Chapter Twenty
The next three weeks were too busy for Alice to dwell on Jack’s looming departure for Japan.
She couldn’t change his decision to live like a nomad; all she could control was how she saw her own life—and it was a good one.
She was still drawing a salary, which meant she had the freedom to do exactly what she wanted.
She’d lost the future she’d always envisioned for herself, but that curveball led her to a new and exciting mission.
She was completely committed to saving and restoring the Roost so it could be shared with generations to come.
And with luck, she might still solve the mystery of Saint Helga .
. . not because she needed an academic publication, but simply for her insatiable love of history.
August arrived, and along with it the annual influx of students back into town.
Alice hid out at the Roost. For the first time in six years, her August had no flurry of faculty meetings or appointments with students.
There were no classes to prepare for, no assignments to grade.
She didn’t even have to rush to complete her research about Saint Helga because she no longer worried about tenure; it was only curiosity and love for history that drove her.
It wouldn’t be long before the Roost would be moved to its new location.
The foundation for the building was poured.
Lines for electrical and plumbing were installed.
The permits had been signed, and the next step was the actual disassembly of the Roost. A contractor named Zeke Mackenzie had been hired to oversee the move.
Each log, windowpane, and roof slate had been numbered so that it could be reassembled in its original position.
Alice spent her days designing the interior of the Roost. Jack trusted her to search out deals and select pieces to enhance the seventeenth-century vibe of the tavern.
She drove to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, to buy reclaimed wood from a nineteenth-century barn and made arrangements for it to be cleaned, sanded, and stained to match the original Roost. It would be used as the exterior cladding of the brand-new kitchen and conference room.
From the outside it would be a perfect match with the rest of the Roost.
She haunted antique malls in search of old lanterns and chandeliers that could be wired to supply light.
The refurbished antiques would add an air of authenticity to the Roost, but most of the furnishings needed to be new.
Tables, chairs, drinking glasses, and crockery would be getting heavy use.
She bought slightly mismatched wooden tables and chairs, then she and Jack spent their weekends distressing them.
They attacked the wood with great joy, laughing while smacking it with mallets and heavy chains.
She even used an awl to create the look of a few wormholes and insect damage.
Once the wood was sufficiently beat up, she finished the job with a layer of dark antiquing wax to make the tables appear to have endured centuries of use.
The most fun was shopping for artwork for the tavern.
A large replica of a seventeenth-century map of Virginia was perfect to hang on the wall of the original building.
Someday soon, their patrons would enjoy gazing at the map with its crudely drawn coast, rivers, and a few scattered towns, while land east of the Blue Ridge mountains remained unexplored territory.
She hoped to find some genuine eighteenth-century artwork to hang in the new conference room.
A trip to the Tuckers’ antique art gallery proved those pieces too expensive for her budget, but Arlo Whitworth, the bow-tie-wearing graduate of William 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.
“I buffed away the worst of the dirt,” she said. “I don’t want to completely destroy the patina, but I could use your help with the polishing.”
They both pulled on latex gloves and set to work. “I’ve got a pressure-washer that would blast these parts clean a lot faster.”
“Bite your tongue,” she said with a laugh. “This clock is two hundred years old.”
“And I’m thirty-seven and have red blood in my veins and think you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”
She leaned in for a kiss, but her gloved hands were gunky with brass polish and she held them out to her sides.
His hands were just as bad, so they touched nowhere except their lips.
When she tried to retreat, he followed with his lips still locked on hers.
Even when they started laughing, he continued kissing her, pressing a trail of kisses along her jaw and down her neck.
The ring of the doorbell startled them. It gave her the excuse to finally pull away.
“Are you expecting anyone?” Jack asked.
“No,” she said as she pulled the rubber gloves off to lay them on the newspaper. “With everything going on at the Roost tomorrow, I’d better answer it.”
She headed down the hall to look through the peephole. A man holding a bouquet of red peonies stood on her porch. His handsome face was carved with emotion, and her heart began to thud. She looked away, gathering her thoughts.
It couldn’t be, but the doorbell rang a second time, and when she looked through the peephole again, there could be no doubt.
“Who is it?” Jack called out from the dining area.
She gathered a breath and tried to sound normal. “It’s Sebastian Bell.”