nice counterbalance to the digital design work I do now,” I admitted. “Something tangible, immediate.”
“Balance is important,” Moses agreed, his gaze traveling around the workshop as if seeing its potential unfold. “In all things.”
We lingered in the workshop, discussing what it might become with some restoration work, before finally making our way back to the main house.
As I locked up, Moses stood on the porch, looking out at the property with an expression that had shifted from cautious assessment to something closer to contemplation.
“Hungry?” I asked as we returned to the car. “There’s a little cafe in town that’s supposed to have great sandwiches.”
“Starving,” Moses admitted with a smile. “Lead the way.”
The drive back to Gomillion was comfortable, the conversation flowing easily between us as Moses asked more questions about the property, practical details about the asking price, property taxes, maintenance costs.
I answered as thoroughly as I could, pleased by his interest even as I tried not to read too much into it.
The cafe was exactly as advertised, quaint, uncrowded, with excellent food. We settled at a corner table, our knees touching beneath the small surface, the casual intimacy still novel enough to send a pleasant warmth through me.
“So,” Moses said after we’d ordered, “tell me more about these smaller, more personal projects you mentioned. Is that a recent shift in your work?”
I nodded, surprised and pleased by his interest. “Relatively recent. About two years ago, I started feeling... restless, I guess. The commercial projects were prestigious, financially rewarding, but something was missing.”
“What changed?” he asked, genuinely curious.
I considered the question, trying to pinpoint the shift.
“I designed a house for a friend, a poet who wanted a space that would nurture her creativity. It was a small project by my usual standards, but deeply satisfying. The direct connection with the client, the focus on how the space would support her life and work, it reminded me why I became an architect in the first place.”
“To create spaces that enhance people’s lives,” Moses suggested, understanding immediately.
“Exactly,” I confirmed, once again struck by how easily he grasped concepts that often-eluded others. “After that, I started taking on more residential projects, being more selective about commercial work. My firm wasn’t thrilled initially, but they’ve adjusted.”
“And financially? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“It’s a trade-off,” I admitted. “The income is less predictable, but so are the demands on my time. And honestly, at this point in my career, I’m fortunate enough to have some flexibility. I’d rather do work that matters to me than chase the biggest paycheck.”
Moses nodded thoughtfully. “I understand that. When I first started focusing on artisanal gins, Bronwyn thought I was crazy. The profit margins are smaller, the production more labor-intensive. But the satisfaction of creating something unique, something that represents my vision, it’s worth the trade-off. ”
“Exactly,” I agreed, reaching across the table to take his hand. “Life’s too short to spend it doing work that doesn’t fulfill you, just for security or status.”
“Says the successful architect to the gin bar owner,” Moses teased, but there was warmth in his eyes.
“Says one creator to another,” I corrected gently. “What you do with gin is as much an art as what I do with buildings. Different mediums, same essential process, taking raw materials and transforming them into something that moves people.”
Moses looked genuinely touched by the comparison. “I’ve never thought of it quite that way,” he admitted. “But you’re right. There is a creative process to developing a new gin formulation, balancing the botanicals, and finding the perfect expression.”
“I’d love to see your process sometime,” I said, the idea taking shape as I spoke. “Your workshop in Atlanta, how you experiment with different formulations.”
“I’d like that,” Moses replied, a new light entering his eyes. “And I’d like to see your work too, the residential projects you mentioned, how you translate a client’s needs into physical space.”