Chapter Nine
AVIANCE
The workshop is on Fatherland Street, tucked behind a converted warehouse that Jayceon and his business partner have made genuinely beautiful — the kind of industrial-repurposed space that I have seen done badly a hundred times and badly done once in the ten minutes I spend in the parking lot looking at the exterior before I go in.
This is done well. The signage is simple: Hawkins he engages.
He asks questions about finish durability in high-traffic spaces, about production timelines for five properties simultaneously, about whether the design calls for more custom one-of-a-kind pieces or production runs of a consistent style.
"Both," I say. "The flagship property gets the statement pieces. The other four get production runs with enough hand-finishing detail that they don't look mass-produced."
"We can do that," he says. "Timeline's going to be the challenge. How long before the first property breaks ground?"
We spend an hour going through numbers and logistics.
It's productive and real and I am glad to have a professional reason to be here, because it gives me something to hold onto while the other, less professional part of my attention tracks the way he talks — direct, no performance, no curating of himself for my benefit — and the way he listens, which is with the same quality of attention he gives the wood: like the thing in front of him is worth fully comprehending.
When we're wrapping up, he walks me back through the workshop.
"I'm sorry," he says, pausing near the front. "I realized I've been heads-down on the project details and I haven't asked how you're doing. Which is a normal human question."
I laugh, a little caught off guard. "I'm fine. Good, actually."
"Yeah?" He's not pressing. There's no coercive warmth behind the question, no you can tell me. Just actual inquiry.
"I'm in the middle of a complicated period," I say, and I don't know why I say it except that he's the kind of person you say true things to without quite planning it. "I moved into a new apartment three weeks ago. I'm starting fresh on some things."
"Nashville's a good city for that," he says. "Starting fresh. Big enough to get lost in, small enough that you run into the things that are supposed to find you."
"Like furniture workshops at trade fairs," I say.
"Like that," he agrees.
We're standing near the door. The morning light through the warehouse windows is falling at the right angle to turn the sawdust in the air into something that looks like it was designed to be there.
"Thank you for the tour," I say. "I'm going to bring your portfolio to my client meeting on Friday and make the formal recommendation. I think you're a good fit."
"I think so too," he says, and he means the project, I'm sure he means the project, but the way he looks at me when he says it makes it feel larger than the project.
I drive back to my apartment and I sit at my drafting table for twenty minutes before I start working, just looking at Franklin the fiddle-leaf fig in his corner, thinking about the sound of woodworking tools and the smell of Tennessee walnut and the specific quality of being looked at, clearly and without apology, by someone who wants nothing from you except to see you.
It is, I realize, a feeling I have been starving for.