Chapter 17 Moses
MOSES
Three months after our reunion in Gomillion, I stood in the center of an empty warehouse space in Atlanta, watching Rhett pace the concrete floor with the focused intensity I’d come to cherish.
He moved with purpose, stopping occasionally to make notes on his tablet, measuring distances with his eyes, visualizing possibilities that weren’t yet visible to anyone else.
“What do you think?” I asked, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. “Will it work?”
Rhett looked up, a slow smile spreading across his face.
“It’s perfect. The bones are excellent, high ceilings, good natural light from those clerestory windows, plenty of space for both production and a tasting room.
And the location is ideal, just enough off the beaten path to feel exclusive, but accessible enough for customers. ”
Relief washed through me. We’d spent weeks searching for the right space, somewhere large enough to accommodate my vision for Distilled Dreams 2.0, the gin distillery that would complement my existing bar while expanding into production on a scale I’d only dreamed of previously.
“So, we can make it work?” I pressed, needing confirmation from him.
“More than work,” Rhett assured me, crossing the room to stand beside me. “We can make it exceptional.”
The easy confidence in his voice settled something in my chest. This project, this dream, had been percolating for years, but I’d never found the right moment, the right circumstances, to bring it to fruition. Until now. Until Rhett.
The past three months had been a whirlwind of change and possibility. After our decisive conversation in Boston, where we’d agreed to accelerate our timeline and make an offer on the Carolina property, everything had seemed to fall into place with almost suspicious ease.
The offer had been accepted with minimal negotiation.
The financing had been arranged through a combination of our resources.
Renovations had begun under the supervision of a contractor Rhett trusted from previous projects.
And most surprisingly of all, our long-distance relationship had not just survived but thrived under the challenging circumstances.
We’d developed a rhythm, weekly video calls, text messages throughout the day, and alternating visits between Boston, Atlanta, and the Carolina property as our schedules allowed.
The distance was difficult, certainly, but it had also forced us to communicate with a clarity and intentionality that might have been easy to neglect had we been in the same city from the beginning.
And now, as we stood together in this empty warehouse that represented the next phase of my professional journey, I found myself grateful for the foundation we’d built, strong enough to support not just our personal relationship, but our professional collaboration as well.
“When can we start the renovations?” I asked, already imagining the space transformed, copper stills gleaming under thoughtfully placed lights, wooden barrels aging special releases, comfortable seating areas where customers could sample the results.
“As soon as the permits clear,” Rhett replied, slipping naturally into his professional mode. “I’ve already drafted preliminary plans based on your specifications. Once you approve them, we can submit for permits. Assuming no major issues, we could break ground in six to eight weeks.”
“That fast?” I was genuinely surprised. In my limited experience with construction projects, nothing ever happened quickly.
Rhett smiled, a hint of pride in his expression.
“One advantage of dating an architect with connections in multiple cities. I know who to call, which offices to approach, how to navigate the bureaucracy. It also helps that your concept is exactly the kind of artisanal, locally-owned business that Atlanta is eager to support right now.”
I shook my head, still amazed at how effectively Rhett moved through the world, the quiet confidence, the extensive network of relationships, the ability to make things happen through a combination of expertise and personal connection.
“Remind me to keep you around,” I teased, though the sentiment beneath was entirely serious.
“That’s the plan,” Rhett replied, his hand finding mine with easy familiarity. “At least, it’s my plan.”
The simple declaration, delivered with his characteristic blend of certainty and vulnerability, warmed me from the inside out.
Three months ago, such casual references to our shared future might have triggered panic, a reflexive retreat into self-protection.
Now, they felt like promises I could believe in, build upon.
“Mine too,” I assured him, squeezing his hand gently.
We spent another hour in the warehouse, discussing possibilities, envisioning the transformation from empty space to working distillery.
Rhett took measurements and photos, his architect’s mind already drafting and redrafting concepts as we talked.
I focused on the practical aspects of production flow, ingredient storage, customer experience, the considerations that would make the difference between a beautiful space and a functional business.
By the time we left, the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the parking lot as we made our way to my car. The early autumn air held just a hint of crispness, a welcome relief after Atlanta’s punishing summer heat.
“Dinner at my place?” I suggested as we settled into the car. “Or we could try that new place on Peachtree you’ve been curious about.”
Rhett considered for a moment. “Your place,” he decided. “I’ve had enough people for one day. Just want you.”
I smiled, understanding completely. Though Rhett thrived in social settings, his natural charm and genuine interest in others making him effortlessly popular, he was, at heart, an introvert who needed quiet time to recharge.
It was one of the many things we had in common, one of the countless small compatibilities we’d discovered during our months of reconnection.
“My place it is,” I agreed, starting the car. “I think I have everything for that pasta dish you liked last time.”
“Perfect,” Rhett replied, settling back in his seat with a contented sigh.
The drive to my Midtown apartment took longer than usual due to typical Atlanta traffic, but neither of us minded. We fell into easy conversation about the warehouse, the distillery plans, the upcoming weekend we’d planned at the Carolina property to check on renovation progress.
My apartment welcomed us with familiar comfort, not as sleek or architectural as Rhett’s Boston place, but warm and lived-in, reflecting my more eclectic tastes.
Over the past months, traces of Rhett had gradually appeared, a spare phone charger in the bedroom, preferred toiletries in the bathroom, a few changes of clothes in the closet.
Small markers of our intertwining lives, practical necessities that had taken on emotional significance.
As I prepared dinner, Rhett opened a bottle of wine and set about answering emails on his laptop at the kitchen island, a domestic scene that had become wonderfully routine during his visits.
The normalcy of it, the quiet intimacy of shared space and parallel activities, never failed to fill me with a particular kind of contentment I’d never quite experienced before.
“Bronwyn texted,” I mentioned, glancing at my phone as it chimed with an incoming message. “She wants to know if we’re still on for brunch tomorrow before your flight.”
Rhett looked up from his laptop, nodding. “Absolutely. I’ve been looking forward to giving her the warehouse tour. Her feedback will be valuable, given how closely she’ll be working with the space.”
Bronwyn’s involvement in the distillery project had been a natural development.
As my business partner in Timbers & Tallboys, she had a vested interest in this expansion, and more importantly, she had the operational expertise that would allow me to split my time between Atlanta and our Carolina property once renovations were complete.
“She’s got some ideas about the tasting room setup,” I told him, stirring the pasta sauce. “Strong opinions, as usual.”
Rhett laughed. “I’d expect nothing less. It’s why you work so well together, isn’t it? She challenges you, keeps you honest.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” I agreed with a wry smile. “Though ‘forces me to defend every decision with exhaustive evidence’ might be more accurate.”
“A valuable business partner trait,” Rhett observed. “Especially for someone like you, who tends to follow gut instincts.”
“As opposed to someone like you, who creates detailed spreadsheets comparing options before making any decision?” I teased back.
“Exactly,” Rhett confirmed without a hint of embarrassment. “It’s why we balance each other so well. Your intuition, my analysis. Together, we make one fully functional adult.”
I laughed at the assessment, recognizing its essential truth. We did balance each other, not in the clichéd sense of opposites attracting, but in the more subtle complementarity of different approaches to similar values, different paths to shared destinations.
Dinner was relaxed and intimate, conversation flowing easily between professional plans and personal reflections. As we cleared the dishes afterward, my phone chimed with another message, this time from an unexpected source.
“Maxwell,” I explained in response to Rhett’s questioning look. “Says he and Cole are in Atlanta for a conference and want to meet for drinks tomorrow night.”
Rhett’s expression brightened. “That would be great. I haven’t seen Maxwell since prior to the Gomillion reunion, and I’ve been wanting to thank Cole properly for his support during that week.”
I nodded, typing a quick reply confirming plans for the following evening. “They’ll be glad to see you. And to hear about the distillery plans, I’m sure.”