Chapter Fifteen
Alice drove out to the Roost, curious as to what had Jack so all-fired impatient to see her. He’d texted a message to her last night a little before midnight:
Jack sat on the Roost’s front-porch rocking chair, a muddy boot planted on the railing and a devilish grin on his face as she parked her car, then approached.
“Did you find something?” she asked, desperately trying to rein in her expectations.
He got to his feet and braced his hands on the railing to grin down at her. “I didn’t find anything, but I won something.”
She tried not to let her disappointment show since he seemed so pleased with himself. She pasted a polite smile on her face. “What did you win?”
He held up a document. “The Roost. As of ten o’clock last night, the Roost, the spring, and the five acres they sit on belongs to me.”
She gasped. Why hadn’t the Tuckers announced they were selling the place? The college might have offered a better price if they’d known. This seemed . . . well, this was simply awful.
“Why would you buy the Roost?” she asked, dreading the answer. It would be easier to tear it down if he owned it outright.
“I’ve got plans for this place,” he said.
He pointed to the barren area beside the Roost where he’d already ripped out trees and leveled the ground.
“A modern kitchen and outdoor dining area could be built on that spot and attached to the original structure. I can take off the roof and dismantle the walls, then lay plumbing and electrical behind it. I’ll be able to raise the ceiling, get the place up to code, and turn it into the most expensive tavern in Virginia. Top of the line!”
He continued rambling on about his vision for the Roost, but her brain quit processing the moment he said tavern. He might as well have said “fast food joint.” Or “convenience store.” The Roost was a time capsule of immense value, not a tacky bar for golf course customers.
“I’ll still build the amphitheater a few acres farther north, but the Roost can be a one-of-kind tavern. It’ll draw folks who appreciate historic character blended with modern conveniences. What do you think? It’s brilliant, right?”
He actually looked pleased, like a little boy presenting a frog he found to his mother and expecting hugs and kisses.
“I don’t think it’s brilliant,” she said. “It’s an abomination. A cheap way to earn a buck—”
“Trust me, there won’t be anything cheap about this tavern.”
Everything he proposed was appalling. Take off the roof? Tear down the walls? “You can’t contaminate the Roost with modern technology. It would destroy the historic integrity of the building.”
He folded his arms and scowled. “Tons of old buildings in America have been renovated. Last week I toured Mount Vernon. Do you think it had electricity and air-conditioning back when George Washington lived there? The place was completely gutted and reconstructed, but they still boast about being one of the best representations of eighteenth-century architecture in America. By spiffing it up, people can actually visit the place and appreciate it. That’s what I want for the Roost.”
She couldn’t even look at him. “The whole idea of capitalizing on a piece of history is tacky.”
“Why?”
Her mouth dropped open, ready to launch a firestorm to defend the Roost, but no words came out. What was so awful about what he proposed?
“Give me a moment,” she said, gathering her thoughts.
He had a good point about the renovations at Mount Vernon, but it was a far larger building than the Roost. And what Jack proposed sounded so .
. . so mercenary. Like he was trying to cash in on a piece of history. When she said as much, he fired back.
“I paid thirty bucks to tour Mount Vernon,” he said.
“I paid when I toured houses in Colonial Williamsburg and the Old North Church in Boston. And guess what, Professor . . . all those places were renovated with water and electric and brought up to code. Why is it wrong to do the same with the Roost?”
The derelict building loomed before her. The roof was beginning to slant and the porch had a three-inch gap where it was pulling away from the building. That porch was probably a nineteenth-century addition, anyway. Could the building survive being taken apart and reassembled?
Of course it can. Last year her father had an operation that required taking his kidney out to remove a tumor, then they put the kidney back in his body and patched him up. She’d been terrified during the eight-hour procedure, but now her father was in better shape than before.
Maybe this could happen after all.
She gazed at the Roost with new eyes. Her impulse had always been to preserve things rather than gutting and rebuilding them. Such an act was so much riskier, but potentially better.
“Well?” Jack prompted. He stood on the porch with hands propped on his hips. He looked tanned and strong, excitement beaming from his eyes. The boldness of his dream made Jack irresistibly attractive, and his excitement was contagious.
“Can I help?”
He did a double-take and looked stunned at her quick capitulation. “I can’t pay you anything. Fixing this place up will probably take my last dollar.”
“I don’t need to be paid; I just want to help.”
Jack bounded down the steps in a giant leap and tugged her into his arms, lifting her feet off the ground and hoisting her into the air. “Yes, you can help, you insane woman.”
His laughter was warm and rich, sending a thrill through her even as he twirled her in a circle. She giggled, bracing her hands on his shoulders as she gazed down at him. Who could have imagined this annoying man could ever envision such a fabulous and innovative project?
“You should probably put me down,” she said, a little breathless from the sudden wave of attraction that clobbered her.
“I probably should,” Jack said, and his wholesome grin turned a little heated as he slowly lowered her to the ground, their bodies in full contact all the way down.
He didn’t let go of her even after her feet landed back on the ground. His shoulders were well-muscled, and she let her hands roam over them, her gaze locked with his. He cupped her face in his hands and locked gazes with her, his nose almost touching hers.
“Do you still have a crush on that British guy?” he asked.
Sebastian Bell was on the other side of the world, and nowhere in her mind at the moment. “No,” she whispered. “He’s history.”
The air crackled with electricity, and Jack gave a slow, barely noticeable nod of his head. “Good.” He lowered his head and kissed her.
She wound her arms around his neck and returned the kiss. Jack was entirely wrong for her. He was a jock. He was too bold, too aggressive, too cocky, but he was also strong and visionary and fabulous. This was a kiss to get lost in and she did.
She smoothed her palms over his muscular biceps but their kiss remained unbroken, even though both of them began to smile. Her heart pounded by the time he lifted his head.
There couldn’t possibly be anything lasting with Jack, but his attraction to her was a balm to her wounded spirit.
After learning of Jack’s plan to transform the Roost into a first-class attraction, Alice was on fire to make progress on discovering the source of the Saint Helga legend.
The 1698 fire had destroyed most of Virginia’s earliest records, but as a colony of England at the time, the British Library held important Virginia records, too.
Alice had mined those records earlier in the year, but she’d been looking in the wrong decade.
Her best shot for finding something new about who built the Roost was to ask the archivist at the British Library to search all the way back to the 1660s.
Unfortunately, the archivist for early American records was Margo Davis, a woman who despised and resented Alice.
Even after all this time, Alice had never been able to figure out why Margo resented her.
Alice had been in a radiant good mood when she first arrived at the archives last February.
At the time, she was madly in love with Sebastian, work on the film was going well, and Alice had two entire days of vacation time to browse through the archives.
Margo returned Alice’s sunny smile with an eye roll and stark refusal to help, always claiming she was too busy with other patrons to help a pushy American.
First of all, Alice wasn’t pushy. She was polite and curious and excited to delve into the British archives. All she asked for was a little professional assistance, and that seemed to annoy Margo to no end.
All that was in the past. Today was a new day, and Alice would let bygones be bygones. Margo would be more likely to help if Alice caught her early in the day before other patrons competed for attention.
The five-hour time difference meant Alice needed to get up at three o’clock in the morning. She splashed cold water on her face, brewed a cup of coffee, and turned on every lamp in her townhouse to help wake herself up.
Before placing the call, she arranged the scanty details she knew about the Roost so she’d have them ready for Margo:
One: Tree ring data indicated that construction of the Roost began in 1661.
Two: In 1705, a sale was recorded in the newly built statehouse in Jamestown with a single line: Reid’s Roost, once owned by the late Widow Santos, had been sold at auction to Archibald Tucker.
Three: The archives at the British Library had a 1680 license from the Crown to “R. Santos” to operate a ferry on the James River.
Alice ran her finger along the paperwork.
“R. Santos” was likely the husband of the Widow Santos.
Was his full name Reid Santos? It was an unusual name for an English settler, but perhaps Margo would use her powers to hunt through the dusty archives in search of additional information to identify this person.
It couldn’t hurt to ask, could it? Perhaps Margo was in a better frame of mind these days.