“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 Portuguesevinho 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.
