Lizzie burst out laughing and almost dropped the ham she was holding.
The two women high-fived one another before Lizzie started to slice the ham.
One impossible dream coming up, Maggie thought happily.
Chapter 7
Even in the dark, with all the snow and the ground and tree lighting, Charles Martin thought it was the most beautiful spot in the entire world. He remembered thinking the same thing some thirty-odd years ago, when he’d been brought here as a guest of the owner.
Back then he’d been told this place was called Lord’s Valley by the owner. These days it was called Jellicoe Valley. There was even a quaint sign five miles back, right underneath the road marker, that said so. This time he was coming as an uninvited guest.
Charles sucked in his breath, knowing that all manner of eyes, human and electronic, were on him, even though the night was pitch-black. He wondered just for a moment if he should get out of his Hummer and wave a white flag, but he didn’t have a white flag to wave. He supposed a handkerchief would do it. On second thought, the wisest thing to do was probably just to sit there and wait for someone to come and get him.
The thought no sooner passed through his mind when he heard a light tap on the window. He pressed the power button and said, “You’re good.”
The man ignored the compliment. “Welcome to Jellicoe Valley, Mr. Martin. Mr. Jellicoe said to ask you what took you so long.”
Charles chuckled. “A little of this, a little of that. Thirty years isn’t all that long.”
There was no return chuckle. “Follow me, sir. Be sure to stay on my tracks. We don’t want any unnecessary explosions. Mr. Jellicoe is partial to quiet, especially at this time of night.”
Claymore mines. Unlike Fish’s spread in the Nevada desert and his pretend mines, Charles knew there were indeed mines surrounding Hank Jellicoe’s hundred-acre spread here at the foot of the Allegheny Mountains.
When he’d been here a lifetime ago, it was just wild brush, scraggly trees, and a rustic three-room cabin. As he bounced along behind his escort, Charles tried to remember exactly when he’d seen an architectural rendering of Jellicoe’s spread, as he liked to call it. Someone brave enough at the time had taken some aerial shots of the man’s property, then had the audacity to publish his drawings in Architectural Digest. Why he’d never submitted the actual photos he’d taken was something that was never explained. Nor was the man’s disappearance ever explained to anyone’s satisfaction. He had heard, but was never sure if it was the truth or not, that AD had paid through the nose for invading Hank Jellicoe’s privacy. Along with sending a note of sincere apology.
It was a wise man, or, in some cases, a wise woman, who learned that you did not bring down the wrath of one Hank Jellicoe, aka Jellicoe Securities, aka Global Securities. At least if you valued your life.
There were more lights now. To Charles’s keen eye, it looked like a winter wonderland with all the lighting, the shimmering snow, and the fragrant pine trees. Christmas-card perfect. The cabin was still there, nestled among a copse of pine trees. He turned to the right and saw the house. Gabled and turreted, it spread out for what, Charles thought, could be several city blocks. The house was lit up from top to bottom. And there was a light on on the front porch. And it was a porch, one that wrapped around the entire house, from what he could see. Just like Motel 6, Hank had the light on for him. Good old Hank.
Charles strained to see beyond the house and thought he saw a row of garages, a stable, which made sense because Hank loved to ride early in the morning. Hank also liked to swim, so he knew somewhere there was a heated indoor pool and probably one outside, too. A tennis court was somewhere. He was sure of it. Just the way he was sure there was an airplane hangar and a helicopter pad, and if there was any deep water around, a yacht would be moored somewhere. Hank Jellicoe had it all going for him.
The four-wheel drive in front of him came to a stop. The man climbed out, his AK-47 slung over his shoulder. Charles knew the drill. He remained in the Hummer until the man approached his vehicle.
“You can get out now, Mr. Martin. Mr. Jellicoe is waiting for you. He held dinner for your arrival.”
“Very sporting of him,” Charles said. He reached behind him for his bag, but quicker than lightning, his escort had his arm in a vise.
“No need to carry your bag, Mr. Martin. I’ll bring it up.”
As soon as you go through it, you mean. Charles slid out of the Hummer and made his way up the steps to the old-fashioned front porch.
The monster cathedral-style door opened, and there stood his host. “What the hell took you so long, Charlie? Thirty years is a long time.”
Charles winced at being called Charlie. If anyone else but Hank Jellicoe had called him Charlie, he would have decked him on the spot. The men shook hands the way men do, then pounded each other on the back the way men do, before Jellicoe led Charles into the main part of the house.
It was a man’s house, all leather and wood and polished wood floors. It smelled like a man’s house, too. The scent of burning wood, pipe and cigar smoke hung in the air, but it was not unpleasant.
“Come along before dinner is ruined. We’ve been keeping it warm until you got here. We have all night to palaver. Venison is on the menu. I remembered how you like venison. A bunch of other stuff, too. And I made the pie myself, Charlie. It’s every bit as good as yours. Wait till you taste it. Used the apples from the root cellar, so it’s as fresh as can be. Got a secret ingredient in there, which you are never going to figure out,” Hank Jellicoe said by way of greeting.
Charles looked at his host and grinned. “We’ll see.”
Henry, Hank to those near and dear to him, Jellicoe was a tall man, six-four or so, with snow-white hair, weathered skin bronzed by the sun, wrinkles that were more like trenches, and the sharpest blue eyes ever to grace a man. His teeth, whiter than snow in his dark face, could light up the night. He boasted that his weight, 180 pounds, was the same as it was the day he turned eighteen. He was lean and rangy, sinewy from his neck to his toes. Dressed in his favorite garb of worn, tattered, and battered jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, with boots he had specially made for his size-sixteen feet. Charles knew for a fact he had the strength of an ox. But what Charles respected most about Hank Jellicoe was that he was an honest, fair, and generous man. The three traits Charles most admired in a man. Or woman.
Jellicoe escorted Charles to a long table set for two. “First things first, Charlie. I want to get it out of the way. Tough break about your son. I did what I could. I want you to know that.”
“I know you did, Hank. I tried to get word to you.”
“I got the word.”
And that was the end of that conversation.
Charles sat down and opened his napkin. “Has there been any…”
“Don’t go there, Charlie. That topic is not up for discussion.”
Charles looked into the sharp blue eyes and gave a nod.
Jellicoe shook out his own napkin and leaned back when his server placed a huge platter of food in front of him. “So you finally tied the knot.
