Chapter 21 Keller
TWENTY-ONE
Keller
The phone dances on the armrest. I glance at the screen and recognize it as the same one I called thirty minutes ago to schedule a meeting with Charlton Grant.
I didn't really have a plan when I reached out to Clara at the ass crack of dawn about scheduling the flight, but I figured I'd go and watch from afar.
But I want to hear his voice, I want to ask him questions. So, I decided to become a philanthropist looking to invest in historic properties. Old money always speaks to old money.
"William Baker speaking," I answer.
"Mr. Baker, this is Rebecca calling from Grant Preservation Associates."
"Yes. Thank you for calling me back."
"I'm so sorry to inform you that Mr. Grant's schedule is quite full. His next available consultation slot isn't until May. May I schedule an appointment for you then?"
May is two months from now.
I don't react, keeping my voice level. "I think there may be a misunderstanding about the nature of this inquiry."
A pause on her end. "Sir?"
"This isn't a standard consultation." I keep my tone conversational, unhurried. "I'm flying in privately this afternoon. I'll only be in Savannah for a few hours, and I need a meeting today."
"I see. Well, Mr. Grant does have a waiting list for priority clients, and I could certainly add your name to—"
"The property I'm considering would be a significant acquisition with high visibility. The kind of project that defines a firm's portfolio."
Silence.
I let it breathe. Outside the oval window, clouds stretch thinly against the cerulean blue sky. The engine hum fills the cabin, low and constant.
"I'm not looking to rush Mr. Grant's process," I continue. "But I am working within a narrow window. If he's unable to accommodate a brief meeting today, I'll need to explore other firms."
No threat. No pressure. Just positioning.
"Would you mind holding for just a moment, Mr. Baker?"
"Of course."
The line clicks to hold music. It's something generic, a short, repetitive, low-fidelity loop.
I click the speaker and set the phone on the armrest. Light shifts through the windows as the jet banks slightly, adjusting course.
Charlton Grant is a preservation architect who built his reputation on high-profile restorations. Men like him don't ignore potential clients who fly private and speak in terms of visibility and transformation.
They rearrange.
After a couple of minutes, the hold music cuts.
"Mr. Baker?"
"I'm here."
"Mr. Grant has offered to adjust his schedule and squeeze you in. He has about an hour at a standing lunch reservation at The Chatham Club at one-fifteen this afternoon. If that suits you, he said he would be happy for you to join him."
There it is.
"That works perfectly. Please thank Mr. Grant for his flexibility."
"Of course, sir. The Chatham Club is on the fourteenth floor of the DeSoto Hotel. I'll let them know to expect you."
"Appreciated."
I end the call and set the phone down.
I look outside the window and see we have descended below the clouds. We must be landing soon. The Georgia coast stretches green and gold, rivers threading through marshland like silver veins.
The pilot's voice comes through the speaker. "Beginning our descent into Savannah. Should be on the ground in about twenty minutes, Mr. Stone."
I adjust my cuffs and settle back into the seat.
Charlton Grant. The man in the photos with my mother. The name on the hotel receipt. In less than two hours, I'll be sitting across from him.
The wheels touch down smoothly with no bounce. The pilot knows his work.
I gather my phone and wallet, leaving everything else on the seat. The cabin door opens, and warm air rolls in. It's lighter than it was when I left New Orleans, less weight in the lungs.
A black SUV waits on the tarmac. The driver stands by the rear door, crisp white shirt, no tie. He nods as I approach.
"Mr. Stone. Welcome to Savannah."
I slide into the back seat. The leather seat is cool from the air conditioning. The interior smells like a new car.
"The DeSoto Hotel?"
"Eventually. I need to make two stops first."
He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. "Of course, sir. Where to?"
I give him the first address. Charlton Grant's home.
The car pulls away from the airfield and onto the main road. Spanish moss drapes from the oaks lining the boulevard. Every branch seems placed with intention. Even the moss looks curated.
Tracy Chapman plays low on the radio. Fast Car. The acoustic guitar threads through the quiet cabin.
You got a fast car. I want a ticket to anywhere.
I watch Savannah unfold through the tinted window. The streets are clean. Brick sidewalks, iron benches, and historic plaques on every third building.
New Orleans wears its age like a drunk uncle at a wedding. Loud and unapologetic. Savannah wears its age like the refined aunt with her dressed collar and rehearsed smile.
Everything here seems to be preserved on purpose. Maintained. Controlled.
Maybe we make a deal. Maybe together we can get somewhere.
The song ends. Something softer replaces it, but I tune it out as my chest grows tighter.
The driver turns onto a residential street. Narrower, quieter. Mature oaks form a canopy overhead, filtering the midday sun into scattered coins of light on the pavement.
"Slow down here."
He eases off the gas.
I study the houses. The front is restored townhomes, each with consistent architecture. They speak of money and taste, but none of them shouts.
The the single family houses start, each one bigger than the last. My guess is Mr. Grant lives on the water, and the real estate becomes more valuable the closer we get to it.
"That one." I point to the left. "Stop for a moment."
The car rolls to a gentle halt across the street from Charlton Grant's home.
Painted white brick facade, clean and unweathered. Tall windows with black trim and black shutters, perfectly symmetrical. Polished brass numbers are beside the door confirm it's his.
A small historical designation plaque is mounted near the entrance. Of course he lives in a historical house.
The landscaping is minimal but precise. Boxwoods trim out the house, and a round fountain is centered directly in front of the house. A single magnolia stands proudly to the side.
A bicycle leans against the iron railing by the steps. I don't think it's a showpiece because it looks too new and like something that's used.
I expected something different. A monument to ego. A statement of wealth meant to impress.
This is quieter, the home of a man who has roots here.
"Sir? Everything all right?"
"Fine." I keep my voice flat. "We're good here."
I give him the second address. It's the one Marcus gave me where his office is. I want to see where he works.
The car winds through the historic district. Every block looks staged for a magazine shoot. Wrought iron balconies. Window boxes spilling with ferns. Couples walking small dogs on leather leashes.
"Coming up on your left, sir."
I lean forward.
Grant Preservation and Adaptive Design occupies a corner lot on a tree-lined street.
The building is two stories of old brick, the color of dried clay.
It's an original, not a reproduction. The mortar joints have been repointed with care, matching the era.
Tall windows span most of the ground floor, mullions painted a deep forest green that doesn't compete with the brick.
The signage is small. Brass letters are mounted beside the entrance. There's no logo or tagline. Just the name.
"Pull to the curb."
The driver eases to a stop.
Through the front windows, the interior spreads out in full view. No blinds. No frosted glass. Nothing to hide.
Drafting tables occupy the center of the workspace. Four of them, arranged in pairs. Large-format drawings are pinned to cork boards along the far wall. The midday sun pours through the windows, casting long rectangles of light across the polished concrete floor.
I can see two people working at separate tables. A woman with dark hair pulled back, bending over a set of plans with a pencil. A younger man in a blue Oxford, laptop open beside a roll of tracing paper. Neither looks up at the car idling outside.
Shelves line one wall, filled with books, binders, and what look like sample materials. Stone. Wood. Metal finishes.
This is not a front or a vanity project funded by something else. This is a working firm. The space speaks of process. Of patience. Of projects that take months or years to complete.
I sit back against the leather seat.
I'm not sure what I expected to find, but this makes my stomach turn for some reason. My jaw tightens.
The woman inside straightens, rolls her shoulders, and reaches for a coffee mug on the edge of her table. Ordinary. Unremarkable. The kind of moment that happens a hundred times a day in a hundred offices.
"Sir?"
I check my watch. Twelve fifty-three.
"The Chatham Club, please."
The driver pulls away from the curb. I watch the building shrink in the side mirror until we turn the corner, and it disappears.