The Edge of Recall (5 page)

“But then he got engaged.”

“And I’m not sure Petra’s taste runs along the same line.”

“Better he find out now than build her a house she won’t want to live in.”

Smith opened his mouth to argue, but the young waitress arrived with their food. Bair looked as though he wanted to jump up and help her with the tray, but thankfully stayed put. Tessa breathed the aroma of tangy vinaigrette dressing and the savory salmon on her salad.

The girl set the toasted cheese before Smith and a sandwich at Bair’s place that was clearly pastrami with sauerkraut on rye. “Anything else?”

“Mustard with that?” Smith asked Bair brightly.

Bair nodded.

“Here you go.” She produced a small jar of country style from her apron pocket.

Smith said, “Thank you, Katy,” as she walked away.

Tessa frowned at Bair’s plate. “I thought you liked the pesto chicken.”

“I do.” He lifted the top bread. “But she recommended this once, and well, I haven’t the heart to disappoint her.”

She caught the laugh before it came out. “You can’t think she expects you to have it every time.”

“No. But she always asks before I can say otherwise.”

Tessa turned to Smith. “You should say it for him.”

“Place his order?”

“No, but you could say something like ‘Was it the pesto chicken you were going to try, Bair?’ ”

He looked at her with a blend of humor and condescension. “And miss the show?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What you find entertaining is frequently painful for someone else.”

He turned. “Are you in pain, Bair?”

Bair looked from her to Smith and swallowed his oversized mouthful so quickly, she thought he’d choke. “Not pain, no. But I’ve never been overfond of pastrami.”

Tessa stabbed a bite of salad and turned to Smith. “Tell me about your design.”

“Well.” Smith dabbed his mouth. “Mr. Gaston imagines it resembling the etchings he acquired.”

“He wants to live in a monastery?” Somehow that didn’t square with a casino mogul.

“A semblance, Tessa. Elements that suggest the monastic heritage of the property while remaining fresh and original.”

“How are you doing that?” She just managed to keep the skeptical edge from her voice.

“I’ll show you my conceptual drawings.”

Her stomach clenched with the painful reminiscence of their heads together as he worked a concept, wholly caught up in the creative inspiration of his talent. Once he had it right, he did not like the plan to change. She pressed the memory down to where it didn’t hurt. “What about the landscape?”

“He wants to keep the elements we discovered.”

“So I’m doing historic landscape restoration?”

“Well, there is the landing pad. Gaston owns a jet, but I convinced him a runway would not be realistic given the woody terrain. He agreed to helicopter access and originally chose the labyrinth field—until we realized what was there.”

She tensed. “Because he wants the labyrinth.”

“Oh yes. When I told him I knew a specialist, he insisted I call you.”

So that was it. Not even Smith’s decision. Why was she not surprised?

“You’ll need to determine an alternate location for the helipad.”

She speared a baby spinach leaf, a mandarin orange, and a sliver of salmon. “What’s the acreage?”

“Thirty-two. Much of it wooded. The entrance you design needs to make use of the trees as a screen.”

That wouldn’t be difficult. Even the trailer had been hidden from the road. She wasn’t sure why a mogul and a model needed such secrecy. If they were in such demand, wouldn’t they build their dream home in a more chichi area, not the backwoods of southern Maryland—lovely as they were?

Bair had nearly finished his pastrami—in spite of not caring for it—when Katy returned, hands on hips. “How was it?”

He managed, “Good. As always.”

He’d tell Katy it was good even if he’d hated every bite. Katy took his plate with a self-satisfied smile, oblivious to his bluff.

Tessa handed over her empty plate. “He’s in a rut, though. I made him promise to try the pesto chicken on ciabatta next time. Don’t let him wiggle out.”

Katy looked straight at her for the first time and shrugged. “Whatever.”

Under Smith’s amused appraisal, Tessa raised her teacup. “What’s the timeline?”

“I haven’t prepared the schedule, but I’m estimating four to five weeks for design, three to take bids, seven or eight months once we choose the contractor.”

She sipped her tea. “How soon do you need my design?”

“There’s some leeway on landscape. Why?”

“I’d like to start by uncovering what’s left of the labyrinth.”

Smith pressed the napkin to his mouth. “You’ll bring in a crew right off?”

“Not immediately. I want to explore what’s there myself first.” Though usually she would bring in a crew to clean up and prep a property, she felt drawn to unearth some portion of the labyrinth herself. She wanted to grasp the mindset of the original creator, and how better than using her own hands to uncover his work?

At the appropriate time, she would bring in others to assist her in creating the gardens, pools, and . . . helipad. But the labyrinth would be different from anything she had done yet. “About this confidentiality agreement—”

“Not negotiable.” Smith shook his head.

“You’re all right with that? Even though we could publish—”

“You saw the fees for service, Tess. Gaston’s paying for privacy.”

“He’s paying for secrecy.” The money was way over anything she’d earned on a comparable project, but she would be re-creating an authentic seventeenth-century labyrinth. How could she keep that to herself? She knew from consulting on other historic sites that, even if it were declared a historic landmark, Rumer Gaston would have the right to deny public access. The vast majority of national landmarks were privately owned and partially or completely restricted to the public. He wasn’t destroying, but rather restoring the site—for his private use.

While she couldn’t fault him for that, the right attention could have her creating prayer walks across the country, the world. It would improve awareness and recognition of her specialization and all the possibilities therein. She imagined a photo shoot featuring Petra—though she’d never seen her—with the labyrinth as an exotic backdrop. Rumer Gaston might want privacy, but she’d bet Petra preferred celebrity. “Maybe I can change his mind.”

Smith quirked a brow. “That I’d like to see.”

He didn’t have to sound so skeptical. She didn’t pretend to be hard-nosed or irresistible, but she could be persuasive when she felt strongly enough. She had stood her ground on a wetland issue and won. If she could do it for something like that, how much more for this labyrinth and the ones that might come from it? So when Smith slid her the contract, she signed it. She was in this with them—for better or worse.

They drove from the restaurant to the inn where Bair had reserved her a room. The white historic house with a river view and formal gardens seemed a charming place to stay, and she thanked him for arranging it.

He blushed to the tips of his russet hair. “My pleasure.”

Driving aside, she absolutely could not imagine him bludgeoning anyone.

“We’ll see you tomorrow.” Smith raised a hand in casual farewell, the same gesture and tone he’d used so many times on campus, making her believe he’d be there just as he’d said.

The realization rushed in that closure was going to be painful. How would she accomplish it with months of working together? That seemed more like salt than balm. But he was right. She’d do anything for the chance to work on that labyrinth, even face him every day. She had plenty of experience facing things she’d rather not.

Her room was light and airy from a window with a priceless view of the river in one direction and in the other, the forest that she itched to capture on paper. Though she created her designs with software, she was never without a sketchbook. Meeting with clients, park officials, other architects, and consultants, she readily drew what they envisioned as they discussed it.

It was a professional skill but also a passion. She took the sketchbook out and drew the river scene as far as she could see. Then she drew the near shore. Using colored pencils, she drew one of the inn gardens abundant with autumn blooms. Though it had not been designed with the care she would have given, she captured it all as the sinking sun cast the sky with an apricot wash. Her tension eased.

She had been edgy since arriving. Smith had done and said nothing to indicate he realized the wreck he’d made of her six years ago. Granted, her emotional stability had been shaky before they met, but until he’d come into her life, she hadn’t expected anything good. He had infected her with optimism and left her vulnerable to disappointment.

She shook herself. Personal healing was no longer her primary goal. If her guess proved accurate, the labyrinth pattern matched the four-quadrant, circular Chartres Cathedral floor labyrinth. Someone had carried its design across the ocean to duplicate it in living earth on a new continent. She imagined the faith and reverence with which that peace labyrinth had been formed, then the devastation that followed.

As the sun disappeared, casting the scene in pewter gray, Tessa turned from the window. She could dream all she wanted of restoring its original purpose, allowing its path to be a means to peace and growth. But if no one knew about it, what chance was there of that? As Smith had indicated, Gaston’s pockets were deep enough to keep any secrets he wished.

Smith stretched out on the single bed in the trailer bedroom and released a long sigh.

“Now, that is what I don’t get.” Bair shifted in the covers of his bed across the room.

“What?”

“Why the sigh, when you’ve got a lovely woman from your past and months to make something of it?”

Smith squeezed the bridge of his nose. “First off, she’s not a woman from my past in that sense.”

“What sense?”

“The sense you mean.”

“I don’t mean any sense.”

“Right.” He’d expected Tessa to surprise Bair, but hadn’t counted on his fixating.

“She’s quite easy on the eyes. Brassed off with you, though.”

Smith stared up at the ceiling. “That’s nothing new.”

“Still . . . I wouldn’t be wasting this chance.”

Smith gave his pillow a smart slap. “If you fancy her, Bair, see that it doesn’t interfere with the project. Gaston’s adamant about that maze.”

“Fancy her! I’d think you’d be the one.”

Smith settled back down. “You think I should chat up the woman who thinks I’m a shade above Attila the Hun for reasons known only to her?”

“But that’s just it. Who holds a grudge for six years against someone who doesn’t matter?” He rose up on one elbow. “Didn’t you see the way she looked at you?”

“Yes. One of those looks stuck six inches deep.”

“I’m just saying . . .”

“I’m here to do a job, and Tessa’s here to do the same. That’s all.”

“Fine, then. Do your job.”

“And you do yours.”

“Well, I don’t know. If you’re not interested—”

Smith rolled to his side. “Bair, Tessa’s not . . . She’s got issues.”

“So’ve I.”

“Hers are pervasive.”

“I’m a great problem solver.”

Smith frowned. “I thought you liked Katy.”

“Katy’s a nice girl. I’m just keeping my options open.”

The irritation that came with the thought caught him by surprise. “Fine, then. And good luck.”

“Just like that?”

Smith heaved a sigh. “Like what?”

“Nothing,” Bair grumbled. “Go to sleep.”

Smith tossed. When sleep hadn’t come a full hour later, he rolled to his back and stared up at the darkness. He’d known this could get complicated; Tessa embodied complicated with her short fuse and oversensitivity. Bair had seen only the admittedly attractive surface. Scowling, he flopped over to his side and forced his eyes closed. Maybe it was best to let Bair have a go. No, best would be three professionals getting the job done without complication.

Not supposed to be there. Things should not be where they were not supposed to be. And the trailer had been there too long.