Page 87 of Keller

"It's the only philosophy that produces honest work. Since I specialize in historic preservation, I approach this work differently than most architects."

The waiter returns with our water. Charlton orders a glass of Sancerre. I stay with sparkling water. I need my head clear.

We discuss the hypothetical project for another twenty minutes. Then he enlightens me about preservation tax credits and zoning variances. We discuss the Historic Savannah Foundation's review process. He explains each element without condescension, assuming I understand the stakes.

He doesn't oversell or promise outcomes he can't guarantee. Doesn't fill silence with nervous chatter. He's good at this. And as much as I want to hate him on the surface, I don't.

I shift my approach.

"Have you always been in Savannah?"

"Born and raised. I went to boarding school for high school in North Georgia, then college at the University of Georgia. Been back ever since."

"Family keeps you here?"

"Yes, my parents lived here their entire lives. My mother is still alive and lives about a block away."

Must be nice to have a long life with your mom.

He takes a measured sip of his sparkling water.

I notice the ring on his finger, so I know he's married. "You have kids?"

"I do. One son who just started his freshman year at Georgia Tech. Engineering. Still trying to get over the fact that he chose to be a Yellowjacket over a Bulldog."

Eighteen-year-old son.

The math lands instantly.

Seventeen years ago, when my mother was photographed with this man, Charlton Grant had an infant at home. A wife. Afamily he was building while he visited New Orleans and stayed at The Asbury.

Heat rises in my chest. I press my thumb against my index finger beneath the table and hold it there.

You were married. You had a kid. And you were with her anyway. You had no qualms about wrecking two families.

Well, I guess his stayed intact.

His face shows nothing. He treats me as nothing more than a potential client with a checkbook and a project.

"Engineering." I keep my voice level. "That must make you proud."

"He's his own person. I just try to stay out of his way."

The meal continues. He orders a salad. I order the tuna tartare but hardly touch It. We discuss timeline expectations and preliminary site assessments. He mentions a project he completed last year, a boutique hotel conversion that won regional preservation awards.

I study every gesture. The way he constantly touches his cuff when considering a question, the controlled half-smile that reaches his eyes only when genuinely amused, the measured cadence of his speech.

No cracks. No tells.

Either this man has no memory of my mother, or he has spent decades perfecting the appearance of a man with nothing to hide.

"I think we've covered enough for today." He signals for the check. "If you decide to move forward, send the preliminary materials to my office. Rebecca can coordinate the site visit."

We stand. He buttons his blazer again. Same motion as before.

"I appreciate your time, Mr. Grant."

"Charlton. Please call me Charlton." He extends his hand. "And the appreciation is mutual. Projects like this are why I do what I do."