Her spine relaxed another notch. “What kind of style does your home have?”
He gave an amused snort. “I’ve got a PO box and a storage unit in Baltimore. The rest of the time I live in hotels around the world.”
Such a thing seemed inconceivable. “Why do you live in hotels?”
“Because I don’t like being tied down,” he said. “My job keeps me on the road. I’ve been in Virginia longer than usual because I bought a stake in the golf course. I’m heading to Japan next.”
She sat at the dining table and gestured for him to do the same. When he took a bite of chicken pot pie, his face transformed and he actually groaned. “Lady, this is a lot better than anything my microwave can make.”
A smile spread across her face. “At last we are in perfect agreement! Tell me, why did you become a golf course architect?”
“Because I wasn’t good enough to qualify for the PGA tour. I went to college on a golf scholarship but soon learned I wasn’t good enough to turn pro.”
“I didn’t realize they gave scholarships for golf.”
She must have said something wrong because he set his fork down and stared at her wall filled with hundreds of books.
“You know how some kids in high school are smart or good-looking or great at sports? I was the kid in the wheelchair who wasn’t good at anything. I missed most of the third grade, and never caught up. Golf was an escape. I wasn’t good enough to turn pro, but I knew what a gorgeous golf course should look like, so in college I majored in landscape architecture. I found my calling and won’t ever look back. What about you? I heard in town you specialize in Jane Austen.”
“Actually, it’s the history of feminine domesticity in the nineteenth century, and Jane Austen is a big part of that. I still have to teach all manner of history classes. Everything from eighteenth to twentieth-century European and American history. I’m going up for tenure next year, and—”
“What’s tenure?”
Alice blinked. In her world of academia, everyone knew what tenure was, but laypeople like Jack had no reason to understand the arcane and somewhat brutal process. “It’s how we prove our academic merit through a record of publication and accomplishments in our field. If we pass, we get a lifetime contract.”
“And if you fail?”
Alice gave a helpless shrug. “Then you go back on the job market. The odds of getting a position after failing to get tenure aren’t good.”
Jack nodded. “And you’re hoping to bolster your tenure case by finding out who Saint Helga was?”
“Bingo,” Alice said. “Solving that mystery will guarantee at least two journal articles and perhaps a few conference presentations. The topic appeals to historians, folklorists, and anyone interested in women’s history. If I can trace the origin of the legend, I’ll get tenure—and save my job.”
Jack scrutinized her so long she grew uncomfortable. “You like being a college professor?”
“I like teaching.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I like my job,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound too defensive. “And I love living in Williamsburg. The place is brimming with culture and history and natural beauty. I want to stay here forever. It’s my home.”
And that meant she had to do something to bolster her thin academic record before her tenure hearing next spring. Herwork on theEmmamovie set was intended to secure her case for tenure, but that had clearly failed. Solving the puzzle behind the legend of Saint Helga was her last shot at proving her academic worth, and for that, she needed Jack’s cooperation. Inviting him to dinner was a first step to finding common ground with him. It was a universal truth that even the staunchest of adversaries could find common ground over a well-appointed table.
Over the next hour they formed a cautious rapport. They still didn’t trust each other, had nothing in common, and didn’t even value each other’s chosen occupation, but they found something perhaps more valuable.
They found a tiny glimmer of mutual respect.
Chapter Ten
Jack was tired and grubby as he arrived back at the Roost, but replete with satisfaction because he’d just had the world’s best chicken pot pie.
Alice was getting to him. He’d stormed over to her house like a stampeding bull, but within two minutes she had completely tamed him. She was impossible to rattle. He came at her sweaty, mad, and mean, but she stood up to him with cool, unruffled class. Something about that soft, buttery accent was like a tonic, and he even liked her townhouse despite all the flowery stuff and lace doilies.
He parked his truck and looked through the windshield at the Roost, trying to see it through her eyes. Instead of seeing onlya derelict money pit, he searched for the history and meaning contained in these massive old logs and the stone chimney anchored to the side of the house. What clues could shed light on the people who lived here long ago?
First of all, the site for the house had been carefully selected. It was close to a source for water and sat on a natural ledge. That would have been good for defensive purposes in a world where relations with the Native Americans were probably dicey. The windows on the ground floor were expensive. Diamond-paned glass would have been imported from England at great expense, but the windows upstairs were plain glass. Whoever built this house was used to the finer things in life . . . but if so, why leave England and venture into the wilds of an unsettled land? What sort of person set off into the unknown in search of something better? Whoever he was, Jack respected the guy’s ambition.
He left the truck and headed to the front door. His footsteps thudded on the steps that were machine-milled, probably added in the early twentieth century, but the front door seemed original. The opening was low, and he instinctively ducked whenever he entered. People were shorter back then. Even the ceiling in the front room was low.
