Road to Nowhere (7 page)

He didn’t get to answer. The front door was open and a man was standing in it, letting in cold air.

Wade punched the button on the phone and Charlie was gone. “Be right with you,” he shouted, and he grabbed a sales package and hiked out to the main room.

They called it the Lodge, high stone walls and a big fireplace, with his office back in the corner. The place would be the community center once there were enough residents to qualify Gold Valley as a community.

The man was still taking it in, door wide open, and Wade stopped cold when he saw who it was.

Maybe something good could come out of this. But he doubted it.

“Hi there, I’m Wade Harris.” He held out his hand. “And you’re from the newspaper, aren’t you?”

“Luke Goddard.” He did shake Wade’s hand, and he had to come inside and let the door close to do it. “Wardsville Guardian.” He was forty-something and already sort of bald. The hair that was there needed a trim.

“Thought so,” Wade said. “Seen you at the board meetings.”

“I’ve seen you there, too.” Whiny voice. “I came out to see your operation, Wade, and ask you about it.”

“Look around. And ask away.” Wade followed him to the map.

“You all started off four years ago?”

“Seven years. Broke ground April of ninety-nine. I’ve been here four years.”

“There’s that Trinkle farm.” He was pointing at the empty white space around the interstate. All around it were the colored sections that were part of the development plans.

“That’s it.”

“Sort of the hole in the middle of your doughnut.”

“Maybe it’ll be the filling someday.”

“Yeah. Sure it will. Once those Trinkle cousins work out their differences.” He winked at Wade. “They’ve got a reputation, you know.”

“Don’t know that much about them.”

“Oh, you don’t? Nasty bunch. Hermann Trinkle was ornery as all get out, and he passed it on. Now you got twenty Trinkle cousins or more, not a one hardly on speaking terms with another, and they all claim they own some part of that farm. I think you should give up on any idea of ever filling that doughnut, Wade.”

“None of them are getting anything out of it now.”

“I think any of them would rather get nothing than have any of the others get something.”

“They couldn’t be that bad, Mr. Goddard,” Wade said.

“They are! I know it.” He shrugged. “Or maybe they will work something out. That’s apt to be worse than just leaving the farm as it is. I can’t even think what they might come up with, but I’d know to stay away from it. And that—” Goddard traced his finger across the map— “that’s Gold River Highway.”

“That’s it so far.” He was keeping his answers short and neutral.

“Do you really think it’ll go all the way?” He moved his finger past the edge of the board.

“I really think it should.”

“Lots of people against it. You’ll have to read my report after the January board meeting.”

Might as well be blunt. “Sorry. I don’t read the Wardsville paper.”

“Oh, you don’t?”

“I didn’t like the things you’ve said about me the last two years.”

“Just stating the facts.”

“I could give you some facts.”

“I’d be glad to hear them. Wade, the
Guardian
is an impartial news organization.”

“Okay. There are four hundred houses in Gold Valley.”

“How many are year-round residents?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s about a third, isn’t it?”

“They all pay taxes year-round,” Wade said, “and they pay twice as much per house as the rest of the county.”

“You’re saying people are richer here than the rest of the county?”

There was probably no way to win this. “The county appraises the houses for a lot more. I don’t know that people here have any more money.”

Goddard was writing it down. “Now, if Gold River Highway was built, you’d probably make a lot of money yourself.”

Definitely no way to win. “I think a lot of people would make money, including the businesses in Wardsville. That’s what roads do.”

“Wade, isn’t it kind of improper for you to be voting on the road?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Well, that’s interesting.” He was suddenly already walking out. “Thanks so much for your time. I think I’ll drive around some and see these big houses for myself.”

“Mr. Goddard . . .”

“Everybody calls me Luke.”

“I really believe it’s the best thing for the whole county.”

He stopped with the door open. “But if the best thing for the whole county was different than the best thing for Gold Valley, which one would you vote?”

Think fast. “I don’t think they’ve ever been different.”

A big smile opened up on Luke’s face. “That’s a good answer, Wade! I like that. I’ll quote you!”

“Don’t get me in trouble.”

“Don’t you worry! And have a nice day.”

February 14, Tuesday

Louise was doodling, and why shouldn’t she? The bills were paid for the month and the mail was all done and there were five appointments even before lunchtime. Becky was humming something happy. Maybe that was why everything seemed so bright. And the phone was ringing, too.

“Wardsville Beauty,” she said. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“Louise? It’s Wade Harris.”

“Good morning, Wade.” Because it was.

“Yeah, good morning. Hey, Louise, I want to ask you something. Gold River Highway. I wondered what you were thinking about it.”

“Oh, that?” The door opened, and the first two appointments for the morning walked in. “Aren’t we waiting for something before we have to decide?”

“The funding from the state.”

“That’s right. Well, it’ll be months before we hear anything.”

“April.”

“Then I guess I’ll start thinking about it then. Wade, you know how those things are. Everybody gets all in a tizzy.”

“But what would you vote when you do start thinking about it?”

She gave the phone her biggest smile. “Wade, I have no idea.”

“Okay. Never mind. Louise, I want that road. If it ever comes up, don’t decide anything without talking to me.”

“I’ll be glad to. I know it’s important to you and everybody in Gold Valley. You should talk to Joe. He might know more about it.”

“Yeah, I was going to call him next.”

She frowned at the phone. “I don’t think you should call him.”

“But you said I should.”

“You should talk to him, just not on the phone.”

“What do you mean? He has a phone. Doesn’t he?”

“Of course he does, but you won’t get two words out of him on it. Call and ask if you can come out to see him. Then he might even give you a few whole sentences. And maybe you’ll get to meet Rose.”

February 15, Wednesday

Dirt road. Louise had said once you got on the dirt road, it was on the right after about a mile. All Wade could see was a bunch of fields and fences. The mountains were off at a distance from there but he could still see them.

Some of the fields were dirt just like the road, some had leftover rows of stuff, and some were just grass or weeds. It must make sense why they were all different, but he couldn’t figure it out—this whole part of the county was a foreign country. Barns, sheds, tractors, and parts of tractors splattered all around farmhouses or just anywhere. Cows staring at anything going past. Farmers staring at him the same way. It was almost hard to tell them apart. Maybe when there weren’t cars, the cows and farmers just stared at each other.

Then it was there in front of him, a big old white house with a worn-out gray barn behind it and as many outbuildings as any farm he’d seen. No tractors in sight. Red pickup parked on the lawn by the side door. Wade pulled up next to it.

He walked around to the front porch.

No doorbell. He looked, but nothing. The farmhouse was a hundred fifty years old. Maybe it didn’t have electricity.

No, there were electric wires coming in from the pole.

It didn’t look a hundred years, maybe just fifty. Nice white paint on the wood siding, probably less than three years ago. Painting this place must be a job—two stories of hand-cut wood planks. Real stone foundation, too. That would cost a bundle nowadays, if anybody could even do it, and it wouldn’t pass inspection anyway.

Most of it wouldn’t pass inspection if it was built today, but this house had stood for more than a century, and the stuff they built today wouldn’t last half that. He stood back to look at it better.

Just a big cube with a front porch. No gables—the roof went up to a point. It would have been ugly but for the two huge oaks framing it, one in front and one off the corner. Massive trees. Probably already old back when the house was first built.

He knocked.

Nice flower beds, too. They’d be pretty in a couple months.

The door opened to a dark hall straight through and light coming in a window in back. And a person.

“Hello?” she said. Same voice as on the phone, and he would have recognized her from it. This would be the legendary Rose Esterhouse— tall, almost eye to eye with him, and straight as a level. Straight as her husband. “Mr. Harris?”

Maybe he could get a picture of her and Joe standing in front of the house. With a pitchfork. “Yes, ma’am. Wade Harris.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Plain dress of something dark, and an apron. Pure white hair in a bun. “Come in, Mr. Harris. Joe’s outside, but he’ll be in soon.”

“Thank you.” He followed her down the hall. On the right he had a glimpse of the front room. Rocking chair and sofa and stuffed chair, fireplace and rug, end tables. Grandfather clock. All of it old, old, old, and pictures everywhere. On the left was the dining room.

The wood floor. He couldn’t tell in the dark, but it felt like real floorboards as they walked down the hall.

Bedroom on the right, grand four-poster bed with a blue and white quilt, like delft china. A big Bible open on a desk under the window.

They turned left into the kitchen.

He could sell tours to this place. That woodstove, complete with ancient coffeepot, was the real thing, from who knew when, and it was cranking. It was seventy-five degrees in there. And the fireplace, same stone as the foundation. Huge—just look at that thing! No fire in it, might not have been since the woodstove was put in, but that was where the cooking had been done back in the beginning.

There was a real stove, too, an electric one, that was maybe only forty years old. The cabinets were handmade and they were amazing. Somebody had known how to carve. They made him think of a—a what? A cuckoo clock. Not real ornate, sort of German. They’d be worth big, big bucks to a collector.

And the floor . . . not a nail, and not slotted. All pegs, all big wide planks. Big wood table that must have weighed a ton. Wallpaper that was . . . roses. Sure, her name was Rose.

Compare this to the Smoky Mountain Country Theme décor they offered in Gold Valley and that stuff looked like even cheaper plastic than it was. Even his own kitchen looked cheap next to this, and it had good quality stuff in it.

Open ceiling, exposed rafters. If this house were on a paved road, it’d go for half a million.

“Just sit down, Mr. Harris. I’ll see where Joe’s got to.”

He sat. He could have sat there all day.

“And would you like something to drink?”

“Oh, no thank you. I’m fine.”

“Then I’ll be right back.”

She opened the screen door and disappeared into the sunshine. Wade stared and kept seeing new things. Deep wood shelves packed with canning jars that were filled with everything—green beans, applesauce, beets, jams, whatever it all was. A refrigerator that was the same vintage as the electric stove. It looked like a ’57 Chevrolet.

It was all real.

He kept thinking that. He wouldn’t have even known what
real
was, except that now he’d seen it and he still didn’t know what it was he was seeing.

There must be stuff like this back in Raleigh. He’d just never seen it. Maybe it was all gone, anyway, sold off to collectors and replaced by Carolina Colonial kitchens with Chair Rails and Dark Oak Floor. Who knew how to can their own vegetables, anyway? Or even grow them?

No, there was nothing like this in Raleigh. Nothing real like this.

Rose was back. “He’s in the barn. He’ll be a few minutes.”

“I’m not in any hurry.”

“Just make yourself at home.” She had her back to him, standing at the stove. “You’re from Raleigh, aren’t you, Mr. Harris?”

Yes, he was from Raleigh. Completely from Raleigh.

“Yes, ma’am.” The
ma’am
came out by itself. This lady was as real as the kitchen, and she commanded respect. She was making conversation to be polite, but she sounded as casual as a congressional hearing. “We moved here four years ago.”

“You have a daughter in the high school.”

Was there a period or a question mark at the end of that sentence? He took it as a question. “That’s Lauren. Meredith is at college.”

“Two girls.”

That was definitely a period, for the sentence and the conversation. Her back was still turned. She wasn’t hostile, just a no-nonsense hardworking farm wife.

Okay. He would not be intimidated.

His job was to make friends. Nobody bought a house from someone they didn’t like. So maybe Joe and Rose weren’t in the market for a nice weekend cabin in Gold Valley, but it could still be good exercise for him to get a smile out of one of those stone faces.

Pick a subject. Family? Her life story? No, way too personal. Have to step a lot further back.

“Have you been to Raleigh, Mrs. Esterhouse?”

“Not in a while.”

It’s probably changed a lot.
No, she wouldn’t care.
We’d like to move
back sometime.
Not that, either. He had to get a hook somehow.

“Cities like that change so fast. Nothing ever stays the same.”

There. Now she could say she liked it around here where things didn’t change, or that she’d like some more changes.
Take it, Rose.

“Gold River Highway would be a big change.”

But she’d turned around to say it, and there was a little smile. And now Wade was stuck. What was he supposed to say to that?