Chapter 5 - Building Anew
The drive to Mount Vernon took me far away from the manicured lawns and gated communities of Dublin. Out here, the roads wove through rolling hills, farmland, and rugged timber stands.
Uncle Artie’s home was an old timber-frame farmhouse sitting on sixty acres. When I pulled up, I found him standing in an open pole barn, surrounded by stacks of reclaimed oak, vintage woodworking machinery, and the sweet, heavy smell of sawdust.
Artie was sixty-eight, with thick silver hair, rugged hands calloused from decades of labor, and eyes that looked right through you. He didn't offer a dramatic hug; he just pointed at a stack of rough-sawn white oak planks.
"Grab those, Cal. Put 'em on the planer."
We worked for two hours in silence. The heavy rhythm of physical labor—feeding the wood, listening to the blades roar, stacking the smooth boards—was a relief after weeks of sitting at a kitchen table surrounded by bills and legal threats.
At noon, Artie shut off the generator, wiped his hands on a greasy rag, and opened two cans of cold root beer.
"Your father and I started Vance & Associates in a garage in 1984," Artie said, sitting down on a wooden crate. "We didn't have corporate boards or high-rise offices. We had a truck, a miter saw, and an obsession with quality. Then Eleanor came along. She didn't care about quality. She cared about prestige. She wanted the Vance name on skyscrapers and country club boards."
"I know," I said. "I spent ten years building those skyscrapers."
"And what did it get you?" Artie asked, looking at me sharply. "The second you disagreed with her, she erased you. She controls Rhys because Rhys is weak. He wants the luxury without doing the sweat. But you, Caleb... you actually know how to build things."
"Not anymore," I sighed. "She's blacklisted me across the district."
Artie laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. "She blacklisted you in commercial real estate, Cal. In the country club bubble. She doesn't own the whole damn state."
He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and tossed it to me. It was a property deed and a set of architectural sketches.
"What's this?" I asked.
"That's forty acres of prime hill country down near Logan, right on the edge of the Hocking Hills state park," Artie said. "I bought it fifteen years ago as an investment. The tourism industry down there is exploding—custom timber-frame cabins, luxury eco-resorts, high-end vacation homes. Wealthy people from Chicago and East Coast are paying half a million dollars for private retreats in the woods."
I looked at the sketches. They were beautiful—custom post-and-beam homes with massive glass windows, stone fireplaces, and integration into the natural landscape.
"I have the capital," Artie said, leaning forward. "I have the land. What I don't have is a master builder who can run the crew, manage the timber, and execute the design. You start a new company, Cal. 'Vance Custom Timbercraft'. We build luxury custom cabins in the hills. Out of Eleanor’s reach. Out of her network."
I stared at the blueprints, my mind racing. "It would take months to get off the ground, Artie. I have legal bills coming in now. She’s suing for grandparent rights."
"I already talked to my attorney," Artie said calmly. "He's the best family law attorney in Franklin County, and he owes me a favor from twenty years ago. He'll represent you pro bono in the custody case. Eleanor’s suit is a joke, Cal. A judge will throw it out in ten minutes once we present evidence of her income-stripping tactics."
I looked at my uncle, feeling a sudden, overwhelming tightness in my throat. "Why are you doing this for me?"
Artie looked out the barn door toward the snowy hills.
"Because I watched your father let Eleanor ruin his life," Artie said softly. "He died with a full bank account and an empty soul, Caleb. I won't let her do the same thing to you."
That evening, I drove back to Lancaster with a contract in my pocket and a plan in my head.
When I walked into the house, I found Maren sitting on the floor of the living room with June. They had transformed the coffee table into an improvised art studio. June was painting again—not wooden cardinals this time, but vibrant watercolor landscapes of pine trees and mountains.
Maren looked up, her eyes anxious. "How did it go?"
I dropped my coat on the chair, walked over, and knelt beside them. I took Maren’s hand and looked at June.
"We're going to build houses," I said, a smile breaking across my face for the first time in two months. "Real ones. In the woods. And June... I think we're going to need an art director for the interior designs."
June’s eyes went wide. "Really?"
May you like
"Really," I said.
For the first time since Christmas Eve, the dark shadow hanging over our home felt a little less heavy. We weren't just surviving anymore. We were building an army.
