Chapter 42

The main presentation area at the McGree Arts Colony open house was filled. The audience waited for the man the media called the Treehouse Man because of his work with the Royals in Britain.

In the audience, Dr. Emily Sinclair sat with the twins in the third row. She had come partly out of friendship with Rainbow, partly because the Sinclair family had been major supporters of the arts colony for over a decade, and partly—though she wouldn’t have admitted it—out of curiosity about her new neighbor. Amy and Tyler flanked her, both unusually attentive for children listening to an adult discuss woodworking techniques.

The audience consisted of maybe sixty people, most of whom she knew. She’d spent her childhood on the island. There were artists, students, community members, and foundation supporters all gathered to hear presentations about various aspects of craft and creativity.

Apparently, the Treehouse Man was a big draw.

“Traditional craftsmanship,” he began, his voice carrying easily through the hall without amplification, “is often misunderstood as nostalgia—a romantic attachment to old ways of doing things. But craftsmanship is actually about a philosophy that transcends any particular era or technology.”

He moved to a table where he had arranged examples of joinery techniques, each piece demonstrating a different aspect of his craft. His presentation style was direct—no theatrical gestures or attempts at humor, just clear explanation supported by a tangible demonstration.

“This is a mortise and tenon joint from a 14th-century English cathedral,” he said, holding up a wooden sample. “And this is the same joint as crafted in my workshop. Seven hundred years apart, yet functionally identical. The wood hasn’t changed. The requirements for structural integrity haven’t changed. Human hands and eyes haven’t changed...”

Emily found herself studying Nicholas as much as listening to his words. This was her first opportunity to observe him in a professional context, to see how he presented himself. What she saw was someone completely comfortable with expertise, neither defensive about his unconventional background nor ostentatious about his abilities.

“ ... the Swiss masters taught me that excellence isn’t about complexity,” Nicholas continued, demonstrating how a perfectly fitted joint required no nails, screws, or adhesives to remain secure. “It’s about understanding your materials so thoroughly that you can work with their natural properties rather than against them.”

He showed how different woods responded to environmental changes, how traditional joinery accommodated these movements while maintaining structural integrity. His explanations were precise without being technical, accessible to laypeople while containing enough depth to engage serious craftspeople.

“The question isn’t whether traditional methods are better or worse than contemporary ones,” he said in response to a question from the audience. “The question is whether we understand why certain approaches were developed, what problems they solved and how those solutions might inform current designs.”

Emily noticed how he handled questions—listening completely before responding, acknowledging the validity of different perspectives, never dismissive even when correcting misconceptions. It was an approach she recognized from her own field, where the ability to educate without condescending often meant the difference between successful and failed patient interactions.

“In Switzerland, I learned that mastery isn’t a destination but a direction,” he concluded. “Every project teaches something new about the materials, the techniques, and the relationship between intention and execution. The goal isn’t to achieve perfection but to work with complete attention and genuine respect for your craft and your values, no matter what work you do.”

The applause was warm and sustained. During the reception that followed, people clustered around Nicholas’s demonstration table, asking detailed questions about specific techniques. Most of the questions were about the treehouses he’d built, Emily watched as he engaged each person with the same focused attention, whether they were experienced woodworkers seeking technical clarification, curious novices trying to understand basic concepts the children who wanted to know about treehouses.

It was then that Amy and Tyler approached him, having waited patiently through the adult conversations.

“Mr. Carter,” Amy said with the directness Emily both admired and occasionally found mortifying, “are you going to build a treehouse next to your house?”

“I don’t know, do you think I should?” Nicholas asked, crouching down to their eye level with the same attention he had given adult questioners.