Chapter 4 Searching for Truth
Searching for Truth
Julia and Eliza were reviewing material samples for the cotton warehouse project, but Julia had been checking her phone for the past five minutes.
“You’re chatting with him again?” Eliza said.
“Sorry,” Julia said, setting her phone down and refocusing on the pine flooring samples spread across her desk.
She took in Eliza’s emerald green fingernails and the asymmetrical shirt with a cinched bow at the waist and smiled.
If Eliza stood for anything, it was for the freedom to be comfortable in your own skin. Julia loved this quality in her friend.
“I’m starting to worry,” Eliza said. “I haven’t seen you this deep into a guy since . . . well, ever.”
Julia felt her cheeks warm. “Dylan and I just have these great conversations about preservation and stuff.”
“Dylan? Not CabernetCrusader? Have you been holding out on me, Julia Raven?” Eliza’s eyebrows rose. “I feel I’ve been led into a dark cave!”
“The drama,” Julia said.
Eliza was not wrong. Julia had told her about the online conversations, after they’d moved to direct messages. But in the days since they’d exchanged first names, their conversations had deepened considerably.
“We’ve been texting,” Julia admitted. “Regular texting. It’s just easier.”
Eliza picked up one of the wood samples. “And my name is Marilyn Monroe.”
“Stop!” Julia protested, though not as harshly as she’d intended. “We’re just . . . kindred spirits in that regard.”
“What regard? The last time I texted anyone as frequently as you’ve been doing was when I started dating Theo,” Eliza said. “Just be careful. Promise?”
Julia nodded, knowing her friend meant well.
Her phone vibrated with a new message, and Julia fought the urge to check it right away.
“Go ahead,” Eliza said, smiling. “I need to make a call to the contractor.” She grabbed her tablet and left Julia’s office.
Julia picked up her phone, seeing Dylan’s response to her earlier message about a difficult client meeting:
Dylan : Maybe you should create a mandatory architectural appreciation course for all your clients.
She smiled and typed back:
Julia : Clever idea. I’ll just add that to the contract: “Client agrees to complete 40 hours of architectural history education before demolishing any original features.” Would save me so many arguments!
Dylan : I’m behind this initiative. Speaking of education, I found something you might appreciate—1920s architectural drawings for a Providence textile mill. Previous owner had them framed as art. Beautiful draftsmanship.
He attached a photo of detailed hand-drawn plans, the pencil lines still crisp after nearly a century, the precision of the measurements and annotations reflecting a craftsmanship that had largely disappeared in the digital age.
Julia : Those are stunning. The hand lettering alone is a lost art. Most of my work is digital now, though I still sketch by hand for initial concepts.
Dylan : Letters vs. emails. Even if they both say the same thing, the hands carry more of the sender’s … essence somehow.
In this last message, Julia saw a kind of opening. She wasn’t sure how to follow up about Boston. She hesitated before typing her next message:
Julia : Speaking of essence . . . We’ve never actually seen each other.
The moment she hit send, Julia wished she hadn’t.
Was she pushing too hard? They had shared thoughts, opinions, and stories for weeks, but had carefully avoided the subject of her invitation.
From the start, they had agreed to no photos and no social media connections.
It had kept their relationship unpolluted, which felt both safer and more meaningful.
But with her Boston conference approaching, she didn’t want to miss the chance of meeting Dylan.
Several minutes passed before Dylan responded:
Dylan : Mystery has its charm, but we should probably be able to recognize each other at some point.
At some point , Julia said aloud.
Another moment passed, then a photo appeared. Dylan stood beside an antique desk. He had dark, wavy hair and intensely focused eyes. He wore a fitted charcoal t-shirt. His forearms suggested he did more than just sell antiques.
Julia studied the photo longer than necessary, absorbing details. He looked . . . real, like someone captured in his natural habitat, surrounded by the things he loved.
She scrolled through her recent photos, looking for one to share in return.
Most were architectural—buildings, details, materials.
The few that included her were group shots from work events or selfies with Eliza.
Finally, she found one that Eliza had taken a few months ago during a site visit.
Julia stood in front of the cotton warehouse in its pre-renovation state, her auburn hair pulled back, wearing jeans and a simple blue button-down shirt.
Julia : This is me in my natural habitat—at home in a pile of rubble.
Dylan’s response came quickly:
Dylan : Now I can stop imagining you as an avatar with a haint blue background! You look exactly as I expected—observant and engaged. I feel like I’ve seen that expression many times before . . .
Julia smiled at his response, which managed to acknowledge her appearance without making it the focus.
Before she could reply, her phone rang—her contractor with questions about the warehouse’s electrical system.
By the time she finished the call, Eliza had returned, and they spent the rest of the afternoon finalizing material selections.
That evening, sitting on her small balcony with a glass of Portuguese vinho verde (chosen partly because Dylan had mentioned enjoying it), Julia returned to their conversation:
Julia : Sorry for disappearing earlier—more work chaos. How was your day?
His response came quickly:
Dylan : Quiet. That Chippendale chair may be over 200 years old, but it’s remarkably tight-lipped about the tea it’s seen.
Julia: I’ll trade your tight-lipped chair for my noisy clients any day of the week!
Their conversation continued, even as Julia prepared dinner (pasta with farmers market vegetables) and afterward as she reviewed project timelines. Around ten, Dylan sent:
Dylan : I should probably stop monopolizing your evening and get some sleep myself. Early estate auction tomorrow in Newport.
Julia : You’re not monopolizing—this is the highlight of my day.
Dylan : Hosting a wine tasting at the shop next weekend. Educational event for clients, focusing on historic winemaking regions. Wish you could attend.
Julia smiled.
Julia : Sounds wonderful. I’d come, if Providence weren’t 900 miles away. Boston is a lot closer, though.
Dylan: What is it about you?
Julia: I don’t know what you mean.
Dylan: There’s one more thing I need to know before agreeing to Boston.
Julia: What’s that?
Dylan: Do you have a middle name?
Julia: Celeste.
Dylan: I was hoping for that. Good night, Julia Celeste.
Julia set her phone down, and couldn’t help a big, growing grin.
His message had come at 10 p.m. She settled in bed, staring at the screen.
She was nervous. She was giddy. She was terrified.
Boston. She felt the thrill of finally putting a face to his name, to his voice.
Their conversations had become a constant in her daily life—morning check-ins, midday anecdotes, evening discussions that often stretched late into the night.
There was something uniquely intimate about what they shared.
She felt an overwhelming urge to text him back, to say something more.
But she resisted. He had taken her by surprise.
He wanted to know more about her. She turned off her lamp and fell asleep to a symphony of crickets.
The next morning Julia woke up and checked her phone. But there was nothing from Dylan. That was strange, especially after their agreement to meet in Boston. She sent him a message:
Julia: Hello there —how’s it going in Newport?
She tossed her phone onto the bed. The “Do Not Disturb” reply felt like a splash of water. This wasn’t like Dylan. She got up from the bed and felt strangely unsettled, a gnawing discomfort that stuck to her as morning light crept into her bedroom.
She looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The excitement from the night before was now replaced by a prickly unease.
She washed her face and brushed her teeth.
She had to get ready for work. In a little while she was dabbing on foundation, then blush, then mascara; her movements automatic.
She pulled on a crisp white button-down, then immediately peeled it off.
Next, a softer, flowing silk blouse. She settled on a gray knit top that she actually didn’t like, thinking all the while that she had pushed Dylan too far.
But what if something had happened to him?
This was not like him. But what, exactly, did she know about him to even think that?
The bakery, usually a haven of warmth and the sweet scent of baking, felt different this morning.
Julia ordered her usual: a large coffee with cream and sugar, and a blueberry muffin.
She sat at a small table by the window and found the light too bright.
She felt restless. She grabbed her phone. Still, nothing.
She took a bite of the muffin. The burst of sweet blueberries she loved did little to settle the unease in her stomach.
What had happened? A series of rationalizations went through her mind: he forgot his charger, he got swamped, maybe something went wrong at the estate auction—perhaps a rival bidder had turned nasty, or a priceless piece had been damaged.
But Dylan wasn’t absent-minded. A forgotten charger?
That didn’t feel right. He’d changed his mind about Boston, she concluded.
It was too risky. Too much too soon. Too big a commitment.