Chapter Fourteen
Jack had finally obtained all the necessary permits to break ground on the amphitheater, but first, he needed to make a decision about the fate of the Roost.
There were only three options: tear it down, move it, or renovate it. The cheapest, easiest, and fastest would be to tear it down, but it would stir up bad will in the community.
Plus, it might be nice to save the place for Alice.
When he showed her the etching in the window, they shared a brief, magnetic connection, both of them nearly on fire with curiosity about Helga and the Roost. It had been fun.
She had looked at him with newfound respect, and nothing gave a red-blooded man a charge like earning a beautiful woman’s admiration.
It would be monumentally stupid to take on more debt by trying to salvage the Roost, but the place was starting to grow on him.
He’d never admit it, but when he decoded that strange word and revealed the name HELGA, he felt like cheering.
He’d never been much for history, but the longer he stayed at the Roost, the more curious he got about the people who’d once lived in it.
An odd sensation began to take root, like there was an invisible bond stretching forward and backward in time, making him a part of the old building’s storied history and the people who once lived there.
He could save the Roost if he really wanted to, but it needed to be an investment, not a present for Alice. Letting foolish sentimentality interfere with his decision-making could drive him into bankruptcy.
It would be essential to take all the necessary precautions before proceeding with his plan.
He needed to turn a profit on the derelict building, which was why he carefully chose this morning’s golfing companions.
Ever since arriving in Williamsburg, an invitation to play a round of golf with him had been an eagerly sought invitation.
It was a win-win situation. Avid golfers wanted a photograph standing beside a famous golf course architect, and Jack was always on the lookout for networking opportunities.
It never hurt to have a cordial acquaintance with the local fire marshal or the president of the Historic Preservation Board.
Greg McGarity was not only the president of the Historic Preservation Board, but a retired realtor who knew plenty about the local community and land regulations.
Terry Holbrook was the fire marshal, and the Roost was going to run into a raft of safety challenges if Jack decided to save it.
The cost of bringing the place up to code was enough to give him an ulcer, but it was time to learn what he was up against.
Jack watched as Greg stepped up to the third tee of the nearby golf course where Jack had been playing ever since arriving in Virginia.
Greg was an old-school golfer, wearing bright green slacks and a plaid golf shirt.
His club made a perfect whoosh as it sliced through the air, sending the ball soaring across the fairway.
“Nice,” Jack said, for anytime a man could land a ball onto the green on a Par 3 was impressive.
Greg muttered a comment about how he used to get it twenty yards farther “back in the day.” It was the frustration of all aging golfers. Their skill and accuracy improved, but their distance on a tee shot was often a victim of time.
Jack hopped into the golf cart to drive to the center of the fairway, preparing to open the conversation about the Roost. Once the three of them arrived, he parked and strolled to his ball, Greg and the fire marshal following.
“I’ve been thinking about renovating the Roost,” he said, trying to sound casual as he lined up the next putt. He tapped the ball, watching it roll toward the hole, where it made a satisfying clunk as it landed in the cup.
“I thought the plan was to tear it down,” Terry said.
“I did too, but I’ve been toying with the idea of turning the place into a high-end tavern. It has great potential: authentic old plank flooring, the exposed rockwork in the fireplace, the wooden beam ceilings.”
Terry let out a whistle and shook his head. “That place is a firetrap!”
“Not the way I’m envisioning it.” Another nervous rush of energy flooded Jack’s gut as he thought of the expense, but if he executed his plan correctly, the Roost might be a gold mine.
“I’m thinking of a complete renovation. I’ll take off the roof and the second story so I can raise the ceiling on the ground floor.
We’ll number each stone and board as we take it down so it can be reassembled as close to the original as possible.
Most of the building will be new, but I’ll save as much of the original Roost as possible.
I’ll design the addition in the same spirit as the original, but with larger windows and plenty of space to host special events.
I’ll add a modern kitchen, bathrooms, and a porch out the back overlooking Saint Helga’s Spring.
No expense spared. The heart of the tavern will be the original Roost. I’ll install a custom-built bar with a tap system serving craft beer and fine wines.
The place is steeped in authentic old Virginia history, and that’s worth a lot. ”
This time Terry’s whistle sounded impressed. “I’d love to see it happen, but you’re looking at millions in renovation costs, and a permitting nightmare.”
Jack nodded. “I’m ready to pay, provided I can get the necessary permits and financing. What I need to know is if you think there’s a market for this kind of thing.”
Greg smothered a laugh. “Are you kidding? The local folks will fall over themselves to find a seat at that bar. You’ll have a constant influx of tourists from Colonial Williamsburg looking to spend their money. Would you have a gift shop?”
Jack hadn’t thought of it, but yeah, the markup on fancy antique reproductions was strong. Heck, a gift shop might make the most profit of the entire operation. “I can add a gift shop. What I need to know is if something like this would offend the history purists.”
Greg gave a dismissive wave. “Some of those folks want history stored under lock and key so that only the academics can see it. Pay them no mind. Saving history for future generations means compromise. I think the popularity of a high-end tavern like you describe is a celebration of history, not a degradation.”
They set off for the next hole, where Greg sank his putt, but Jack double-bogeyed because nervous excitement began swelling inside. Two potential and influential critics of his plan had just given him a hearty endorsement, and Jack wasn’t sure if he should be ecstatic or terrified.
Talk of how to capitalize on the tavern continued as they played the next three holes.
The tavern could offer exclusive events and tastings.
Virginia had a stellar wine and craft beer industry that would be eager to strike deals and help promote the tavern.
As long as Jack intended to expand the building, he could add a conference room that could host seminars, educational workshops, and VIP experiences.
Ideas crystalized out of thin air and everything was going gangbusters until they got to the 15th hole and Greg casually asked a question that left Jack flat-footed.
“How are you going to handle the lien on the Roost?” he asked.
“A lien?” Jack asked. The word hit him like a punch between his eyes.
“The bank has a lien on the Roost and the land it sits on,” Greg said. “Kingsley Tucker took out a mortgage on the place late last year. The Roost has no value, but the land it sits on is worth a lot. Rumor has it he isn’t paying on the mortgage, and the bank is threatening to seize it soon.”
Jack kept his face carefully neutral as he lined up for the next putt. After surviving a childhood of frailty, bullying, and abandonment, he had mastered the art of appearing nonchalant.
“I’ll work it out with Kingsley.” He spoke in an offhand voice, but inside he seethed.
***
Jack cursed himself for being an idiot as he drove out to Kingsley Tucker’s farm after finishing the round of golf.
He’d known the Tuckers had money troubles and did plenty of due diligence before agreeing to build their golf course.
He used an accountant, a lawyer, and a title company to protect himself before striking the deal for partial ownership of the golf course.
The property survey clearly included the Roost, and somehow the Tuckers played a shell game after their deal to score a mortgage on the land where the Roost sat.
Jack turned his pickup onto the gravel drive leading to Kingsley Tucker’s farm.
Unlike his son Kyle, who lived at the ostentatious Cherrywood mansion, the family’s patriarch lived in a newly renovated 1890s farmhouse.
After thirty-five years in the banking industry, Kingsley reinvented himself as a gentleman farmer.
His four-acre property featured a white clapboard farmhouse, a barn, and a dozen goats.
Staff milked the goats and made artisanal cheese and goat milk soap.
As far as Jack could tell, Kingsley’s job was confined to walking about the grounds in work boots and tweedy clothes while sampling the cheese and petting a goat or two.
He was out at one of the goat pens tossing kitchen scraps into a trough when Jack arrived, still sweaty from his round of golf.
“Good afternoon, Jack,” Kingsley said with a friendly wave.
“How much is the lien on the Roost, and why didn’t you tell me about it?” he demanded.
Kingsley looked so shocked he almost dropped the bucket of scraps.
A young man who did the actual work on the farm was busy at a milking stool, and Kingsley glanced nervously over.
The Tuckers were good at hiding their genteel poverty, and the farm worker likely had no idea how precarious their financial situation really was.
Kingsley frowned and unceremoniously dumped the rest of the bucket into the trough. “Come on, let’s head inside to talk. We can have something cold to drink.”
“Is your wife inside?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll stay outside.” Tearing a man to shreds while his wife could overhear wasn’t Jack’s style, but he needed to get to the bottom of this.
Kingsley gestured him to a bench beneath the shade of a cottonwood tree.
The old man suddenly seemed more stooped and tired than he had two minutes earlier.
Kingsley sat, but Jack remained standing.
“Well?” he demanded. “How much is the lien and who owns it?”
“Sixty thousand. A bank in Richmond is holding it.”
“Did you tell them that I had an interest in the property?”
A bead of sweat trickled down the side of Kingsley’s face. “I don’t remember.”
“You went all the way to Richmond so they wouldn’t know about me,” Jack bit out. “You went to a lot of trouble to pull the wool over my eyes and scam the bank out of sixty thousand dollars.”
Kingsley stood. “Now hold on. We intend to repay the bank. It’s no skin off anybody’s nose.”
“It was fraud against the bank and against me. A felony.”
Kingsley held out his hands in supplication. “Hold on. We can work something out.”
The temptation to walk away from the entire deal clawed.
Suing the Tuckers would mean a nasty lawsuit, and Jack was an outsider in Virginia.
He’d be in Japan, busting his tail to earn a buck to compensate for this financial sinkhole while the Tuckers would be glad-handing the locals who admired and respected them.
Jack hated the situation, but he needed to avoid a lawsuit. He was already four million dollars in debt over his third of the golf course. He couldn’t walk away over sixty thousand dollars, but he wasn’t going to make this easy on Kingsley.
“I’ll pay off the mortgage, but you’re going to sign the Roost over to me. All of it. The building, the land, and Saint Helga’s Spring. I’ll have a lawyer write up an agreement, and we can conclude the deal tonight.”
Kingsley sputtered. “The land alone is worth a quarter of a million!”
“That’s the price of fraud, and those are my terms. Otherwise, I’ll see you in court about the mortgage and seek criminal charges for the fraud.”
Kingsley fanned himself with his straw hat, frowning as he surveyed his goat farm.
As the patriarch of the Tucker dynasty, he probably believed he was worth so much more than these four acres and modest farmhouse.
He’d been gambling for decades to resurrect the family fortune, and had staked it all on that golf course and country club.
Neither one of them was happy over this deal. Jack needed to find an additional sixty thousand he hadn’t budgeted for, and Kingsley would lose a valuable plot of land.
And yet, by the end of the day Jack had the title to the Roost and the surrounding five acres in exchange for paying off the lien. He now had the freedom to develop it however he wanted. It would either be the best investment of his life, or lead him straight into bankruptcy.