“Most of these old artworks came from donations,” Arlo said, keys jangling as he opened the locks. “The donors usually ask us to agree to preserve them for posterity, rather than sell them.”
It was dark and cool inside the warehouse. Chest-high metal cabinets featured slim drawers, each containing an original painting. Arlo pulled the switch for the overhead fluorescent lighting, the click echoing off the cinderblock walls. Everything looked so cold and hard, but excitement gathered at the prospect of picking out free art.
“Our oldest works are this way,” he said, leading them down an aisle. A drawer rattled as he opened it to reveal a fine painting of a mahogany brown stallion, painted in the Rococo style, standing before a classical landscape with Grecian columns in the distance. It was unframed, but of exceptional quality.
“I think the tavern needs something a bit more rustic,” Alice said. “Something that speaks of America. Those Greek columns are too formal.”
Arlo nodded and moved deeper into the warehouse. What a treasure trove it was! Drawer after drawer displayed portraits, landscapes, and religious subjects. Genre scenes depicted everyday domestic activities like dancing and bringing in crops. Those would be good. Some of the subjects looked too European, but she felt like they were getting closer.
Jack nodded toward the back wall, where many of the paintings were simply laid on open shelving. “Why aren’t these in drawers?”
“They’re less valuable,” Arlo said and led them over. Most were paintings of people in various poses and groupings. Some of the subjects were single men staring stiffly out of the frame, but some were children or couples. None were very appealing.
“These were probably done by itinerate portrait painters,” Arlo explained and pointed to one of two children standing beside a pet dog. “Traveling artists in early America often pre-painted the body and background of a portrait. They’d hit the road with dozens of these canvases, then painted the subject’s facial likeness onto the pre-painted canvas. It made portrait painting quicker and more affordable, though it rarely yielded exceptional results.”
Alice agreed. All the paintings looked generic and stiff, but one seemed exceptionally odd. A stern-looking man sat beside his wife, both of them wearing lavish satin clothes dripping with lace and pearls. Their solemn expressions seemed a mismatch for the garish clothes.
Jack nodded to the stern-looking man. “I’d be annoyed too if someone painted me wearing a pink suit. He looks like a pansy.”
“I’d say it’s more of a peach shade than pink,” Arlo replied. “Some of the earliest settlers in Jamestown were the second sons of English aristocrats. Impractical colors and fabrics were a sign of wealth. My guess is that the portrait painter had lots of pre-painted canvases with lavish clothing so people could look like the upper-class.”
Alice definitely wouldn’t include any of these awkward portraits in the tavern. There was a bounty of paintings that better reflected the rustic beauty of early Virginia, and by the end of the afternoon, Alice had selected a landscape of the James River and another showing a woman gathering apples into a basket. Both reflected what the people who lived at the Roost might have seen and experienced.
Her only regret was that when she finally hung these paintings in the Roost, Jack wouldn’t be there to see them.
Alice battled the strangest feelings the night before the Roost was to be disassembled. The workmen had left for the day,leaving her and Jack to wander the rooms alone. She ran her hand along the cool lintel stone above the empty fireplace and touched her fingers into the little frond leaves someone carved into the stone centuries ago. That unknown artist etched that mark more than 350 years ago.
“I feel like I should apologize to this old place,” she said. “It seems as calm and solid as ever, and yet, this time tomorrow it’s going to be pulled apart. I’m terrified on behalf of this old building. I want to apologize to it for what’s about to happen.”
Jack’s expression was part sympathy, part humor as he gazed at her. Not long ago he would have made fun of her; now he was the rock she leaned on for support.
“It’s going to be okay, Alice,” Jack said, his voice tender. “Taking a building apart isn’t rocket science. It’s normal to be nervous, but we’ve got to do this if we’re going to save the Roost.”
The confidence in his voice released the knot of tension in her neck. She was so lucky to have him in her life. He tugged her against him for a hug and her trembling eased, slowed, and then fully stopped.
She pulled back to gaze up into his face. “You’re the strongest man I know. To suffer what you’ve endured, to rise above it and still embrace life with such a good attitude, is inspiring.”
He tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. “You have no idea what that means to me.”
“Tell me.”
He kissed her, a hint of desperation in his manner. He deepened the kiss, his mouth twisting against hers, then he looked away to hug her fiercely.
“Oh, Alice! I love this rickety old building. I love knowing we’re a part of its history, and that we’re going to save it. You and I aren’t going to end up sailing into the sunset together, but I want you to know that I kind of love you.”
Her eyes widened. With her face pressed into the slab of muscle on his shoulder, she couldn’t see his expression, but his voice was heavy with emotion as he continued.
“I love your kindness and compassion. I adore the way you care about history and tradition. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at a lace doily and not remember you.”
She choked on a laugh. “Good!”
He pulled back so she could finally see his expression, alive with happiness and affection. “Thank you, Alice. I don’t know what’s ahead for me, but these last few months . . .” His voice choked up and he cleared his throat. “All I can say is thank you.”
It was enough. She and Jack were as different as chalk and cheese. She wanted children, he didn’t. She loved history and antiques; he liked shiny and new. She wanted roots and stability, and he never saw a horizon he didn’t want to venture toward.
They were both exhausted but too wound up to sleep. Jack came back to her townhouse, which was stuffed with the artwork and a couple of old lamps she’d use in the new Roost. She’d bought an old grandfather clock from the 1790s for the corner of the tavern, but it needed a lot of work and Jack wanted to help cleaning it up.
“I didn’t know this thing would have so many pieces,” he said. The pulleys, cogwheels, and the pendulum were made of brass, but age had dulled them with a layer of grime that would interfere with the functioning of the clock. Alice had already disassembled the pieces and laid them on her dining table.
