Chapter 3 Direct Messages
Direct Messages
Before he could second-guess himself, he typed:
CabernetCrusader : That vintage is extraordinary—honeyed, complex, with notes that unfold for hours. But wine isn’t meant to be preserved indefinitely. The special occasion isn’t what warrants the wine. Sometimes, the wine makes the occasion special.
His response was more personal than anything he’d written in a while.
Dylan hesitated before posting, aware he was revealing too much about his current state of mind.
Everything he knew about wine, he owed to Uncle Tobias.
His late uncle, who loved life and wine in equal measure, and who often said that uncorking a young Bordeaux was to commit infanticide with a corkscrew, what would hesay about HaintBlueJulia and her treasure?
He’d probably advise to wait for a spectacular occasion, worthy of this wine.
But after what happened in Turkey, Dylan wasn’t so sure.
Was there an occasion in life big enough for a bottle like this?
He meant what he had said to HaintBlueJulia.
But he didn’t want to get too personal in an online forum crowded with strangers.
Julia read his comment, surprised by the recognition. Here was someone who understood the cost of perpetual postponement. Someone who, like her, might be holding back.
She typed a more personal response, too:
HaintBlueJulia : You have a point. Anticipation can become its own trap. I think Grandma was saving the bottle for a mythical “perfect moment” that never came. Maybe the lesson isn’t about finding the right occasion. Is a bag of tortilla chips special enough?
CabernetCrusader: A bag of tortilla chips?
Well, it depends on the chips. Are we talking artisanal, small-batch, heirloom corn chips with a story?
Or the kind you find at a gas station, destined for immediate, unapologetic crunching?
Must confess, I was picturing something a little more … candlelit.
HaintBlueJulia: Oh, a purist, are you? Candlelight can be arranged. Intrigue, too. You can always start with the Yquem and then … improvise? If only we were bold enough to give this bottle a fair shake.
Dylan stopped, a thoughtful pause, then a smile you could almost hear.
CabernetCrusader: A fair shake. Now, that’s an intriguing proposition – to let the wine guide the evening. It’s a kind of defiance against the tyranny of the ’perfect’ occasion. And perhaps the wine will feel less judged.
HaintBlueJulia: Precisely! No pressure for it to be a Nobel Prize ceremony. Just two people, a legendary bottle, and the courage to make an ordinary night unforgettable.
Dylan stared at her reply. It was more of a challenge.
Her post challenged him to think beyond his own carefully-curated world.
He liked the controlled connection they had, a friendship without the complications of deeper involvement.
The complexity of a new relationship—even a digital one—felt like more than he could handle at this point.
But it also bothered him that their public exchanges were drawing attention from other members.
Several had commented on their lengthy discussions, some with amusement, others with mild irritation.
Before he could change his mind, he typed:
CabernetCrusader: I think we’re in agreement. No need to wait for world peace, or a comet strike! The best kind of special occasion might be the one you create. And besides, that bottle has waited long enough. Should we take this conversation private?
After a few minutes of internal debate, Dylan composed a sort of disclaimer. The disclaimer felt necessary—a gentle way to set expectations.
CabernetCrusader: Fair warning. It may take me a while to respond. Too much to explain here. I’ve genuinely enjoyed our exchanges, though.
Julia’s stomach did a flip-flop. Fair warning. Given her own wariness about rushing into things, his caution was reassuring. Sort of.
She waited until early Sunday afternoon to send him the first direct message:
Dylan was in his workshop, an airy space just outside Newport, when his phone buzzed.
Julia: Hello there.
Dylan: Hello back.
He was sanding a cedar plank, the rhythmic rasp of sandpaper against the quiet hum of the ventilation fan. He stopped and flexed his hands, the muscles in his forearms sharp from years of wrestling with stubborn timber.
Julia : Thank you for the fair warning. And for taking this little tangent off the main road.
Julia was curled on her window seat, avoiding doing laundry. A heap of clothes threatened to take over her reading nook.
Dylan: What else is there to talk about, besides wine?
Julia: (typing...)
Dylan: Just kidding! What does a professional building whisperer do on a Sunday?
Julia: Sundays mostly involve coffee. And avoiding laundry. Do you have a laundry avoidance mechanism?
Dylan: Good question. Restoring old wooden boats is my Sunday pastime.
Julia: Old wooden boats? Sounds tactile … And meditative.
Dylan: Would you say you’re a procrastinator in general, or is the laundry your main target for avoidance?
Julia: Very good question. Back at you. Avoiding anything in particular?
Dylan paused. He thought about the unopened mail on his desk, and everything else he’d been postponing. He picked up a piece of sandpaper, rubbing it against the cedar.
Dylan: A thorny truth, perhaps.
Julia: Thorny?
Dylan: Let’s say I’m in the middle of a long goodbye.
Julia: Ah, one of those …
Dylan: (He let out a short breath). It’s a tricky situation. You? What kind of things are you avoiding?
Julia: Me? The usual: sugar, professional backstabbers, boring dates, anything that reads ’one size fits all,’ rogue hair ties that leave for another dimension when you need them most, dating apps, flat-pack furniture with missing parts. Let’s see … what else?
Dylan: Is that all? My mom’s Sunday texts are beginning to look reasonable.
Julia: Ah yes. Mothers tend to have the last word, don’t they?
Dylan: Not my mother. She has the first word, the last word and every word in between. Speaking of which, I’d better check in. Thanks for the chat, Julia.
Julia: Anytime.
Dylan: Talk soon.
Over the next several days, Dylan found himself reaching for his phone first thing each morning and checking for messages throughout the day. Still, he remained guarded about anything too personal.
Julia was no expert at chitchat, either. Socializing and making small talk required a type of energy she had never had.
During their chats, Dylan learned that Julia had grown up in Atlanta before moving to Savannah for work and that she had a younger brother in California.
She told him a little more about that summer she spent in Italy, documenting Renaissance buildings.
From him she learned he was an only child, about his Massachusetts childhood, and his passion for restoring old wooden boats.
One evening after work, Dylan sat cross legged on the floor eating leftover pizza. He wondered what it would be like to see the space where Julia lived, to watch her work on her designs, to share a glass of wine. The thought surprised him. He decided to text her.
Dylan: So, where do you hang your hard hat after a long day of brick whispering? Somewhere with good bones would be my guess.
Julia : Victorian bones with modern comfort.
Original heart pine floors and crown molding, but contemporary furniture and way too many architectural books and material samples.
My dining table is currently hosting three different types of sustainable insulation options.
Not exactly House Beautiful material. And you?
Is your space perfectly curated, like a museum, or do you cherish the chaos of uncatalogued treasures?
Dylan : Hardly. My apartment looks like a library that was barely missed by ameteor. The shop is meticulously organized because it’s my professional space.
Their conversations gradually deepened. Dylan shared stories about unusual items that came through his shop—a Civil War surgeon’s kit complete with bone saw and a tea service that had supposedly belonged to Abigail Adams. Julia described the excitement of uncovering original architectural elements, and the frustration of working with historical commissions more concerned with regulation than preservation.
They discovered shared interests in jazz and travel photography. Dylan mentioned his goal of visiting every lighthouse in New England.
The more they shared, the more Dylan’s initial wariness began to soften, but up to a point.
Julia respected his measured pace. It often took him a day or two to respond.
Still, he remained guarded. This made Julia wonder if he was hiding anything.
When she asked about what had drawn him to antiques, he spoke about appreciating objects with stories and avoided discussing anything more specific.
Their exchanges had become important to him —a bright spot in days that had turned gray since Uncle Tobias’ disappearance. For the first time in months, he looked forward to something beyond work obligations and his futile search for an explanation that made sense.
One evening, as Dylan was closing the shop, his phone chimed with a message he was not ready to receive:
Julia : This might be premature, but I’ve been invited to present at a sustainable preservation conference in Boston next month. Providence isn’t far from there, is it? Would be interesting to meet in person. No pressure at all—just thought I’d mention it.
Dylan read the message, his heart suddenly racing. Meeting in person would turn their digital connection into something real—with all the possibilities and complications that entailed; the careful boundaries he’d established would become meaningless.
Yet, the idea of meeting Julia in person excited him. After weeks of wondering about the person behind the messages, the opportunity to meet her felt like the right thing.
He read her message again, aware of how carefully she’d framed the invitation—mentioning her professional reason for being in Boston, emphasizing the geographical convenience, offering him the freedom to decline.
Dylan looked around The Black Tulip’s interior, filled with objects that had survived centuries.
Everything was still and settled. And this filled him with peace.
Was he ready to take a chance, to move his life in a different direction?
He wasn’t sure. HaintBlueJulia at the wine forum had taken him completely by surprise.
He began typing a response, then stopped, then started again. The decision felt monumental—not just about meeting Julia, but about whether he was ready to leave the safety of the life he had built around objects and step into a future that suddenly felt very much alive.
He slid the phone in his pocket. He would have to think about this. It was a harmless invitation, potentially joyful. What was he afraid of?