Chapter 3: The Departure to the Gorge
Claire did not check into a five-star hotel in Manhattan.
She climbed into her reliable 2016 dark blue Land Rover Defender, packed with her architectural drafting tools, historical land ledgers, and three trunks of personal hand-tools that had belonged to her grandfather.
She drove north through the night, crossing the Hudson River and heading deep into the rolling, snow-draped timberlands of the Adirondack Mountains.
There, situated on four hundred acres of virgin white pine and hemlock forest along the rushing waters of the Sacandaga River, sat *The Blackwood Timber Sanctuary & Craft Guild*—an 1880 water-powered sawmill, timber joinery guild, and heirloom apple orchard that her grandfather had placed into a sovereign land trust fifty years earlier.
When Claire’s vehicle rumbled across the heavy cedar bridge over the river at dawn on Christmas morning, the mountain air was crystalline and clean. Smoke drifted from the stone chimneys of the timber workshops, smelling of sweet birch, burning cherry wood, and cold pine pitch.
Waiting on the snow-covered gravel apron was Silas Thorne. Silas was seventy-four years old, a master timber framer, shipwright, and conservationist who had managed the sanctuary with her grandfather for four decades. He wore a heavy sheepskin coat, dark wool trousers, and greased leather boots, holding a warm thermos of black chicory coffee.
Silas stepped forward, his weathered, sun-lined face breaking into a wide, crinkling smile as Claire stepped down into the crisp, knee-deep snow.
""Heard the glass shatter all the way from Greenwich, Claire,"" Silas said, his voice deep, gravelly, and steady as the mountain bedrock.
Claire took a deep, restorative breath of the mountain air, feeling the cold, living wind wash the sterile perfume of Greenwich from her lungs.
""The glass is gone, Silas,"" Claire said with a faint, peaceful smile.
Silas walked over, placing a massive, calloused hand on her shoulder.
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""A true house isn't built on paper contracts, child,"" Silas said softly. ""The loft above the timber shop has heart-pine floors, a cast-iron stove banked with seasoned oak, and the river is running clear under the ice. Unpack your drafting boards. We’ve got an 1870 covered bridge on the upper branch that needs thirty new white oak bents before the spring runoff.""
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