Chapter 10 - Building on Ashes
Saturday broke with clear, sapphire skies and the brisk, sharp scent of pine needles warming under the alpine sun. I arrived at the studio property at six-thirty in the morning, thirty minutes before the rest of the volunteer planting crew was scheduled to show up.
Rebecca was already there, unloading root-balled saplings from a flatbed trailer. When she saw me walk up carrying my own heavy-duty spade and work gloves, she didn't smile, but she nodded toward the southern slope of the property.
"The holes need to be three feet wide and two feet deep," she said, handing me a marking flag. "Rocky soil. Don't rush, or you'll dull your edge."
We worked side by side for four hours in companionable silence. The rhythm of physical labor replaced the poison of unresolved arguments. When my shovel struck granite, she handed me a crowbar without a word; when a sudden gust of wind nearly knocked over a row of potted saplings, I caught them before they snapped, securing them with twine.
By noon, the rest of the crew had dispersed to a local diner, leaving the two of us sitting on overturned plastic crates near the entrance of the newly cleared greenhouse foundation. Rebecca pulled a thermos from her basket and poured steaming, spiced cider into two stainless steel tumblers.
She handed one to me. Our fingers brushed. For a fraction of a second, she didn't pull away.
"You're surprisingly good with that shovel, Sterling," she noted, blowing gently over the rim of her cup.
"I grew up working on my uncle's farm in Iowa, remember?" I said softly. "Before I traded it all in for spreadsheets and wingtips."
"I do remember," she murmured, looking down into her cup. "I loved that boy. The one who could identify red oak from white oak just by feeling the bark in the dark. Somewhere along the way, the city ate him alive."
"He was always there, Becca," I said, using her old childhood nickname for the first time. "He was just terrified of failing you. I thought if I didn't build an empire, I wasn't worthy of you."
"I never asked for an empire," she replied, her voice thick with emotion. "I only ever asked for your presence at the end of the day."
We sat together as the sun reached its zenith, the warmth melting the last patches of snow on the meadow. For the next three weeks, our routine established itself. I worked my timber jobs on weekdays and spent every weekend helping her build the studio. We didn't talk about reconciliation. We didn't kiss. We didn't sleep under the same roof.
We were learning who the other person had become, constructing a fragile, cautious friendship on the ashes of our shattered marriage.
One evening, after helping her install the heavy cedar beam that supported the main entrance of the studio, she looked at the blisters on my palms. She reached out, took my rough hand in both of hers, and gently traced the callouses.
"Stay for dinner tonight, Gabriel," she whispered.
My throat tightened. "Are you sure?"
"The stew is still warm on the stove," she said, offering a soft, shy smile that finally reached her eyes. "And this time, I want you to share it with me."
May you like
That night, across a simple wooden table lit by a single candle in her small farmhouse, we laughed for the first time in what felt like a decade. It wasn't the end of the journey, but the mountain between us was finally turning into a trail we could climb together.
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