Blueprints: A Novel (44 page)

Lacking chainmail, she went with the black flared skirt, peplum jacket, and ivory tank that she had bought for Roy’s funeral. The outfit was as close as she owned to clothing that was both executive, as in I-am-MacAfee-Homes-take-me-seriously, and feminine. She did own slacks and blouses that she had recently worn to meetings calling for more than carpentry gear. But she thought the funeral outfit stylish and young, and Dean thought it sexy—not that that counted for anything other than making her feel attractive.

Actually, it did count for something.

Actually, it counted for a lot. The more attractive she felt, the more confident she would be. There were moments—fleeting, here and gone, back in an hour or two—when she still wondered what in the devil she was doing with her life. She was a carpenter. Her specialty was working with wood. She was happiest under a veil of sawdust in the quiet of her garage, not negotiating Boston traffic in Theo’s Caddy sedan, which he had insisted she drive. Yet here she was, dressed for business, following a GPS in a spanking clean and quite comfortable car, and it wasn’t all bad. Interspersed with those moments of doubt were ones that said she was growing, trying new things, evolving. The terror she would have felt doing Theo’s bidding even a month or two before was now mixed with anticipation.

She hadn’t seen Herschel Oakes in more than a decade. After he had sold his Williston house and moved to Boston, there was no more running into him at Fiona’s or the town dump, and while she had absolutely no personal interest in the man, she wanted him to think her a powerful woman. Powerful women who were also stylish, youthful, and sexy were impressive. If he was impressed, he might be inclined to help her.

Call her backward. Call her politically incorrect. Call her an embarrassment to every feminist in New England.

But she wanted the Weymouth land.

Herschel’s firm occupied two floors of office space in the Financial District. The elevator that zipped her up had a brassy gleam, the twelfth-floor lobby was done up in a handsome navy lit by a wall of windows overlooking the city, and once her presence was intercommed through, the man who came out to greet her was as impeccably dressed as ever. His suit was Italian, making him look slimmer than she recalled, and his salt-and-pepper hair remained thick. But he looked much older. His skin didn’t have the high color it used to, and his eyes, though still dark brown, were tired.

Older didn’t disturb her, but something about him did.

After giving her a light hug, he guided her back to his office. A large mahogany desk dominated the space, but he passed up its high-backed chair—his throne, she thought dryly—and took the companion armchair to hers, where he folded one knee over the other and sat back. Surprisingly polite, he asked about Theo and Jamie, and congratulated her on her the success of
Gut It!
When he expressed condolences on Roy’s death, adding as a caveat that he hadn’t known Roy well and had never particularly trusted the man, she didn’t reply. But when he told her how good she looked and tacked on “Roy’s death must be agreeing with you,” she couldn’t be still.

She opened her mouth to protest.

He beat her to it. “I’m sorry.” He actually looked sheepish. “That was mean-spirited. It’s hard to change a lifetime of crass remarks. But I am trying.”

“Why?” she asked, still startled.

He did a thing with his mouth that said it wasn’t important and moved on. “So. You’re interested in the Weymouth property.”

Three times in the course of their one failed date he had complained about people wasting his time. She remembered it clearly, in part because he had been so focused on himself the rest of the evening that she had gone home convinced her own time had been wasted. So it didn’t surprise her when he cut to the chase now. This was the man she remembered, and this was why she had come.

“MacAfee Homes would like to buy it.”

“Before someone else does.”

“If that’s the case. We’ve been eying that land since Mildred died. We hoped we’d get a fair shot at it once the brothers decided what they want to do. Lately, the name Barth is cropping up a little too often. Is there a deal?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if there was?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t share details, of course.”

“Of course.” More lightly, she added, “But can you tell me if anyone named Barth has sat in this chair in, say, the last six months?”

“They’ve tried. The Weymouth brothers aren’t ready to act yet.”

“Is it just a matter of waiting for the right offer?”

“I don’t know,” he surprised her by saying—surprised, because it seemed too honest an answer for the wily lawyer she remembered Hersch Oakes to be. That man would have hedged, simply to imply that the right offer would have to be high. If he were on top of his game, the man she had known would mention a recent golf outing with one of the Weymouths, to let her know how close they were.

If he were on top of his game,
came an echo.

Her gut said he wasn’t. Something about him was muted, as if he were a windup toy whose key needed turning. Perhaps he had just mellowed, but if so, it was unexpected.

“Are you okay?” she asked gently. “You seem—” She hesitated, not wanting to offend.

“Seem what?”

“Tame,” she sang out, deliberately making it sound like a high compliment.

His brown eyes were steady. “Isn’t that what life does as you age? You’re aging. Aren’t you more tame?”

She didn’t have to weigh that for long. Strength, daring, passion—all had been front and center in her mind of late. “Actually, I think I’m bolder. But if I’d been as brash as you fifteen years ago, maybe I’d be tame by comparison now, too.”

“Brash, huh?” His smile was wry. “I should have expected that from you. It was one of the reasons we were wrong for each other. You were totally honest and I was totally not. You saw right through me.”

“Only partly this time. Something’s different with you.”

“And with you.”

“If not now, when?” Caroline quipped in offhanded explanation, realizing only after she said them how true the words were. Wasn’t she at an age where if she didn’t try something, didn’t do something new, didn’t dare to push the envelope, she never would? Hosting
Gut It!
had been a challenge. She hadn’t dreamed she could do it until she actually did it. Now that she faced losing it, she was discovering other things she could do, like pleasing Dean Brannick in bed. Like playing CEO. Even like arguing with Jamie.

Thinking of the last, she felt a painful curl near her heart. Needing to get back to the here and now, she eyed him and said, “Menopause. That’s my excuse. What’s yours?”

He huffed a soft chuckle at her response. When she didn’t add anything, he said, “Ach,” and waved his hand, though his wrist didn’t leave the arm of the chair, “just tired.”

“Just?”

“Cancer, actually.” She gasped, but he went on. “I was diagnosed three years ago. The treatment was aggressive. Right now, I’m in remission. It will kill me eventually, assuming a client doesn’t kill me first.”

“I’m sorry,” Caroline breathed. “I had no idea.”

“No one did. That was the point. It was important to maintain the appearance of strength. Unfortunately, my energy level has never quite gotten back to where it was.” He grimaced, bared his teeth, shook his head. “Now, there is another not quite honest remark. My conscience is what took the hit. When you face mortality, you start looking at your life, and when you overhear things like ‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,’ or ‘I want his office the minute he checks out,’ you start taking stock of where you’ve been.”

Caroline didn’t have to like the man to feel compassion. “People can be cold-hearted.”

“If that’s the example set for them by their mentors,” he said with audible self-recrimination. “But the slowing down hasn’t been a total waste. I’ve gotten to know my daughters. I have five grandchildren now.”

“Five.”

A smile softened his fatigue. “Two boys and three girls. They’re pistols.”

She eyed the photographs on the credenza. Most were of young children caught in spirited moments. “If they’re pistols, they take after their grandfather,” she remarked.

“Their grandfather made it work only to a point.” He shot her an amused frown. “Why am I telling you this?”

“Maybe because we go back.”

“It won’t get you the Weymouth land,” he warned smoothly. “I don’t care how hard up MacAfee Homes is—”

“We’re not hard up.”

“Then why fight for that land?”

“Because it’s a breathtaking parcel.”

“It’ll cost you a fortune.”

“It’ll make us a fortune.”

“Well,” he said and took a minute, seeming energized now as he regained command, “you may be barking up the wrong tree, because I’m not the one who owns the place. If I was, I’d have sold it months ago.”

“It’s that much of a drain on the trust fund?”

Lacing his fingers over his middle, he studied her with amusement. “I didn’t say that. I said if I owned it, that’s what I would do. I sold my place in Palm Beach—you knew I had one, didn’t you? I held it longer than I should have. It was a greedy mother that cost a bloody fortune to keep looking good even when there was no one there, which was most of the time—but it had the right address and was just off the fifteenth hole. It was a great place to entertain. Evening guests, weekend guests, I’m telling you, you have no idea what you missed. I had a live-in cook who could prepare gourmet dinners for twenty, hell, sometimes thirty. When you offer guests a free meal that’s better than the one they can get at the club—” He stopped, closed one eye, grunted. “There I go again.”

Talking about himself. She smiled kindly, remembering that long-ago date.

He tipped his head. “If you owned the Weymouth estate, what would you do?”

Caroline didn’t mistake his casual curiosity for anything other than what it was, namely an invitation for her to make her case for MacAfee Homes buying that land. So she began with the company’s roots and ended with its love of Williston, and in between she spoke of Jamie’s award-winning designs, other local projects they had done, the roster of local craftsmen they used, and the possibility of
Gut It!
involvement. “If the Weymouths choose MacAfee Homes,” she concluded, after covering all of her major points, “they’ll be guaranteed a quality product that will preserve the spirit of their childhood home.”

“What spirit is that?”

“Elegance. Success. Beauty. Warmth.”

“The Weymouths aren’t any of those things.”

She smiled. “But I bet they wish they were. Home development is about wishful thinking. It’s about capturing a dream.”

“That sounds very pretty.”

Turning mockery to her advantage, she said, “It will be very pretty. We’ve done this before, Hersch. We know this land, we know this town, we know this business. We get things done, and we’re willing to work with your clients to make them comfortable with everything we do. We’d like to meet with them. Can you arrange that?”

She imagined she saw a glimmer of admiration before he put on his game face again and clicked his tongue. “That may be tough. Like I said, they’re not ready to act.”

“That,”
she said, coming forward, “is because they haven’t talked with us yet. You said it yourself. The trust fund is taking a hit.”

“I didn’t say that. You did.”

“And you didn’t deny it,” she countered. Facing this man who, regardless of its cause, wasn’t quite the demon she remembered him to be, she felt surprisingly strong. It struck her that she was almost enjoying herself. “You just told me about your place in West Palm. Given the weather up here, the Weymouth house has to cost far more than that one to heat. Throw in electricity, the cost of a live-in caretaker, the standard lawn cutting and snow plowing, homeowners insurance, alarm company fees, and property taxes—should I go on?—and it adds up.”

He whistled softly. “You’re good.”

Studying him, she sat back. “
Are
you mocking me?”

“No,” he said. “I’m thinking that I may have missed something in you.”

It was high flattery, she supposed, though she couldn’t return the compliment. Even mellowed, the man held less personal appeal for her now than he had then. Zero chemistry was an understatement, now that she knew what real chemistry was. Dean was such a total
man
compared to Herschel Oakes.

But that counted for nothing when it came to the land she wanted. Herschel was the man here, and she couldn’t offend. Laughing softly, she raised a hand. “Oh, I am not touching that, but trust me, when it comes to the company that will do the best job in developing the Weymouth acreage, I’m right. The Barths don’t have a feel for this land or this town, and as for your clients not being ready, Ralph hasn’t gotten his act together enough to send a crew out to even look at the property in the year since his mother died, John may want the house for himself but will never be able to pay the trust as much as we can, and Grant is so desperate for money that he’ll take
any
sale.”

She wouldn’t have dared be this blunt with a nonfriend, but her knowing all this told Herschel Oakes that she hadn’t come on a whim.

“Here’s the thing, though,” she went on, striking while the iron was hot. “We want to act quickly. Arrange a meeting, and we’ll talk money and designs and whether the brothers want the land featured on our show, but now’s the time, Hersch.”

“You want a preemptive deal.”

She nodded. “We do.”

“Why right now? Is this a play to show the world that the company can survive without Roy?”

“No. We know others are interested in it. We want that land before someone else gets it, because we know we’re the best ones to develop it.”

“Why are
you
here? Last I heard, you were a carpenter. Isn’t that what you are on the show?”

Ignoring the put-down, she smiled. “Ever watch it?”

“Reality TV? I think not.”

“You should watch ours. It’s good.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Herschel countered smoothly. “Why you? Is it because we have a little, uh, itty-bitty little bit of history together, so Theo felt you could sway me for old times’ sake?”