Once his supplies were cleaned, sterilized, and brought to the proper temperature, Jack pressed the needle into his vein with steady hands, and watched as the clotting factor flowed into his bloodstream.
It was hard to predict how much trouble Alice Chadwick might stir up. She was pretty, smart, and her genteel Southern drawl was the most alluring thing he’d ever heard. She might be the perfect companion over the coming months as he completed the golf course, a challenge who would keep him sharp and inspired through the long months ahead.
But if she tried to throw up roadblocks to his golf course, digging in to protect her slice of Virginia’s past? He’d pour everything into winning her over—not just for the course, butbecause something about Alice Chadwick made him want to prove he was more than just a guy who knew how to build things.
He wanted to be a man who could be worthy of her.
Chapter Four
Alice had to wait until Monday to attend an emergency meeting of the local Historic Preservation Board. The five committee members who served on the HPB were simultaneously the most beloved and most feared members of the community. Properties that fell within their purview could be declared worthy of preservation and benefit from tax incentives and free advice from expert conservators, but those benefits came at a cost. Any property that won historic landmark status had to abide by stringent rules that blocked the owner from altering the outside appearance of the structure. Some of the rules were admittedly nitpicky, such as the prohibition against painting the house a color that did not conform with thehistoric era. Or in the case of the Roost, by mounting a satellite dish on the roof and a Baltimore Ravens flag on the front porch. The most important issue for Alice, of course, was to stop Jack Latimer from tearing down the Roost to make way for a new golf course.
The board members were mostly civic-minded residents with a passion for history, but not all of them had formal training in historic architecture. While their intentions were good, the board had developed a reputation for an overly generous grants of preservation status to buildings regardless of architectural merit or historical significance. This became a source of frustration for developers and homeowners alike. Enter General Epstein, recently elected to the board on a wave of support from real estate advocates. His mandate was clear: to bring a measure of discipline and common sense to a group that, in his words, treated every drafty attic and sagging porch as sacred ground. He wasn't opposed to preservation—but he believed in balance, and he’d come armed with a mission to question the knee-jerk “no” that had stalled too many projects for too long. Alice was certain General Epstein would be her biggest stumbling block today.
The hastily convened meeting was held at the home of the president of the board. Greg McGarity was a retired real estate agent who loved both history and golf. Though Greg was an enthusiastic supporter of the new golf course, Alice prayed he wouldn’t have completely fallen under Jack Latimer’s spell and would be willing to protect the Roost.
The McGaritys lived in a charming home that looked like it belonged in Colonial Williamsburg. White wainscoting in the parlor matched perfectly with the muted Wedgwood blue wallpaper. The hardwood floors gleamed beneath a cluster of wingback chairs arranged in a semicircle around the fireplace.
Alice was the first to arrive, which left her alone with Greg after his wife retreated to the kitchen to finish preparing her famous tomato sandwiches. Mrs. McGarity always cut soft white bread using a round cookie cutter so the tomatoes matched the bread to perfection.
“How was England, Professor Chadwick?”
Greg always used her full title, even though it somehow sounded condescending the way he said it. He had zero respect for Jane Austen or anything else he considered frilly, feminine, and useless. He was the sort of old-school Virginian who thought women should never have been admitted to William & Mary, let alone allowed to join the faculty.
It didn’t matter. She wasn’t here to defend Jane Austen; she had come to save the Roost. “England was wonderful,” she said noncommittally, and pretended to admire the framed photos on the family room wall. One was of Scotland at the Old Course at St. Andrews, generally considered to be the birthplace of golf. The other showed Greg shaking hands with Arnold Palmer on the 18th green at Pebble Beach.
“I hope you’re not planning on causing trouble for Jack,” Greg said with a hint of warning in his tone. “We were lucky to get him as the architect for this project. He’s one of the best golf course architects in the business.”
Was there actually an entire profession of golf course architecture? From the way Greg described it, golf course architecture was a prestigious career involving civil engineering, agronomy, and a thorough understanding of the game of golf. Jack Latimer had designed golf courses all over the world, Greg told her, and his name brought prestige to any club associated with his designs.
“Greg, I hope you’re not boring Alice with talk about every golf course you’ve ever played,” Mrs. McGarity said as she set a platter of tomato sandwiches on the coffee table.
“She needs to understand what’s on the line,” Greg said. “A Jack Latimer golf course is a thing of beauty. I played the one he built in Ireland, and another in California. I had to twist his arm to get him to come to Virginia because a bunch of Japanese investors have been trying for years to lure him out to do a second course on Honshu.”
Greg’s craggy face lit with excitement as he described the incredible views of the coming golf course while Alice sat mute. Her knowledge of golf couldn’t fill a thimble and she breathed a sigh of relief as Daisy Tucker’s familiar voice sounded on the walkway.
“Well, bless my heart, I just love seeing Alice back among us,” she announced as she breezed into the room. “It’s been tiresome being the only lady on the board.”
Daisy rushed over to Alice to exchange air kisses. Daisy was only thirty but already reigned over Williamsburg’s social scene with an iron fist. She had a perfectly coiffed blond bob and a double strand of the Tucker antique pearls around her neck.
Daisy was an unabashed snob, but she did everything with such bright good cheer that people instantly adored her, Alice included. Alice had been one of twelve bridesmaids when Daisy married Kyle three years earlier. When Alice received a scathing midcourse tenure review—a critical evaluation halfway through the six-year probationary period during which professors must prove their value to the college—it was a clear warning from the History Department that she was on thin ice and unlikely to earn tenure unless she published something extraordinary. In her moment of despair, it was Daisy she turned to for comfort.
“Who cares if you haven’t published any boring articles?”Daisy had said.“Your Chantilly cake could make the angels weep, and let’s be honest, which one matters more?”
Daisy made serving on the preservation board a joy. The final two members of the board were Arlo Whitworth and GeneralMichael Epstein, Alice’s favorite and least favorite members, respectively. Arlo worked in historical art preservation and was famous for wearing cheerful bow ties. Tonight his green-and-gold tie was a nod to William & Mary, his alma mater. Over the years she’d seen Arlo at pool parties, church, even a 10K race. He always wore a bow tie regardless of the venue.
General Epstein was a Marine who was spending his retirement writing a definitive history of the U.S. Marines in the Far East. Alice often encountered him at the college library, where his growly voice always seemed out of place in the tweedy world of academia.
He frowned while Daisy chattered about the upcoming Kentucky Derby party she was hosting at her estate, and how she imported roses from the same hothouse in Louisville that would create the famous Garland of Roses. General Epstein looked ready to shoot himself out of boredom, but now that all five members were here, they could begin business. Between her own vote, Arlo, and Daisy, there was surely going to be no problem winning protection for the Roost.
Greg nodded to Alice to begin.
“I recently learned that the man designing the golf course at Tucker’s Grove Country Club has taken up residence in the Roost,” she said.
General Epstein had never heard of the Roost, and Alice provided a brief explanation.
“It was one of the original houses on the outskirts of Jamestown. We think it dates to around 1680 when the very first references to it showed up on some old maps. At the time it was called ‘Reid’s Roost,’ but after the Tuckers bought the property its name got shortened to ‘the Roost.’ Nobody knows who Reid was.”
“There aren’t any property records with his full name?” General Epstein asked, and Alice shook her head.
