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 acoincidence 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.
