Provenance

by Carla Laureano

  “Yeah, yeah.” In his heart, he knew there was something to Delia’s words, but he couldn’t deal with that right now. Or maybe wouldn’t. “I’ve got other news you might be interested in, but first I have to know if I’m paying for my own coffee.”

  Delia smiled. “It’s on the house. You’re just pathetic enough to qualify.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “So what’s the news?”

  “We found the plans for the Lakeshore houses, or at least one of them. A British architect named Jasper Green.”

  Delia’s eyebrows flew up. “Interesting. Do you think the town was named after him?”

  “It’s entirely possible. That’s the next order of business, to try to dig up some information on who he was and where he came from. But this is the very break we’ve been waiting for. Either way, I think we can make a case for the historical significance of the houses and stop the rezoning.”

  “That’s great news, Gabe. I’m so happy.” The front door dinged as another customer entered, and Delia rose from the table. “Keep me posted, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  He sat there and sipped his Americano, mulling over what Delia had said before he could be tempted to shift away from the uncomfortable topic. Was he really confusing love with his desire to help?

  He couldn’t deny the possibility. After all, wasn’t his talent envisioning how things could be, rather than how things were? It’s why he’d chosen his career, why he’d run for mayor, why he wanted to save the houses. He had grand visions of the future, what he could accomplish with a little work and time. And if he were honest, mostly what he felt right now was run-of-the-mill attraction. It seemed crass to call it lust, but he didn’t know Kendall well enough to know if he loved her. He just knew that there was a connection he wanted to explore, a possible future in which they could be happy together.

  And he simply didn’t want to give up that vision of the future.

  He downed the rest of his coffee and pushed away from the table. There were multiple versions of the future, and he didn’t want to see the one where Main Street Mocha was replaced by corporate chains and potentially important pieces of Colorado architecture were destroyed in favor of a summer resort.

  It was time to get to work.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  THE MATERIALS THAT SOPHIE HAD SENT her might not be a truckload, but they were definitely more than a backpack full. Kendall ripped off the packing tape and opened the box, taking out the heavy books two by two. Some of them were academic tomes on the history of the Arts and Crafts movement. Some were books on Craftsman furniture, Morris wallpaper designs, and the architectural variations of the style. And then there were a handful of catalogs from Christie’s and Sotheby’s auctions from the last several decades. How Sophie had managed to determine which ones were relevant, Kendall had no idea. Unless she’d actually gone through each and every one . . . which, knowing her former assistant turned designer, was entirely possible.

  Kendall started with the architecture books, plopping on her bed and dragging one heavy volume after another onto her lap. Even just skimming the contents, hours passed before she got through them all without even a single mention of Jasper Green.

  She blew a stray tendril from her face in frustration. She’d been banking on there being some information on him somewhere. She’d even take a photo of woodwork that was similar as a direction to start hunting down information. Architectural styles didn’t develop in a vacuum, after all.

  For one mad second, she was tempted to call Gabe and ask him to come over and help her sort through the mess. But he’d made it pretty clear what he thought about her. Maybe he didn’t bear her any ill will, but he certainly wasn’t interested in her beyond her relationship to the houses and what their sale could mean for the town. She dumped the last heavy book off her lap and dragged the next one onto it.

  She was about to call it impossible when she lifted a slim book—little more than a pamphlet, really—that she’d picked up at a conference in England long ago. It was poorly printed and bound, clearly the efforts of an antiques professional who had no publishing knowledge, but she remembered thinking that the information in it was solid. It was about the Art Workers’ Guild, a society formed in Britain to bring together practitioners of both the fine arts and the applied arts on equal footing—a little-known outgrowth of William Morris’s ideals, if not his specific tastes. Kendall found herself sucked into the history, half-forgetting what she was supposed to be looking for as she read about the early masters of the guild and their philosophies. And then, halfway through the pamphlet, she came across this passage:

  In the spirit of the guild’s philosophy that there should be no dividing line between art and architecture, many of its earliest members were both accomplished architects and fine artists. One member that clearly expressed the tension of the era was Jasper Green, a sculptor, decorative artist, and architect who defected from the Royal Academy because of their increasing hostility toward the applied arts.

  Kendall’s heart rose into her throat, losing its rhythm for what felt like an eternity. She quickly skimmed the rest of the short book, this time having her eyes attuned only for the name, but Jasper Green never surfaced again.

  But he existed. He was an architect, sculptor, and applied artist—the old term for what they now called industrial design. She knew he was once a member of the Royal Academy and the Art Workers’ Guild, which meant she’d been right about him being British. Of course, it still told her nothing about how he’d ended up in America, building houses with Carpenter Gothic exteriors and Craftsman interiors, but at least it was a start.

  It was a confirmation.

  Kendall jumped off the bed and lunged for her phone. At this moment, she no longer cared about her vow not to contact Gabe, not when she had a solution to their problems. She dialed his number and didn’t even wait for him to say hello. “I’ve got it, Gabe! Jasper Green was a member of the Art Workers’ Guild in London in the 1880s. That makes these houses significant both for the architecture and the age. We can apply to have them placed on the National Register of Historic Places.”

  The line stayed quiet, and for a second, she thought he’d hung up on her. Then he replied, his voice careful, “And how long will that take?”

  “It varies from state to state, but usually about ninety days. Why?”

  He cleared his throat. “We don’t have ninety days, Kendall. They’re scheduled to be condemned in thirty.”

  Twenty minutes later, Kendall and Gabe claimed a quiet corner table in Main Street Mocha, the decision to meet on neutral ground almost automatic. Ever since Gabe’s pronouncement, Kendall’s brain had been spinning. How could the houses be condemned, and why hadn’t she been notified as the owner?

  No, that was far more coherent than what she was mostly thinking: Why? Why? How? Why?

  Delia looked between them curiously when she set down their drinks, but she didn’t interrupt. Kendall ignored the peppermint mocha and pitched her voice low, below the buzz of the coffeehouse. “So what do you mean my houses are being condemned?”

  Gabe pulled out a folded piece of paper, which looked like it had been crumpled and then smoothed out again. “Burton delivered it to my office as a ‘courtesy,’ which really means that he wanted to gloat about it. Apparently he found out that we have the original plans for the houses and that there have been changes made to them. There aren’t any permits on file for the changes. That, combined with the foundation issues . . . you’ll have a notice tacked on the door by the end of tomorrow, if it’s not there already.”

  Kendall sat back, stunned. “I don’t understand. How did he find out so quickly? We only just found the plans today.”

  “My guess? Mike ran into him and bragged about finding the plans. I’m sure he didn’t think it could hurt us, but he underestimated what Burton was willing to do to get the property.”

  “Burton has been threatening something like this from the beginning, I
just didn’t understand the hints.” Kendall kneaded her temples, forcing herself to think rationally despite the surge of adrenaline flowing through her body. There had to be a way out of this. “I thought homeowners could make changes themselves without permits?”

  “Well, we have no evidence it was done by the homeowner. Actually, it’s very unlikely that it was. And if the work was unpermitted and done by someone other than Connie or Jonathan Green, then it can’t be grandfathered in. Basically, Burton is claiming that the houses are unsafe because of unpermitted work and deferred maintenance, and we’re being given thirty days to demonstrate that we can bring them up to code or they’ll be condemned as a public safety hazard.”

  Kendall stared at Gabe, horrified. “How can he possibly do that? They haven’t even looked at the houses to know what’s been done or if they’re actually dangerous.”

  His tone soured. “Best guess? Burton has someone inside the county government.”

  Her mouth dropped open. Of all things she thought she would face up here—bureaucracy, the slow pace of small counties, resistance to change—corruption was not one of them. “So you think—” she lowered her voice when it came out much too loud and the neighboring patrons turned toward her—“he paid someone off?”

  “I don’t think it was anything that blatant. I think it was more like a well-placed word to someone that his project will bring in a lot of money in permits and property taxes to the county and he has a legitimately legal way to make that happen.” Gabe slumped back in his seat, looking defeated. “He’s not wrong. That’s the way the county code is written. Though I’d be surprised if it’s ever been used to demolish homes to pave the way for a commercial project.”

  “Yeah, it makes eminent domain look like it’s on the up-and-up,” Kendall said bitterly. “But wait. You said we have thirty days to demonstrate that we can bring them up to code. Not that we actually have to do the work in thirty days. Right?”

  Gabe nodded. “That’s correct. We need to respond to the notice, file all the requisite permits, etc.”

  “So we do that, then. Easy.”

  “Not so easy, Kendall. These things take money. Not to mention if you manage to save them, you still have to return them to their original plans in order to get them listed on the registry.”

  Now it was Kendall’s turn to slump back in her seat. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Yeah. Neither do I.”

  “What I don’t understand is how he could condemn the houses and get them demolished, but I still own the land.”

  “Which is now worth significantly less without the improvements on it. He doesn’t have to pay you what the houses are worth, just the lots. Given the price of property up here, that’s much less. And it doesn’t do you any good to hold on to empty, barren land.”

  Even through a sudden surge of blinding rage, she had to admit that Burton was smart. He’d worked through every angle. He’d warned her. And since she had made it clear she wasn’t going to cave to his initial offer, he was starting to apply pressure.

  Completely unethical, but entirely legal.

  Gabe was staring into space now. She peered into his face. “Gabe, are you okay?”

  He focused on her, but the wry twist to his mouth said that whatever he was thinking about wasn’t pleasant. “I might know someone who could help us.”

  Kendall blinked at him. “You do? Why have you waited so long to contact him, then?”

  “Because I said I’d never speak to him again, and I’ve kept that promise. But now I may have no choice.” Gabe rubbed his hands over his face wearily. “I have to call my father.”

  Chapter Thirty

  GABE DIDN’T TELL ANYONE ELSE what he was planning. Not his grandfather and certainly not his mom. His grandfather would no doubt be cautiously optimistic. Opa had always told him that he was only hurting himself by ignoring a relationship with his father. His mom? He couldn’t even imagine what she might say. After he’d found out about his true parentage and been shipped off to Jasper Lake, they’d never discussed it in depth again.

  And that didn’t even begin to address what his father might do.

  No, not his father. The man who was biologically responsible for his existence. Robert Miller.

  Despite the fact that Gabe had barely been in the office since Kendall arrived, he called Linda to inform her that he would be out of town on business for a day or two. Then he arranged for Luke to come feed and walk Fitz while he was gone. It was only a little over an hour from Jasper Lake to his father’s office in Denver, but he had no idea if Robert would be in or willing to see him. It could take more than a day. He packed an overnight bag, shoved his laptop into a backpack, and hopped into his truck as the sun crested the horizon of the nearest peak.

  As soon as he hit the boundaries of the town, Gabe exhaled. He felt like he hadn’t taken a full breath in months, and that was compounded by how twisted up in knots he’d been since the confrontation with Kendall. He still couldn’t think about the hurt, stricken look on her face when he’d told her there could be no future for them because of the differences in their spiritual beliefs. Every time, he wondered how he could have done things differently. How he could have spared her.

  How he could have spared himself.

  Because now, knowing that they were nearing the end of their time working together, that she intended to return to California in less than a week, the idea of her absence made it hard to breathe. In just a short period of time, she’d worked herself into his daily life in a way that he’d never thought possible. He couldn’t effectively explain it. They had a few things in common, yes, but there was no denying the connection that he’d felt since the very first time he’d laid eyes on her, and it wasn’t merely attraction. It was like . . .

  . . . he’d found his missing piece.

  It just seemed that God hadn’t gotten the memo.

  Gabe squeezed the steering wheel, knowing that thought wasn’t fair. If there was anyone who’d misread the situation, it was him. He couldn’t reject the possibility that she’d been brought into his life for a reason other than his happiness. He’d helped her uncover some details about her mother and grandmother; he’d at least managed to talk to her about his faith, before his faith became the thing that drove a wedge between them. Maybe that had to be enough.

  No matter how the idea made his heart ache.

  “Your plan hasn’t changed, Gabe,” he told himself sternly as he rejoined the highway that would take him to I-70 and then down the mountain into Denver. It had always been to save the town. That’s why he had been brought to Jasper Lake, and that’s what he was going to do. Even if it meant breaking a promise that he’d made to himself and his mother so many years ago.

  By the time the road flattened from the steep downhill through Genesee into the gentle slopes of Jefferson County, he had a game plan. He wasn’t going to approach Robert as his son. He was going to approach him as a civil servant making an appeal to a businessman, one that could be very profitable for him. After all, if there was one thing he knew about his birth father, it was that he looked out for his own interests. Gabe was suddenly glad that he’d decided to don a button-down shirt and his sport coat, even if the waterproof boots weren’t quite the business image he wanted to portray. But this was Colorado, after all. People took meetings in Wranglers and cowboy boots, went to four-star restaurants in fleece pullovers. He doubted that his father’s office was any different.

  It had been so long since he’d been to the building, Gabe had to rely on his phone’s GPS to take him to the downtown block where Miller Property Group was located. It was a multistory brick Victorian building, two floors of which were taken up by the various divisions of Robert’s company: real estate, development, investment, and architecture. It was a testament to Colorado’s rapid growth that what had started off as a residential architectural firm had grown into something spanning all areas of property development.

  The difference between
Burton and Robert Miller was ethics. Robert’s firm specialized in restoration and preservation, converting buildings to new uses while still retaining their architectural and historical details. Ironic, considering it was his lack of personal ethics that brought Gabe into this world in the first place.

  Gabe parked in the underground parking garage and took a moment to straighten himself before he yanked the door of his truck open. He took a deep breath. Now or never.

  He had to check the directory in the old-fashioned Victorian lobby to see which floor his father was on and stepped onto the equally old-fashioned–looking elevator. He was relieved to see that the inside was all new stainless steel and chrome, despite the original brass doors that opened to admit him. He punched the 3 button and held his breath as the doors slid closed and the elevator glided soundlessly to the third floor.

  The doors opened again and deposited him in an ornate hallway that opened into a large reception space. He walked directly to the mahogany desk and forced a smile for the young woman who sat there. “Gabriel Brandt here to see Robert Miller.”

  Her eyes widened slightly—obviously she knew who he was—but she managed a friendly smile and gestured to the waiting area to the right. “I’ll see if he’s available. Please make yourself comfortable. There’s coffee and tea while you wait, if you’d like.”

  “Thank you.” Gabe returned the smile even though he was shaking inside at what he was about to do. He hadn’t spoken to Robert in . . . what? Over ten years? And only then because he’d accidentally run into him at a Denver Christmas party. Apparently they had professional connections in common. Rather than taking a seat, he helped himself to a cup of coffee from the machine. The first sip hit his nervous stomach and turned it sour.

  “Gabe! What a surprise!”

  Gabe spun at the male voice and put down the Styrofoam cup quickly on the edge of the table. He blinked. His mental image hadn’t taken into account the passage of time: in the last decade, the lines around Robert’s eyes had gotten more pronounced, his dark hair tinged with silver, the athletic build a little softer. And despite all that, no one could look at the two of them and not know that they were father and son.