Chapter Thirteen
He stood on the little church’s small porch and watched the cranes lower the diminutive cottage onto the new block foundation. He’d really wanted stone but, aside from the outrageous expense, it was the rare stonemason who built foundations in this day and age.
Evers had definitely come through though. The fanciful early Victorian farmhouse was a wedding present to a neighbour’s great great aunt by her father. After a few too-fecund generations it was abandoned to disrepair and decay.
LaVeau chose a top New York designer to restore it and she was eager to plunge in. It was odd, he mused, that financial New York, though much closer in miles, was so much farther outside the virulent DC political gossip mill (and his personal business) than, say, heavily Republican Dallas.
