Page 86 of Keller

He sits at a corner table, back to the wall, face toward the room. It's the same posture from the photographs, the same clean features. He’s just older now with silver threads through the hair at his temples and fine lines bracketing his eyes.

Seventeen years older than the man in those photos with my mother.

But unmistakable.

My neck instantly tightens but I force my shoulders to stay loose and my stride to stay even.

Charlton Grant rises as I approach. He buttons his blazer with one hand. Navy wool, no tie, pale blue shirt open at the collar. His movements are unhurried and deliberate, like a man without a care in the world.

"Mr. Baker." He extends his hand. "Charlton Grant. Thank you for fitting in my narrow window today."

His grip is firm, his large hands dry. He holds eye contact a beat longer than most men would.

"I appreciate you making it work. I know it was short notice."

"When someone flies in from New Orleans for a single afternoon, I pay attention."

We sit. The hostess places menus before us and retreats. Not more than five seconds later a waiter appears. "Something to drink, gentlemen?"

"Sparkling water for now," Charlton says. "Mr. Baker?"

"The same."

The waiter disappears. Charlton folds his hands on the table.

"You mentioned a property near Forsyth Park."

I nod. "A townhome. Eighteen sixties. It's three stories, original brick, original ironwork. There's some water damage to the rear facade. The previous owner attempted renovations in the nineties that didn't age well."

I can speak this language because of the brief time I spent with my mother. It cultivated a love for old buildings, so I've built on that my whole life. A way to honor her.

Ironic that now serves me to deceive the man she was with before she died.

"How much of the interior remains intact?"

"About sixty percent. The front parlors are largely untouched. The kitchen and rear addition are another story."

I'm completely pulling all of this out of my ass. The minute we part and he looks it up, he'll know it was all bullshit. But I don't care what he does or what he thinks after I leave.

He listens without interruptions. No premature nodding. When I finish, he pauses before responding.

"Projects like that require patience. You strip away the bad work carefully. You document what's underneath and then honor what the original builders intended while making the structure livable for modern use."

"And if the original intention conflicts with what the new owner wants?"

His mouth tilts slightly on the left side. Not quite a smile. "Then we have a conversation about priorities. My job isn't to impose my vision. It's to reveal what the building already knows about itself."

Reveal what it already knows. Smug bastard.

"You believe buildings hold truth?"

"I believe they hold evidence." He leans back slightly. "Every structure tells you what it's been through. The question is whether you're willing to look."

The word lands harder than it should.

Truth. Evidence. Willing to look.

I keep my expression neutral. "That's an interesting philosophy for an architect."