Chapter 2 The Black Tulip
The Black Tulip
Dylan Gilbert woke to the familiar creaking of his apartment’s wooden floors.
The second story of a Federal-style building in Providence’s College Hill neighborhood, it sat directly above The Black Tulip, the antique shop he had inherited from his uncle after his mysterious death in search of a rare treasure.
Every morning, the floorboard by his bed announced the day with a groan that had likely been there since Thomas Jefferson was president.
He’d fallen asleep with his laptop open again. A quick glance showed three new Reddit notifications—all replies to his comments on r/WineEnthusiasts. The one from HaintBlueJulia was the first he opened.
HaintBlueJulia : I’ll post photos when it’s done (another ten months at least). Providence has some beautiful industrial architecture. I’m in Savannah. We’re practically architectural opposites—your city built in stone against cold, ours in wood to catch every possible breeze.
Dylan smiled. He’d spent far too long last night researching her cotton warehouse project after their exchange. Her perspective on historical preservation resonated with him—seeing buildings as stories, rather than just structures.
CabernetCrusader : Never been to Savannah.
My shop is in this 1803 building that’s seen more drama than an Italian opera—everything from a silversmith to a printing press.
The walls practically gossip if you listen closely.
What hooked you on architectural preservation?
Did you rescue a crumbling gargoyle in your youth?
He hit send before heading downstairs to open the shop.
On his way out, he passed a heavy door with original brass hardware; the oak door separated his private space from his public one.
The Black Tulip occupied the first floor and basement of the building.
It was filled with carefully curated American antiques, each with documented provenance.
Unlike some dealers who chased only the highest-value items, Dylan favored pieces that told stories of everyday American life through the centuries.
His assistant, Nico, was waiting outside, coffee in hand.
“Morning, boss,” he said, handing over a cup from their favorite local roaster.
“Thanks, Nico. We’ve got that estate evaluation in Brookline at eleven,” Dylan reminded him, unlocking the shop. “The family claims they have a Chippendale secretary. But from the photos, I’m a little skeptical.”
Nico had looked at the photos, too. Popular in the 18th century, the Chippendale combined the functional design of a secretary desk with the distinctive stylistic elements of Chippendale furniture—Mahogany wood, graceful S-shaped legs and intricate carvings.
They were sought-after antiques, highly elegant and often imposing.
But there were many reproductions on the market.
“Bet you twenty bucks it’s a reproduction,” Nico said, entering the shop.
“I’ll pass on that bet,” Dylan laughed. “Still worth looking at, though. And who knows, there’s always the chance of a hidden compartment … perhaps a forgotten stash of letters. Even in disappointing collections, there’s usually something interesting.”
As they prepared the shop for opening, Dylan found himself checking his phone more frequently than usual. By mid-morning, a response appeared:
HaintBlueJulia : I grew up in a new development where every house looked identical.
I was only 16 when I visited Charleston.
The worn brick and wrought-iron gates were so different.
But the haint blue porch ceilings meant to ward off spirits won me over!
The Black Tulip sounds intriguing. How did you get the name?
Dylan waited until his lunch break to reply, wanting to give her question some thought.
The past few months had been consumed with settling his uncle’s affairs and learning the intricacies of running the business alone.
Apart from all the responsibility, Dylan was processing a grief that still caught him off guard at unexpected moments. He kept his reply short.
CabernetCrusader : ’The Black Tulip’ is a novel by Alexandre Dumas–about the obsession with rare things. Just curious: Ever face community resistance to your modernization efforts?
Throughout the afternoon, Dylan kept looking at his phone between customers.
The Brookline estate had indeed featured a Colonial Revival reproduction, but Nico had discovered a collection of handwritten recipe books dating back to the 1850s that proved far more interesting.
As they drove back to Providence, Dylan received another notification:
HaintBlueJulia : How did you guess? Current project has a neighborhood group convinced I’m destroying history. Dumas reference noted—I’ll have to read it! Do you read much historical fiction?
Dylan waited until after closing to reply. He sat at his desk surrounded by auction catalogs and condition reports.
CabernetCrusader : Historical fiction is my guilty pleasure. Currently reading a novel about the Portuguese court’s escape to Brazil during the Napoleonic Wars. What are you reading?
Once the customers left, Dylan finally checked his phone. Three new notifications from the wine forum. While looking for HaintBlueJulia’s reply to his question, he caught sight of a response from another user:
CabernetConnoisseur : This is a fascinating discussion. But maybe you two should take it to DMs? Rest of us are here for wine recommendations, not architectural philosophy.
Dylan’s stomach tightened. The suggestion was reasonable—their conversation had strayed far from wine—but moving to direct messages meant crossing a line he wasn’t ready to cross.
He typed and deleted several responses before settling on:
CabernetCrusader : So noted! Has anyone tried the new releases from Willamette Valley this season? I’m curious about the 2023 vintage reports.
Julia stared at her phone. She reread CabernetCrusader’s deflection. After a week of increasingly personal exchanges, his sudden retreat felt jarring. Had she misread their connection?
She scrolled back through their conversation thread, analyzing each exchange for signs she’d overstepped. Their discussion had felt natural, intellectually stimulating in a way she hadn’t experienced since—well, since Aaron. The thought made her chest tighten with familiar wariness.
Maybe this was for the best. She’d gotten carried away, investing emotional energy in someone she knew only through carefully crafted Reddit comments. She didn’t even know his name.
Still, why did she feel so disappointed?
Julia typed a neutral response about Oregon wine regions, then closed the app without posting it. If he wanted to keep his distance, she could respect that boundary. She had her own reasons for proceeding carefully.
Over the next couple of days, their interactions remained strictly wine-focused.
Dylan answered her questions about vintage recommendations with short, polite answers.
Julia shared tasting notes from a local wine bar without mentioning the architectural details of the restored 1920s building that housed it.
Both carefully avoided the personal tangents that had marked their earlier exchanges.
Dylan told himself this was for the better.
Yet he found himself checking the forum more frequently, hoping for glimpses of HaintBlueJulia’s wit.
Despite his determination to keep his distance, her posts intrigued him.
It was in the forum that he learned she’d spent a summer in Italy.
He loved Italian wines. Italy was on his bucket list. Above all, he wanted to continue their conversation.
CabernetCrusader: Was a summer in Italy long enough to sample the wines?
HaintBlueJulia: Short enough to spark curiosity. Long enough to cover the subject.
Dylan smiled. But he was not sure what to respond.
They were caught in an uncomfortable middle ground—too invested to ignore each other completely, too wary to risk getting closer.
Dylan composed more personal responses, then edited them back to safe wine recommendations.
Julia drafted questions about his work, then deleted them in favor of queries about wine storage.
The wine forum had become both a bridge and a barrier—keeping them in touch, while preventing the intimacy that had begun to develop.
By the end of the week, Julia felt beaten down.
Deadlines shifted like sand dunes, a critical structural report was delayed, and Parker, her boss, had perfected the art of the passive-aggressive email.
By Friday afternoon, all Julia wanted was to get out of her work clothes, curl up with a book, and pretend her job didn’t require her to analyze the tensile strength of historic mortar.
The thought of spending another Friday night alone, watching the hum of the Savannah streetlights from her window, felt particularly discouraging.
Determined to salvage at least one part of her week, she left work a little earlier than usual and headed to the flower market.
At home, she changed into a sundress and went to see Mrs. Mercer.
The afternoon was humid; the giant oaks looked languid, hanging low.
She reached Mrs. Mercer’s front door just as a familiar figure was coming up the porch steps.
It was Dr. Da Silva, the dentist who occupied the first floor of their Victorian home.
A true extrovert, Dr. Da Silva was a man who spoke in tangents and surveyed the world looking for listeners.
That afternoon, he wore a Hawaiian shirt patterned with miniature pineapples, over white linen pants.
He looked like he’d just stepped off a cruise ship.
“Dr. Da Silva?” Julia blinked, holding a bouquet of freshly cut, fragrant gardenias.
She meant to thank Mrs. Mercer for the peach cobbler, and so much more.
Dr. Da Silva smiled, a bright smile you’d expect from someone in his line of work.
His light green eyes were animated behind rimless glasses that had started to cloud.
“Julia, darling! What a coincidence! But is anything truly a coincidence when the universe conspires to bring good intentions together? As I was just telling my hygienist, Mildred, a smile is a powerful thing. It’s not just about the pearly whites …
” As Dr. Da Silva went on, Julia’s gaze drifted to the small, potted orchid in his hands.
The door swung open. It was Mrs. Mercer, a vision in soft lavender.
Her silver hair was perfectly coiffed, and nothing in her manner indicated the nearly suffocating heat of the afternoon.
“Why, Dr. Da Silva, Julia, darlings!” she said, in her melodious drawl. “What a delightful surprise, and with such beautiful offerings!” Her deep eyes twinkled. “Come in. Come in.”
Dr. Da Silva puffed out his chest. “A gift for you, Mrs. Mercer! A small token of my appreciation for your kindness. And, of course, for your generosity with the… rent reprieve.”
“Oh, you two are just too sweet,” Mrs. Mercer cooed. “I was just about to make a fresh pitcher of lemonade.”
They stepped into Mrs. Mercer’s parlor, a room as warm as a hug. Sunlight streamed through tall, lace-curtained windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. A floral sofa in a faded chintz dominated one wall, flanked by two mahogany armchairs.
Mrs. Mercer gestured to the armchairs. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.” Dr. Da Silva immediately gravitated to one, while Julia, trying to maintain a polite distance, went toward the other.
“So, Julia,” Dr. Da Silva began. “Busy week, eh? Tore any buildings down today?”
Julia managed a thin smile, her eyes darting to Mrs. Mercer in the kitchen. “Yes. Preservation work, mostly.”
“Ah, preservation!” he said. “It’s like crowns, I suppose. He chuckled loudly at his own joke.
“Let me help you with the glasses,” Julia said to Mrs. Mercer. She poured the lemonade, then took a sip. “This is so refreshing. My grandmother made it exactly—down to the mint leaves!”
Mrs. Mercer smiled at Julia and interjected smoothly, “Oh, Dr. Da Silva, you must tell me again about that marvelous new hygienist you hired. Mildred, wasn’t it?”
At this, Dr. Da Silva launched into a new monologue about Mildred’s exceptional dental technique.
Julia nodded along, feigning interest. After a while, she excused herself with a mention of early morning plans.
Mrs. Mercer took the cue and walked her to the door while Dr. Da Silva’s monologue continued, undeterred by Julia’s departure.
“Such a busy girl you are. Thank you for this lovely visit,” she said, patting her hand. “And the gardenias!” Busy, yes. But perhaps, also a little lonely. Julia felt a pang of disappointment. It had something to do with the sadness Mrs. Mercer had guessed in her.
When she entered her apartment, the long weekend stretched in front of her.
She was hungry. Her hair needed washing.
She opened her computer and clicked on her usual online haunts, including the wine forum.
Nothing new or exciting had been posted.
She stopped typing and looked at her chipped fingernails.
All of a sudden, she felt that all of her was broken.
She headed for the freezer, grabbed a pint of raspberry sorbet and returned to the couch.
What was CabernetCrusader doing on a Friday night?
She wondered. The thought struck her as ridiculous.
It had been a long draining week. She just needed some rest.
Their online standoff might have continued indefinitely, if not for a single post that would change everything between them.