Jack had often wondered the same. When attacked, his instinct was to go on the offensive, but Alice retreated. He’d carry a lance into battle for her if she asked, but the world of academia was a foreign land to him. It was up to Alice to decide if she wanted to wade back into the quagmire of fighting to win tenure.
Grayson set the ball onto a tee, positioned himself, then took a hearty swing that launched the ball cleanly, rising high and true—one of those outstanding hits that was impressive for a man of any age, let alone one in his late seventies.
The instant the ball stopped rolling, Grayson went back to attacking Alice. “She ought to drop all that folklore nonsense about ancient legends and put her nose to the grindstone by writing a scholarly paper of actual merit. Maybe then the academics will take her seriously. That woman needs to get off the fainting couch anddosomething with her brain.”
Jack stepped up to the tee and placed his ball. “Maybe she defines success differently than you. I rather like Alice’s nose exactly as it is.”
“You didn’t have to pay for eight years of college so she could read a bunch of Jane Austen novels,” Grayson retorted.
“You didn’thaveto pay for it,” Quentin said. “She could have gone to a public college on scholarship; you were the one who insisted she go to Princeton.”
The statement didn’t go over well with Grayson, who went on the attack. “I was right to push her into Princeton. A degree from Princeton is a pedigree, a lifetime pass, not some flimsy certificate from a third-rate state school. Jack! You’re up.”
Jack stepped forward with a cocky grin as he placed his ball on a tee. “Are you sure you want to play with a guy from a third-rate state school? The stink might rub off.”
Grayson merely growled, though the other two men smiled at the comment. Jack took his swing, easily sending the ball past Grayson’s hit and landing a mere two yards from the hole. Both of the younger men congratulated him, but he was getting tired of this mind game. It looked like Grayson was gearing up to continue badmouthing Alice, and Jack didn’t want to hear it. He turned his attention to Adam.
“You’re two strokes below par,” he said in a complimentary tone. “How long have you been playing on this course?”
“Ever since I picked up a golf club when I was about twelve,” Adam replied.
“I only wish Alice and Quentin had a fraction of Adam’s talent,” Grayson said.
Quentin helped turn the conversation away from assassinating Alice’s character. “Tell us about your golf course, Jack.”
Over the next few holes they spoke only of golf course design and famous clubs where they’d played. Then Adam said something interesting.
“The golf course at Camp Lejeune is a wreck,” he said. “Rumor has it that it’s going to get a complete renovation in the next year.”
Jack stilled. He typically focused on designing new courses rather than handling renovations, but he was always on the lookout for future contracts to bid on. “Have they hired a designer yet?”
“I don’t think so,” Adam said.
Jack filed away the information for future reference. As always, the best business leads usually came during situations like these. Soon he would be moving on, leaving Alice and her family behind. What an irony that the most meaningfulrelationship he made among the Chadwick family might be networking with her brother for a lead on landing a new golf course contract.
Chapter Twenty
The next three weeks were too busy for Alice to dwell on Jack’s looming departure for Japan. She couldn’t change his decision to live like a nomad; all she could control was how she saw her own life—and it was a good one. She was still drawing a salary, which meant she had the freedom to do exactly what she wanted. She’d lost the future she’d always envisioned for herself, but that curveball led her to a new and exciting mission. She was completely committed to saving and restoring the Roost so it could be shared with generations to come. And with luck, she might still solve the mystery of Saint Helga . . . not because she needed an academic publication, but simply for her insatiable love of history.
August arrived, and along with it the annual influx of students back into town. Alice hid out at the Roost. For the first time in six years, her August had no flurry of faculty meetings or appointments with students. There were no classes to prepare for, no assignments to grade. She didn’t even have to rush to complete her research about Saint Helga because she no longer worried about tenure; it was only curiosity and love for history that drove her.
It wouldn’t be long before the Roost would be moved to its new location. The foundation for the building was poured. Lines for electrical and plumbing were installed. The permits had been signed, and the next step was the actual disassembly of the Roost. A contractor named Zeke Mackenzie had been hired to oversee the move. Each log, windowpane, and roof slate had been numbered so that it could be reassembled in its original position.
Alice spent her days designing the interior of the Roost. Jack trusted her to search out deals and select pieces to enhance the seventeenth-century vibe of the tavern. She drove to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, to buy reclaimed wood from a nineteenth-century barn and made arrangements for it to be cleaned, sanded, and stained to match the original Roost. It would be used as the exterior cladding of the brand-new kitchen and conference room. From the outside it would be a perfect match with the rest of the Roost.
She haunted antique malls in search of old lanterns and chandeliers that could be wired to supply light. The refurbished antiques would add an air of authenticity to the Roost, but most of the furnishings needed to be new. Tables, chairs, drinking glasses, and crockery would be getting heavy use. She bought slightly mismatched wooden tables and chairs, then she and Jack spent their weekends distressing them. They attacked the wood with great joy, laughing while smacking it with mallets andheavy chains. She even used an awl to create the look of a few wormholes and insect damage. Once the wood was sufficiently beat up, she finished the job with a layer of dark antiquing wax to make the tables appear to have endured centuries of use.
The most fun was shopping for artwork for the tavern. A large replica of a seventeenth-century map of Virginia was perfect to hang on the wall of the original building. Someday soon, their patrons would enjoy gazing at the map with its crudely drawn coast, rivers, and a few scattered towns, while land east of the Blue Ridge mountains remained unexplored territory.
She hoped to find some genuine eighteenth-century artwork to hang in the new conference room. A trip to the Tuckers’ antique art gallery proved those pieces too expensive for her budget, but Arlo Whitworth, the bow-tie-wearing graduate of William & Mary, came to her rescue. Arlo worked as a curator at the Colonial Art Museum and had a good head for artwork from the era.
“Don’t pay Kyle’s inflated prices,” he advised. “The museum has hundreds of paintings kept in storage. We can offer some to display on permanent loan, provided you give the museum credit in the nameplate.”
It was a brilliant idea. The Colonial Art Museum only had space to display a fraction of their collection, so finding a use for artwork in their overflow collection would be a win-win. One afternoon in early September she and Jack headed out to the museum’s warehouse to peruse the available pieces.
“I’d love for some of these old paintings to finally see the light of day,” Arlo said as their feet crunched along an oyster-shell path toward the climate-controlled warehouse behind the museum.
Jack, being Jack and concerned with the bottom line, wanted to know why the museum didn’t simply sell the overflow.
