Chapter 19 - The Blueprint of the Woodshed
By afternoon, the coastal breeze had warmed enough to tackle our next domestic project: repairing the storm-damaged woodshed behind the house.
Adrien had spent the morning organizing his grandfather’s old set of hand tools—heavy iron hammers, brass-fitted hand saws, and wooden chisels that looked like museum pieces compared to the sterile, digital precision of Wall Street boardrooms.
I sat on an overturned wooden crate near the edge of the clearing, sketching the gnarled roots of an ancient oak tree while Adrien hammered a fresh cedar shingle into place on the shed’s roof. The sharp sound of steel striking wood echoed through the quiet pine forest, crisp and productive.
“How’s the structural integrity looking, master carpenter?” I called out, shading my eyes against the bright afternoon sun.
Adrien paused, wiping a light sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his forearm, flashing a rare, brilliant grin that made him look ten years younger. “Structurally sound, Ms. Mercer. This shed will outlive both of us. Which is good, considering how much firewood we’re going to need when the nor’easters roll in this winter.”
I laughed, lowering my sketchbook. “Are you sure you don't miss the high-rise corner office on Park Avenue? The mahogany desk? The panoramic views of corporate dominance?”
May you like
Adrien climbed down the wooden ladder, walking over to me and leaning against a nearby tree trunk. He looked down at my sketchbook, then met my eyes with absolute sincerity. “When I was in that corner office, Evelyn, I owned everything and possessed nothing. Out here, I own nothing and I have everything.”
He reached out, taking the charcoal pencil gently from my fingers and pulling me up from the crate into his arms. We stood there in the quiet dappled sunlight of the Maine woods, far away from the noise, the violence, and the endless hunger of the old life, anchored entirely in each other.
