The Front Porch Prophet

“Sure, we can move,” A.J. replied. His curiosity was piqued. She was being awfully nice. They moved to a booth and sat down opposite each other. She folded her hands and made eye contact.

“I have purchased the old Finn Hall on the Alabama side of the mountain,” she said. He was familiar with the property. It was a huge and stately old wreck-opulent in its day-that had been quietly rotting away on the side of Lookout Mountain for many years. It was built before the turn of the century by a group of Finnish people who had made fortunes in the lumber industry of the period. Thus it was named the Finn Hall, and it was where they all gathered together to socialize. As a group of people they did quite well, due to the combination of big, cheap logs to harvest and big, cheap Alabamians to harvest them with.

“I know the Finn Hall,” he said. The mantle in his parlor had come from there on a liberal lend-lease deal involving a crowbar, his truck, and a dark night. “It was the fanciest building ever nailed up around here, that’s for sure.”

“It will be that way again,” she said, and he could hear the excitement in her voice. “I am going to turn it into another Biltmore Estates. It will be beautiful.” She looked at him, and he knew he was seeing a piece of her dream. But he still didn’t know what she wanted. Hoghead whisked up with a platter laden with turkey pie, cranberry sauce, glazed yams, and hot yeast rolls. A piece of garnish completed the presentation. He had reached down deep.

“Well, good luck with it,” A.J. said, referring to the Finn Hall and not the turkey pie. “As long as you’ve got the money and the time, you can make it magnificent.”

“I’ve got the money,” she assured him. She took a petite bite of turkey pie. “What I would like to know is, do you have the time?”

The question surprised A.J. He watched as she buttered a roll. Strangely, the idea of working on the Finn Hall held some appeal for him. He had actually once sketched out some plans for the old hall, some ideas he would like to try. He knew in his heart he could make that building his masterpiece. But he had some concerns with regard to the woman across the table. He and Truth had a little history behind them, some battered baggage sitting by the tracks.

“You want me to restore the Finn Hall?”

“Yes,” she replied simply. She was really warming up to the plate before her.

“Why me?” he asked, a reasonable question given their record. “You must know all sorts of high-powered construction types. And you and I have not always seen eye to eye.”

“This is not construction,” she stated emphatically. “This is art. I have seen what you did with your house. Maggie showed me all of your before-and-after pictures. I want that same eye for detail and careful workmanship on this job.”

“Did Maggie suggest we talk about this?” he asked.

“No, she didn’t,” Truth responded. “She liked it when she heard it, but it was my idea. She told me you’ve considered going into this type of work before. You’re the one I want.” She finished her pitch and her lunch, and she sat there silently, sipping her tea. He was in a quandary. He wanted to do it, but he wasn’t sure about working for Truth. And money had not been discussed, but that could come later if he decided to do the job.

“Let me think about it a couple of days,” he said. He wanted to talk to Maggie and see what she really thought. Also, he thought he might ride out to the Finn Hall. It had been a while since his last look, and that peek had been after nightfall.

“That’s fair,” she said, holding out her hand for a shake. “We can talk more about it Thursday.” She stood, left a generous tip, and walked to the counter to settle her check. A.J. was lingering back at Thursday. Was she coming Thursday? Maggie must have invited her. As he tuned back in, he heard Truth finishing a statement.

“…fine. I’ll pick it up Wednesday afternoon.” She smiled at them both when she walked to the door. They watched as she strode up the sidewalk.

“She is nice,” Hoghead observed, counting his tip. He appreciated women who ate his food and gave him money. “All the young bucks around here must be fast asleep.” He had that old if I were twenty years younger look on his face.

“It’s complicated,” A.J. told him. “Don’t torment yourself.” Truth was no Swedish meatball cook from Hong Kong, and A.J. did not want to see Hoghead get hurt.

“She loved my turkey pie, and for a little girl, she could eat, too.” This was high acclaim from Hoghead. “She ordered a big pan to bring with her to your house on Thursday.”

“No kidding,” A.J. responded. “Well, it doesn’t get much better than that.” He paid his bill, made his adieus, and headed for Eugene’s via the beer joint.