“You’re building a church?”
“I should have said former grounds of a Jesuit plantation, built and destroyed by fire in the seventeenth century.”
“Thoroughly, by the looks of it.” She had not initially seen the outline of a foundation just visible in the sod. “I thought you didn’t like historical reconstruction.” Hadn’t that been one of the reasons he’d trained in America instead of with the Royal Institute of British Architects?
“There’s nothing left but that stone outline. I’m designing an estate home atop the footprint.”
She didn’t know why the idea troubled her. Creative reuse was a major part of architecture. Factories made into apartments, churches into restaurants. This was not even a preexisting structure.
“So why do you need me?”
“Because I found . . . Well, you tell me.”
He led her past the foundation to a set of stone footers, probably from a sizeable gate, though there was no trace of a wall. She stepped in between the footers and caught her breath, recognizing the sod-covered, indented pattern of the circular path. She walked forward, then wove to the left, doubled back and kept moving even when the path disappeared beneath the viney overgrowth. She could have closed her eyes and walked it blind if the ground were not so uneven. Round and back, round and back she walked, hardly breathing, to the very center.
There she stopped and wrapped herself in her arms, overwhelmed by a sense of reverence and joy. Had Smith realized what this would mean? He couldn’t know. No one really understood the depth of her fascination, its source or its solace. There in the center, she could almost—
Another feeling hit her. More than the foreboding, a feeling of danger that belonged only in her dreams.
Her breathing sharpened. Her heart raced. She’d experienced different things as she’d prayerfully walked many labyrinths, but she’d never felt repelled.
“Was I right?”
Smith’s shout broke the feeling. Releasing her breath, she cut across to where he waited, poised on the balls of his feet. “Yes. It’s a labyrinth.”
“Aren’t you glad now that you came?”
“I’m interested.”
“Can you re-create it from what’s there?”
The thought of anyone else doing so made her want to cry. “It must have a firm structure to have held its shape. What records do you have?”
“Some things the owner collected. There may be more in local archives.” He turned. “Besides the maze—”
“It’s a labyrinth.”
“Besides that, there was a reflecting pond with a bit of a natural spring.” He pointed to a sunken area, overgrown with reeds and grasses. She imagined it with clear water, shimmering in the stars, a fountain at one end, no jets, only trickling streams. With that marsh vegetation, she’d be willing to bet the spring was still there.
“Also a butterfly garden and beehives.”
“No orchard?”
“Sorry?”
“A monastery of the time would have had fruit trees, don’t you think? And why hasn’t the forest reclaimed the meadow?”
“This is a natural clearing. According to the geologist’s report, it sits atop a solid rock shelf with shallow soil, only two to four feet deep. I imagine that’s why the landowner donated this portion to the church.”
“That’ll make planting challenging.” She looked around at the hickory and oaks with a few loblolly pines surrounding them. All the elements intrigued her, but the labyrinth reached the place inside that nothing else touched.
She had built an intricate path in Malibu, another in Huntington Beach, and the one in Aspen that had been featured in Architectural Digest, plus dozens of smaller, less complicated designs. She’d created them in different shapes and sizes, planted, cut, or laid them with stone, crushed shells, or pebbles. But she had never resurrected an ancient preexisting path.
“I should have thought you’d bite your arm off for this, Tess.”
“Yes, all right. I’m hooked.” She should be thanking him profusely.
He flashed his charming smile. “Good. Want to catch a late lunch?”
“This is business, Smith.”
“One professional to another. I’ll even throw in Bair.”
She weighed the stress of sitting with him in a sociable setting against the logistics they would need to go over and the fact that she hadn’t eaten since an early breakfast of yogurt and berries. “All right.”
She badly wanted to walk the labyrinth path again, but alone, completely alone.
CHAPTER
4
Tessa surveyed the verdant property through the window as Smith drove her back to the trailer in his Land Rover. It was more comfortable than looking at him, though his scent and energy entangled her anyway. Dr. Brenner called her perceptivity a hyperawareness of surroundings and individuals and believed it a result of stress or trauma. If he could measure the energy in the vehicle at that moment, he wouldn’t say she exaggerated.
When Smith parked and went inside for Bair, she got out and popped the trunk of her rental car. She pulled a chilled bottle of fortified water from the cooler and took a long, cold drink. She twisted the lid back on, then glanced over her shoulder as the feeling of someone watching raised the hairs on the back of her neck. The woods spread around her with innocent vacancy, but still she shivered.
The projects she had done, especially lately, were in wellestablished and often guarded estate neighborhoods. She and her crew could easily work until dusk with no concerns. This property’s isolation unsettled yet pleased her. But then, those emotions often warred inside. Dr. Brenner wondered why she obsessively pursued things that troubled her. She had yet to give him a satisfactory answer.
Smith and Bair came out of the trailer, jibing and laughing, the visible ease of their friendship reminiscent of what she had once shared with Smith, the last time she’d let anyone get that close.
She had acquired her assistant, Genie, in the same way as the cat she mostly called hers—a chance encounter and a mutual need. She appreciated her hardworking crews and knew they liked working for her. With the exception of one neighbor, the people in her small mountain community were all friendly with her, and yet the only person who knew the inner workings of her mind was Dr. Brenner. She wondered sometimes if she made more of his compassionate affection than actually existed.
While Bair climbed behind the wheel of the Rover, Smith joined her. “At this point in the day it probably makes sense to take both cars to the restaurant. We can fill you in over lunch, and then you can check into the inn for the night.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want me to ride along?”
“No thanks. I’ll follow you.”
He looked as though he might say more, then shrugged and climbed in beside Bair. Opening the car door, she released a slow breath. She could do this. With very clear boundaries, she could do this. She started the engine with a sense of purpose bolstered by a firm determination to stay focused on the project, which really was as exciting as Smith had said.
Maybe Smith’s offer to ride along had less to do with accompanying her and more to do with Bair’s driving. The moment they turned onto the two-lane highway, he took off through the woods, past slate blue inlets, fields, and scattered houses as though the country road were a Grand Prix course. That kind of aggression could come out in brawls, she supposed, though if Bair hadn’t hidden his knuckles, she would have thought Smith exaggerated. Now she caught a glimpse of the bear.
He turned at a post office and mini-mart and parked a short distance up the side road in the narrow lot of a faded lavender Victorian house. The hand-painted sign out front read Ellie’s Teashop. Not exactly the locale for a power lunch. At least Smith wasn’t trying to impress.
He held open the door to the flowery foyer and acknowledged her wry glance with a tilt of his head. “Bair’s got a thing for Ellie’s granddaughter.”
“I’ve not got a thing.” Bair’s face flushed as an agin
g woman approached.
“Well, who’ve you brought with you today?” Her peachy cheeks crinkled into her warm smile.
Smith returned the smile. “This is Tessa Young, Ellie. She’s on my design team.”
Though she had not signed the contract, Smith knew she would take the bait and swallow the hook whole. She wished she could be like the wise old bass in the bottom of the pond, but the shiny lure he dangled was too tempting.
“You’re a builder too?”
“A landscape architect.”
“Oh, I love gardening.”
Tessa didn’t say her profession required a great deal of technical expertise. It was enough that Ellie had called Smith a builder. They followed their hostess to a table tucked into a bay window, though they could have had their choice of empty seats.
The parlor room had a fussy, feminine charm. Sprigs of silk lilac graced the lacy tables set with china and silver. Even in that setting Smith managed to look appropriate. Bair looked like Babar the elephant in a dollhouse as he hunkered down at the finely set table. Smith pulled out her chair, reminding her how it was to be with a gentleman. She quickly recovered. No matter how courteous, he had ultimately failed in elemental chivalry.
“So.” Smith lifted the menu. “The turkey croissant is excellent.”
Not fair that he recalled her old standby or assumed she had not developed other tastes. He’d learn soon enough that she was not the girl who had seen in him all that she wanted to become. Instead she’d become herself, and while there might be areas she could improve, she didn’t need Smith’s hand to do it.
Bair’s napkin slid off his lap and he bumped the table retrieving it. “My favorite is the pesto chicken on ciabatta.”
Tessa glanced up. “You guys eat here often?”
Bair’s ruddy cheeks deepened a shade. “We’ve only been on-site two weeks, but Ellie’s, uh, reminds me of home.”
“So, yes.” Smith set down his menu. “Every lunch we’ve had out.”
Tessa glanced at the choices, saw a grilled salmon on field greens salad, and set the menu aside. Smith was buying, after all, and she’d never seen him counting pennies. “Well, I suppose we should get down to business.”
Before they could, a waitress came over with a pot of tea and filled their cups. Tessa would have preferred it iced, but the girl had merely brushed her with a glance that imitated contact without connecting. Her focus stayed firmly on the guys, making her priorities clear.
“Ready to order?” Her kinky red hair had been tortured into braids and wound tightly at her nape. Her eyes were the color of cornflowers, and the copper lashes provided an extraordinary complement in an otherwise unremarkable face.
The moment she’d approached the table, Bair had gone completely still. This was the granddaughter he liked?
Tessa ordered her salad and Smith toasted cheese with a tuna- stuffed tomato. Bair cleared his throat, the flush creeping up his neck like dye. Tessa had the urge to slap his back to clear the words that seemed literally caught in his throat.
The waitress waited, pencil to her pad, then looked up. “Your usual?”
He nodded. She jotted it down and left.
Smith laid his napkin across his lap. “Now that you’ve realized what an exceptional opportunity I’ve landed, I—”
“How did you land it anyway?” With his focus on commercial development, he didn’t seem the likely choice. Unless that had changed.
“Through my father initially.”
“The barrister?”
“He’s a solicitor.”
“Oh, that’s right. A gown but no wig.” He had explained the difference at length after she’d succumbed to giggles at the thought of an older Smith in a powdered wig.
“Just a suit now that he’s practicing out of the New York office.”
Smith’s dual citizenship by descent from a British dad and an American mother, his American birth and London rearing, had been confusing enough. “Now your dad’s an American too?”
“No. It’s an international firm. He transferred several years ago when Mum had enough of London living.”
“I see.”
“Dad handled some legal affairs for the property owner, and when his client needed an architect he contacted me. The client liked what I did with the preliminary sketches, and here we are.”
She understood referral. Most of her schedule she filled by word of mouth. And since Smith knew most of the world personally and had charmed at least half, he must have some pretty good word of mouth going for him. “I thought you were all about big professional complexes. Why this residential project?”
“It’s an extensive residence. And impressing the owner here could lead to commercial opportunities.”
“Who is the owner?” She lifted the teacup, breathing in the Earl Grey aroma that brought back the days when Smith’s British customs had charmed her.
“A casino mogul and hotelier, Rumer Gaston.”
“And Petra,” Bair interjected. “Don’t forget her.”
His tone piqued her interest. “Petra?” She looked from one to the other.
Smith nodded. “Petra Sorenson. Gaston’s fiancée.”
“And a supermodel,” Bair added.
“She must be beautiful.”
“Stunning,” Bair said.
“In an extreme sort of way.” Smith shot him a glance. “Gaston’s signing the checks, but Petra seems to be taking a personal interest.” He frowned. “It could get messy.”
“Shouldn’t she be personally interested?”
“As long as they’re in agreement.” Smith sipped his tea. “Gaston envisioned this project before he met Petra, and we’ve already hammered out his concept.”
“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 fres
h 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?”
The Edge of Recall Page 3
