Charming Grace (34 page)

“Pardon
moi
, but I smell an al fresco
rat
. Look, if Grace is up to something about the movie and she’s trying to distract me—”

“Don’t be so suspicious. Just come to a nice little lunch atop the prettiest mountains in Lumpkin County. Very private. Very
mine
, all five-hundred acres of it. So you and Grace can spend some quality time together without violating the Senterrean code or whatever bizarre rule of honor you two have agreed to. Are you going to turn down an opportunity to enjoy Grace’s company?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Good. See you at Chestatee Ridge tomorrow. Noonish. Drive northwest beyond Bagshaw Downs and look for the gravel construction road going off along the creek bottoms and then up the mountain. That’s Little Chestatee Creek. A branch of the Chestatee River. Follow the road and the creek backwards up the mountainside. Enjoy the waterfalls and scenic views. Chestatee Ridge overlooks the Little Chestatee.” She paused. “Would you like me to say
Chestatee
, again, just to set a record for one conversation?”

“I’ll be there. Chestatee. You’ve carved it on my forehead.”

She chortled. “A brave man doesn’t run from the mark of fate.”

Chapter 15

Chestatee Ridge was a rising accordion of plateaus and hollows with spectacular views for passionate souls. I’d always imagined living up there like a girly eagle on a nest. G. Helen had been buying up the Ridge for decades, piece by piece, until now she owned all of it. Harp and I had roamed there often with her. “It’s too high up, Grace,” he always said to me. “People can see every move I make, up here.” He preferred hollows, coves, deep, securely hidden spots. But I loved the Ridge. And I wasn’t particularly happy that G. Helen had partnered with a stranger, to develop it.

“Grace, meet Jack Roarke. Stop frowning. He doesn’t have horns or cloven hooves. Everyone will be disappointed that the gossip turned out to be wrong.”

“My plastic surgeon says I look almost human now,” Roarke said drily.

“At least you’re a well-dressed devil,” I replied. But G. Helen’s mystery man wasn’t quite what I’d expected. Even by G. Helen’s adventurous standards he looked a tad worldly, or maybe the term was
under
-worldly. Jack Roarke had the tall, thick-set stance of an aging boxer. He held out a thick-fingered hand with scarred knuckles and a plain gold band around the pinkie, and we shook. I noticed equally scarred knuckles and a plain gold pinkie ring on the other hand, as well. He smelled of good cologne and was dressed in pale trousers and a dark silk shirt with a fine gold pattern, but he had Popeye forearms and those fight-marked, twin-pinkie-ringed hands. We shook, and his grip was gentle. He was still handsome, and probably a little younger than G. Helen—mid-sixties—though his face had lived through a few hard lifetimes and his thick gray hair was receding.

“Let me tell you about myself,” he said, and went off on a entertaining soliloquy about big houses he’d built here and yon throughout the South and Midwest. He said not one
personal
word about Jack Roarke, the man. I stared at this stranger who’d hooked my grandmother’s attention and might be the kick-start inspiration for Boone’s dreams of designing houses. His voice seemed to boom off the mountainsides; he looked too big to be standing under a delicate, canopied picnic tent atop Chestatee Ridge. His accent was hard to pin down, and his attitude as much smoky bar room as elegant boardroom.

Jack Roarke finally finished his house-building credentials. “So that’s all that’s important to know about
me
. There you go. Glad to meet you, Grace.” His gaze was direct, dark and shrewd but kind, and when he smiled at my bug-under-a-microscope scrutiny I suddenly found myself leaning forward, studying him even more intently.

“Have we met somewhere, before, Mr. Roarke?”

His smile faded, and something shuttered his eyes. He was quiet for one second too long, but then he smiled, again. “Afraid not. I’d remember any young woman who reminds me of Helen.”

“I’m sorry. There’s something that feels
very
familiar about you. I’m sorry. It must just be my imagination.”

“Must be. Like I said, I’d remember
you
. You look like your grandmother, and who could ever forget meeting
her
?”

He smiled at G. Helen, who rolled her eyes and
pshawed
dramatically but then linked an arm though his. “He’s a
charming
devil, see?”

He nodded at two huge bulldozers and several nimble little Bobcats parked nearby. “I’m just here to tear up paradise as little as possible—and build some fine homes, with Helen’s approval.” A small construction trailer also occupied the clearing where we stood. Next to it sat a late-model SUV with Ohio license tags. So Roarke was from Ohio. Now I knew that much, at least.

“So what led you from Ohio to the wilds of Lumpkin County, Mr. Roarke?” I asked as he and G. Helen led me to a linened table under the canopy, set with some of my grandmother’s best crystal, china, and her favorite silver vase, filled with fresh flowers.

“I like the view.” He held out a chair for me. “Up here, you can see where you’ve been, and where you’re going.”

“Pardon me?”

G. Helen cut her eyes as he held a chair for her, too. She settled in a flutter of pale blouse and flowing, Gatsbyish skirt. “I’ve already told you. Jack and I met when he was in the area last year, looking for land to develop. You
know
I’ve been anxious to find some excellent builder to help me sell this land without scalping it.”

I nodded but wasn’t satisfied. My grandmother had always lectured,
you can’t protect the world just by owning it
. She’d donated the lower regions of Chestatee Ridge to the Georgia Land Conservancy, meaning the a big donut of its wilderness would always be safe and untouched. The rest—a center portion of about 200 acres—she and this professional builder, this Jack Roarke, would divide into estate tracts guarded by strict covenants and centered around a dozen fantastic homes. “It’s the most practical way I know of protecting the Ridge while sharing it with others,” G. Helen said.

I wasn’t so sure. “To be blunt, I still don’t know much about you, Mr. Roarke—”

“Jack. Call me Jack. What do you want to know? I have a home and offices in Ohio, but I travel a lot. Look, I’m not trying to duck your questions. I’m embarrassed to admit I’m a failed family man, all right? Just an old loner. I have a construction crew; I build fine homes. I’m honest, and I do my job. I’m very good at my job. I’ve made a lot of money.”

“Good. I need to know whether you’re serious about Boone Noleene’s designs. Because if you’re not, if my grandmother—with the best intentions—has twisted your arm in any way, shape or form to consider Boone’s architectural drawings—”

“She didn’t have to twist. I’ve been interested in his work since he won that design contest in Louisiana. I was one of the out-of-state judges. I resigned from the panel when they revoked his award because he was in prison.”

Prickles went up my spine. I looked at my grandmother. “Why didn’t you tell me—”

“I like surprises. Speaking of which—there’s Boone,” G. Helen announced brusquely, at the sound of a car straining up the steep mountain road.

This was it. Life, joy, home.
La vie, la joi, la maison.
Those vague mountains I’d drawn on the cell wall at Angola, back when all I knew was that I wanted to live somewhere far higher up in the world than where I was? They were real. Now I’d found them.

By the time I got to the top of Chestatee Ridge I’d stopped a half-dozen times, gawking at the small waterfalls that sang alongside the shady construction road or hypnotized by blue-green miles of scenery. At one spot I even left the car and walked through the forest to a rocky mountain chin overlooking a deep hollow. Little Chestatee Creek chuckled below me, deep and cool and wet.
I’d put the biggest window in the master bedroom right here
, I thought.
So Grace and I could open it and listen to the creek all night. Naked.

I felt electrified. I’m a simple soul; simple things take me over. That mountain ridge gave me some kind of weird hope for the future, like a premonition. So did the thought of sitting only a few inches from Grace at a table for lunch. Like a kid with a crush, I was drunk on just the notion of being able to touch her hand or let my leg settle against hers.

I put the problem of Ladyslipper Lost out of my mind. I’d just tell her what Stone wanted. Get it over with. But not at lunch.

I drove the rest of the way up the mountain with a hand-rolled buzz in my brain and no real expectations except some simple feel-goods for an hour. I didn’t know much or care much about G. Helen’s latest squeeze. I couldn’t even recall if Helen had mentioned his name. He was just the excuse to duck out of Stone’s universe for a little while and be with Grace.

When I got to the little clearing at the top of the ridge, Grace stood waiting in the middle of the gravel turn-around. You know those soft summer shifts with fluffy hems that ripple when a woman walks and even when she’s standing still? That’s what Grace was wearing. All of me liked the sight of all of her in that dress, and then some. But her face was wearing a business suit. With orthopedic support hose.

“Glad you could make it,” she said, frowning.

“You don’t look that happy to see me, Mrs. Vance.”

“Stop it. I’m. . .distracted.” She laid a hand on my arm. “I am glad you’re here. Let’s have a nice lunch.”

I tucked her hand in the crook of my arm. “It’s nice already,
chere
.”

Her fingers stiffened, then gave up and stroked the inside skin of my elbow. I could have spent the next lifetime just looking at her and having my inner elbow massaged, but I’m a sucker for the warning sound of a stranger’s footsteps. I looked up.

“Roarke,” the man said. And held out a hand. “Jack Roarke.”

He had a stillness about him. I recognized his kind. My kind. Every hair on my body rose.
This is a big dog. He can bite.

“Noleene,” I warned. “Boone Noleene.”

By then he was already grabbing my hand, shaking it. His grip was a truck driver’s grip, a mechanic’s, a fighter’s clutch, a builder’s hand, strong and solid. His eyes were hard but good.
No bullshit, all right?
They said. Something he recognized in me. Okay. We had an understanding. He wouldn’t bite me; I wouldn’t bite him. I liked him. Grace watched us as if somebody had tipped her personal scale off balance. From under a pretty little picnic canopy, Helen took in the whole scene, too, with cat-eyed patience.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Roarke.”

“God, am I that old?
Jack.
”

“ Jack. You build houses, I hear.”

“A few. I’ve got a little company. Two Cents Construction. If you want my two cents’ worth—”

“
You’re
the man behind Two Cents Construction?” Everything came to a stop. I picked my jaw up off the ground. “
You’re
the Jack Roarke who built the Otten House in Minnesota? The house that was featured in
Architectural Digest
?”

Roarke shrugged then nodded. “The place photographs real well, I have to say. They asked me to pose for some pictures for the article, but I’m of the opinion that an artist should just let his work speak for him.”

“Mon Dieu,” I said. “You’re a legend.”

“A living legend, yeah,” he admitted. And smiled.

“Gracie,” Boone whispered, “Your grandmama’s bagged the house-building equivalent of Babe Ruth.”

“G. Helen,” I whispered back, “knows how to charm the big players.”

Lunch, catered by
Rick’s
, was basil shrimp with angel hair pasta and huge slabs of the restaurant’s famous almond crème pie, all washed down with too many glasses of good wine from
William and Denise’s
, a gourmet wine-and-cheese shop in Dahlonega. With G. Helen’s help, Jack Roarke had spared no expense to impress Boone. They started talking about houses, designs, and construction techniques and soon were hunched over the tablecloth, each with an ink pen in hand, sketching on the linen.