Nicholas's Story
Copyright© 2025 by writer 406
Chapter 26
Sonja checked her phone for the fifth time in as many minutes as she and Maya trudged through the fresh snow of Gstaad’s main street. Reception was spotty in the mountains, and the important email from their agency about tomorrow’s shoot location hadn’t come through yet.
“Anything?” Maya asked, adjusting her over-sized sunglasses against the glare bouncing off pristine whiteness.
“Nothing,” Sonja sighed, tucking the phone into her coat pocket. “Let’s go get a snack and check again. Find a pub that has Wi-Fi.”
It had been six years since they’d met Nicholas Carter in New York, and four years since the two friends worked together. Their careers had followed different trajectories—Sonja had become a fixture in luxury brand campaigns while Maya had transitioned into creative direction, occasionally modeling but increasingly working behind the camera. Valentina had left the industry entirely two years ago, returning to Ukraine to open a gymnastics school for underprivileged children.
They were in Gstaad for a winter fashion campaign, shooting at various Alpine locations for a luxury outerwear brand. The work was good—high-budget, prestigious, and in magnificent settings—but the schedule was grueling, with early morning calls to catch perfect light and constant movement between locations.
“I still can’t believe they chose this place for a shoot in January,” Maya complained, though not seriously. “It’s beautiful, but brutally cold.”
“That’s why they’re paying us so well,” Sonja replied with a practical smile. “To stand in the snow looking comfortable while freezing our asses off.”
They passed a small tavern, its windows glowing warm amber against the deepening blue of early evening. The place looked rustic and authentic, the kind of establishment that catered to locals rather than the ultra-wealthy international crowd that dominated Gstaad’s more visible venues.
“Let’s try this one,” Maya suggested, drawn to the tavern’s unpretentious charm. “I’m starving.”
Inside, the tavern was exactly what they hoped for, worn wooden floors and beams darkened by decades of smoke, tables populated by a mix of locals and the occasional tourist who had wandered off the main path. A fire crackled in a massive stone hearth, and the scent of hearty Swiss cuisine filled the air.
They found a small table near the warmth of the fire and ordered glühwein to chase away the chill. As they settled in, Maya’s gaze drifted lazily around the room, taking in the authentic atmosphere so different from the carefully curated luxury spaces they usually frequented during work trips.
Her attention caught on a man sitting alone at a corner table, his back partially to them. Something about the set of his shoulders, the careful way he wrote in a notebook while nursing a beer, tugged at her memory. When he turned slightly to flag down the server, his profile became visible, and recognition clicked into place.
“Holy shit, Sonja,” she said, keeping her voice low but urgent, “look at the guy in the corner. The one with the notebook.”
Sonja glanced over casually, then did a dramatic double-take.
“Holy shit,” Sonja whispered, eyes widening. “Is that—”
“It’s him,” Maya confirmed. “Nicholas. Our handyman.”
For a moment, both women simply stared, processing this improbable coincidence. They had followed his career sporadically after their New York encounter, noted when his second book caused controversy and change in juvenile justice systems and occasionally remembered him when discussing memorable people they’d met during their years of modeling. But he had disappeared from public view several years ago, with no new books or appearances.
Yet here he was, in a small tavern in Gstaad, looking somehow both exactly the same and completely different. His physical presence remained imposing—tall, solid, with that same watchful intensity—but now there was something else, a kind of settled certainty in how he occupied space. His hands, Maya noticed, moved with remarkable precision as he wrote, turning pages with deliberate care.
“What do you think he’s doing here?” Sonja wondered.
Before Maya could speculate, recognition dawned on Sonja’s face. “The lodge,” she blurted. “Remember that massive timber building they showed us yesterday where we’re shooting the sunrise segment? They said it was just completed by some famous European craftsmen.”
Maya connected the dots immediately. “Of course. He texted once that he was going to Switzerland to some fancy carpentry school. He must be working on it.”
They debated briefly about whether to approach him. Despite their animated conversation in New York and subsequent text exchanges that had gradually tapered off. He might not remember them or might prefer solitude. But curiosity and genuine fondness for their brief, intense connection won out.
Rising from their table, they made their way across the tavern. As they approached, they saw he was drawing something in his notebook—a detailed sketch of what appeared to be structural beams and joinery, annotated with precise measurements.
“Nicholas?” Maya said.
A brief moment of stunned silence hung between them, and then—to their surprise and delight—a genuine smile transformed his usually serious face.
“Maya. Sonja,” he said, rising from his chair with that same economy of movement they remembered. “Wow. What an unlikely coincidence.”
Both women let out sounds of delight that drew curious glances from nearby tables. Without overthinking it, Sonja threw her arms around him in an impulsive hug. Maya followed with a more restrained but equally warm embrace.
“We were just saying your name last week,” Sonja exclaimed, her natural exuberance bubbling over. “We saw your book in an airport and were wondering what happened to you. And now here you are!”
“Sit, please,” he offered, gesturing to the empty chairs at his table. “If you have time.”
They joined him eagerly, the glühwein momentarily forgotten at their original table. Up close, Maya noticed the changes six years had wrought—subtle lines around his eyes, hands that now bore new calluses and small scars from his craft, a deeper confidence in his already centered presence.
“We’re here for a photoshoot,” Maya explained. “Winter campaign for Berghaus. But what about you? Are you working on that new lodge outside town?”
He nodded, seeming mildly surprised at their deduction. “Yes. It’s one of Weber’s projects. I’ve been with his team for nearly two years now.”
“Weber?” Sonja asked.
“Herr Wilhelm Weber. Master timber framer. I apprenticed with him after finishing at Holzbau Schweiz.”
“The carpentry school,” Maya nodded, remembering their conversations in New York. “So you actually did it—went from Pulitzer Prize winner to Swiss carpenter.”
“I did,” he said.
There was something both amusing and touching about this to Maya—the way he had followed through on exactly what he’d planned, without deviation or compromise. In her experience, most people’s grand plans evaporated upon contact with reality or convenience. Nicholas’s straightforward commitment to his path, regardless of conventional success metrics, remained his most distinctive quality.
“The lodge is incredible,” Sonja said. “We toured it yesterday for location scouting. Our director kept going on about the craftsmanship, how there are no nails or screws in the main structure, just these amazing wooden joints.”
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