“What if I refuse?” he asked quietly. “What if I call your stuffed shirt myself and tell him T&B has changed its mind?”
Gary moved to the front of the desk and leaned back against it, facing his friend with a mixture of concern and determination on his face. “We risk losing his business.”
Beck turned on his partner, eyebrows raised, ready to make that sacrifice, but Gary put up his hand in caution. “This is just one contract, Beck. But the guy owns half the historical properties in that part of the world. It might be hundreds of thousands—maybe millions—we’re throwing away. Not to mention getting our foot in the door of a European market.”
Beck leaned back against the window. “Why’d you do it?”
“Why did I commit?” Gary pursed his lips for a moment. “Because you need to get away from here. And because you’re the right guy for the project. And it wasn’t going to happen unless I—me, your business partner—took the initiative.”
“It’s a straightforward renovation gig. Any one of our guys could head it up.”
“Number one, castle renovations are never straightforward, and number two, none of our guys have been project managers for jobs this size. None of them are the master craftsman you are, and none of them speak the language.”
A long silence settled over the office. An antique grandfather clock ticked sullenly in the corner, a gift from one of their most prestigious clients.
Beck finally spoke, weariness in his voice. “So you think I need to get away from here.”
“And the sooner the better.” Gary pushed off the desk and moved to stand by his friend at the window, staring out as night fell over the stately homes of Arlington Street. “Seriously, Beck. You’re the one who can pull this off. He doesn’t want industrial efficiency. He wants traditional workmanship. You’re the best guy for that.”
“Not by myself—not this big of a job.”
“He’s got crews there who can do the bigger stuff. You’ll oversee the project and personally take care of the more tricky renovations.”
Beck nodded and pressed his lips into a hard line.
“It’s what you do best,” Gary repeated. “It’s what your passion was at Dartmouth—before you became the tyrannical moron you are now.”
The men stared at each other for long moments.
“I want lodging on-site.”
“So you can avoid sleeping by working all night?”
Beck raised an eyebrow.
“Done,” Gary conceded. “I’ll talk to the owner myself.”
“Meals provided.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged.”
“Transportation?”
Gary winced. “You can’t drive here, so why should you drive there?”
“Because my DUI doesn’t count over there?”
“They have taxis. Use them. We’re not in any shape to deal with a lawsuit if you tangle with French policemen.”
“Fine, but T&B foots the bills.”
“Done.”
The two men stared each other down, Gary’s blue gaze holding Becker’s amber glare without the slightest trace of capitulation.
“You’re talking about a pretty big step here,” Beck finally mumbled.
“It’ll do you good.”
“And you know that because . . . ?”
“Trish told me it will,” Gary said. Trish was the sweetest woman Beck had ever met, and he wondered how she’d put up with Gary for nearly ten years.
“You bypassed me completely on this one.”
“For your own good, Beck. Come on—give it a shot.”
Beck shook his head and stared up at the ceiling.
“What do you have to lose?” his friend added.
That was just it. He had nothing to lose. Except frustrating jobs, tedious social engagements, and endless nights staring at his TV or computer screen. “What do you gain from this?” he finally asked.
Gary shrugged. “Not sure. But this is about you, man. And the welfare of the contractors you’ve been terrorizing.” He shrugged when Beck cut him a disparaging look. “I can’t afford to lose another one to emotional distress. Not good for business.”
“You’re full of it,” Beck mumbled.
“Besides—Trish’s been planning an intervention for months now. So that’s your option. Either you go off to France like a good little boy and bring in some dough for our retirement funds, or you stay here and have a horde of do-gooders descend on you to commit you to a Doofus Anonymous center.”
Beck rolled his eyes. “Nobody says doofus.”
“I’m an innovator.”
“You’re full of it.”
“So you’ve said.”
Beck leveled a laser-sharp stare at his friend and held it for a moment. They squared off like wrestlers in a ring, both above six feet and built like quarterbacks. If things had ever come to blows, it was anybody’s guess who would have come out on top. “Don’t ever overstep me again,” Beck said with unmistakable gravity. “Not for my own good. Not for T&B’s good. We’re equal partners. Just be happy I’m in the mood for a change of scenery this time.”
“Agreed.” Gary went around the desk and retrieved a manila folder from one of the drawers, then slid it across to Beck. “Here’s what you need to know. Ticket’s in there too. You leave February 2, two weeks from tomorrow.”
“Are you kiddin’ me?”
“First class. To Paris. Stop your whining.”
Beck leafed through the documents in the file and took a closer look at several photos. “This is big,” he said without looking up.
“But you love it, right? Do I know you or do I know you?”
Beck pointed at his friend with the folder. “If this thing goes bust, the blame’s on you.”
“Fair enough.”
Beck moved toward the door, grabbing his jacket off a leather chair and casting a disparaging glance at Gary’s shoes. “And buy some real shoes, will you?” he said. “Those shiny Italian things are for sissies.”
“You know what, Beck? Go to—”
“France? Why, I believe I will.” He gave his partner the you-owe-me-one look that had gotten them through the worst hurdles of their collaboration and opened the door.
The two weeks before Beck’s departure passed in a frenzy of work-related pressures—tying up loose ends on nearly finished projects, handing others off to collaborators, and postponing those that didn’t require immediate attention. Beck and Gary pored over what few blueprints they had of the castle in France, comparing visions and arriving at creative compromises that were both pragmatic and artistic. There was little they could truly predict from a continent away, but what could be anticipated was meticulously planned out. Turning a castle into a high-class hotel and restaurant, of course, was primarily a business proposition, but the hotel needed to be true to its origins if it was going to attract the clientele its owner hoped for.
Beck entered the Lucky Leprechaun two days before his departure and took a stool at the end of the bar.
“Hey there, Beck,” Jimmy said from the other side of the counter. “The usual?”
“Yup.”
“Knockin’ off early?” Jimmy asked, cutting a glance at the Miller Lite clock on the wall above the door.
“Just pour the beer.”
The bartender saluted. “Aye, aye, sir.”
There was some pleasure in watching the foam pour over the top of the tall glass and edge down its side, eventually soaking into the coaster’s smiling leprechaun.
“Just past three and boozin’ it up? What are we celebrating?” Leslie asked, sliding onto the stool next to his.
“My partner’s insanity.”
“Well, here’s to the productively insane! If you two get any more successful, you’re going to have to develop big-shot attitudes.” Beck raised an eyebrow at her. “Never mind. That ship has sailed.” She lifted a hand to get Jimmy’s attention and pointed at Beck’s beer. “One more.”
Becker’s eyes were on
a recap of a Celtics game on the TV screen in the far corner of the room, but his mind was on the chore at hand. He hated this kind of thing. The artificial sincerity of cutting ties with the unimportant. He glanced at Leslie. Her eyes were on the game, her manicured fingers idly turning the glass of beer in front of her. Quarter turn, quarter turn, quarter turn. Her platinum hair was overteased and sprayed hard. Her makeup was garish—too bold and somehow geometric to actually flatter. Her business suit was expensive and sleek, cut to enhance her toned and trim physique. If he kept his eyes on that and away from her calculating gaze, he was okay. But if he met her dollar-sign stare for more than a few seconds at a time, the beer soured in his stomach.
“So talk fast—I’m between meetings. What’s Gary’s harebrained scheme this time?” she asked, swiveling toward him on her stool, legs crossed, the tip of her foot sliding around his calf. “Turning another dilapidated factory into a schooner museum?”
Beck turned to dislodge her foot. He dispensed with subtlety—wasn’t in the mood for it anyway. “I’m heading to France. For a few months. Big project for one of Gary’s contacts.”
Leslie raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Nice. Can I come along?”
On the television screen, Paul Pierce took a shot from the top of the key and failed to make a basket. “I leave in two days. Thought you should know.”
There was a pause while Leslie absorbed the information. Then she leaned in, her mouth close to his neck, and whispered, “Guess we’d better make the most of the time we have left, huh, slugger?”
The beer on her breath repulsed him. The way she touched his thigh did too. Then again, he’d never been more than mildly intrigued by her. Theirs was a cynical arrangement of convenience and distraction. He got the distraction and she got the . . . He wasn’t sure what she got, actually. It wasn’t predictability and it certainly wasn’t entertainment. More often than not, they used more words ordering their drinks than they did having a conversation. That’s where the convenience came into play. Hours of company and no need for small talk. Didn’t get any better than that.
“Actually,” he said, taking a long swallow from his glass, “I’m going to be swamped, so . . .”
“There are a lot of hours in a couple of days,” she insisted, her voice dropping a notch or two as she traced the veins on the top of his hand with a fingertip. Whoever said a person couldn’t live on hope alone had never met Leslie. She’d known him for several months and still lived with the delusion that she’d get him into bed. “What are you—a monk?” she’d asked one night, when he’d driven her home in the wee hours after a protracted cocktail party and dropped her at the curb. He’d driven off without answering, watching in his rearview mirror as she stomped her foot on the wet sidewalk. But she’d recovered fast enough and somehow made peace with the situation. As long as they played with fire on a regular basis, she seemed happy to be his drinking partner and social accessory. Suited him just fine.
Beck downed the last of his beer and dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the polished surface of the bar. He stood, grabbed his jacket off the stool next to him and moved toward the door.
“What—no ‘See ya later’? No ‘Nice knowin’ you’?” Leslie swiveled on her stool, hands out in amazement, a flush of red high on her cheeks.
Beck gave her a long look, racking his mind for something meaningful to say. But he could no more validate their relationship with declarations than he could end it with regret. He shrugged, averted his eyes, and turned to go.
It hadn’t taken long for Beck to say the rest of his good-byes. Most of them had required no more than a few words of instruction and a casual wave. Such was the nature of his friendships. They were about work or about distraction. Period. They didn’t keep him warm at night, but they sure made transcontinental moves less complicated.
THÉRÈSE GALLET FUMBLED with the oversize key and carried on a flurry of conversation as she tried to unlock the castle’s front door. Beck stood by with waning patience. He’d been through the same drill minutes before at the castle’s main gate, and the routine was getting old. Jet lag was weighing him down, and Thérèse’s inefficiency was stoking the kind of anger that made him miss his punching bag.
Thérèse spoke English with the crisp, staccato diction of a chirping bird. They had started out in French as they drove from the train station in Chantilly to Lamorlaye, but when fatigue had interfered with Beck’s rusty linguistic skills, they had switched easily to the language he’d spoken since his parents had moved from Canada to Chicago when he was only ten.
“All the château’s doors need to be replaced,” Thérèse twittered, her fingers easing the key in and out of the lock, turning, then turning again, hoping to catch the ancient mechanism hidden inside the antique white door. “It’s really quite astounding that there hasn’t been more vandalism in all these years,” she said, her voice sharp and high-pitched, her eyes unfocused as she leaned into her task. She was a slight woman, probably pushing sixty, but she moved with a speed and an erect posture that belied her age.
Beck peered through the window while Thérèse fumbled with the lock. He tuned out her babbling and squinted into the shadows beyond the castle’s door. He saw a sweep of stairs framed by an archway, stone floors, and little else. Thérèse had explained on the way to Lamorlaye that Gavin Fallon, a British expatriate and wealthy real estate tycoon, had purchased the dilapidated property several months before and had only recently decided to begin the renovation process.
“Eureka!” Thérèse cried when the key finally turned. She pushed down on the brass handle and motioned for Beck to precede her inside. “Here it is,” she said with a more dramatic flourish than Beck thought necessary. “It’s not much to look at right now, but it does have potential, wouldn’t you say? Look at those carved banisters. And these windows! Here—let me switch on the light so you can have a better look.” She hurried over to the wall next to the door and flipped a switch.
Beck had somehow expected more than a single bulb hanging from a wire to illuminate the space. But there it was—as out of place in this historical context as a corn dog at the Ritz. And sadly, all it did was further reveal the castle’s disrepair.
“How old is this place?” Beck asked, interrupting Thérèse’s chatter.
She took a notebook from her purse and flipped through a few pages. “I thought you might want some historical background,” she said, smiling pertly. “I jotted down some notes that you might find interesting.” She seemed proud of herself, a trait Becker found annoying. When she’d turned to the desired page, she said, “It’s quite complicated, really. The foundations date back to . . . it looks like the twelfth century. It was a fortress, originally.”
“The twelfth century?” Beck was stunned.
“Yes, but the current structure is much more recent. The fortress was mostly destroyed during the Hundred Years’ War.”
Beck shook his head, astounded.
“You’ve heard of that, I’m sure?”
Ignoring her question, he pursed his lips and stepped farther into the entryway, taking stock of the limestone walls and the detailing on the staircase. He’d pictured something old by American standards, but this felt more like archeology than architecture.
“The part we’re standing in was rebuilt during the Renaissance,” Thérèse continued, “and it looks like the final restoration . . .” She flipped some more, tucking back a strand of graying hair that had escaped from her rather austere chignon. “Yes, that’s right. The final restoration came in 1872. It was really quite extensive, as you’ll see. They added the entire north wing and modernized the overall look of the castle.” She glanced up at Beck and frowned at the disbelief she saw on his face. “I’m sorry—were you not aware that the structure was . . . historical?”
“Oh no,” Beck assured her, shaking his head and looking around at the centuries-old walls within which he stood. “I knew it was a historical monument. It’s just . . . In the States, anything that pred
ates McDonald’s is considered ancient history.”
Thérèse looked around too, but she appeared to be scanning for rodents more than admiring the decor. “Well, yes. Of course. It’s quite old. And dusty. And damaged.” She pointed at the graffiti-covered walls, the broken windowpanes, the yellowed marble floors, and the evidence of a fire on the grand staircase. “I’m not sure Monsieur Fallon understood the full scope of the challenge, taking on this renovation, but I presume it will keep us all busy for . . . a while.”
Beck stopped listening. He was picturing the finished product in his mind and calculating what it would require to see the work to completion.
“Of course, how you’re going to accomplish it all by April is a mystery to me,” Thérèse said. “But I’m sure you know exactly what you’re doing.”
It took a moment for what she’d said to register, but when it did, Beck snapped his head around and squinted in the half-light. “Did you say April?”
“Well, yes, I . . .” Thérèse was flustered. She consulted her notebook again and nodded. “Yes. It says it right here. Monsieur Fallon wants it finished by the twenty-third of April, for his wife’s fortieth birthday.”
“You’re a dead man, Gary,” Becker muttered under his breath as he turned away from Thérèse, hands on hips, and contemplated the enormity of the task ahead of him.
“Pardon me?”
He raised his arms out to his sides and turned in a slow circle. “There is absolutely no way that I can get this place ready in three months. None!” He brushed disintegrated mortar from between the angle stones in the wall nearest him and watched it sift down to the floor. “Look at that!” He turned on Thérèse, his voice rising in frustration. “And that staircase?” he continued, striding over to the cherrywood structure and pointing at the large area of carved wood that had been destroyed by a fire. “This is hand-carved. We’re talking dozens of man-hours just to fix that three-foot gap!”
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