Whatever Abby expected, it was not the massive Georgian-style home that greeted her at the end of the lane. White and imposing, it was both majestic and intimidating. With the unpruned shrubs around the yard and a tangle of ivy grown over several of the windows, Abby couldn't shake the idea that the house looked a bit, well, eerie.
Abby slammed the car door, then started up the uneven pathway to the front porch. As she got closer, she saw the chipped paint around the trim and rungs missing in the railing that ran between two scarred pillars of the verandah.
It really was neglected. For a moment she felt almost sorry for the old home. It was a shame that something that had once had been so grand and beautiful could fall into such a state.
The boards of the stairs creaked wearily beneath her feet as she climbed the three steps to the covered porch and took a key from her purse. Walking carefully, Abby silently prayed that the floor was termite-free and structurally sound before fitting the key into the lock and pushing the solid wood door open with the groan of long-unused hinges. Hesitantly, Abby stepped inside, searching along the wall for a switch in the dim light. She found it and flipped it on. Thank goodness the power had been reconnected before her arrival.
The place was strangely silent and her shoes made hollow sounds on the hardwood floors as she went further inside. She shivered. With the house shut up and all the curtains closed, it reminded her of a tomb.
The first thing she needed to do was get some natural light into the dreary rooms. The dim glow of the wall sconces barely penetrated the dust and stale air. She entered the room on her right—what appeared to be a formal dining room—and went directly to the window, spreading the heavy brocade curtains wide and tying them back with silky tassels. Sunlight spilled in through the gap and she went to the next window, and the next, until the room was flooded with warmth through the dusty windows.
Turning around to finally get a good look at the room, Abby gasped. The antique dining table and chairs, which she'd only seen in outline, were now clearly visible and utterly magnificent, ornately carved and even under the layer of dust she could see they had to be real mahogany. It could easily seat a dozen. A set like this would have cost a fortune. Worth even more now if it was as old as she suspected.
Who on earth were the Fosters, and why had this all been kept a secret from her side of the family? At times, her grandmother had barely made ends meet.
A fireplace with a white mantle graced one end of the room, but the mantle was empty except for a single, framed portrait. Abby went closer, her fingers gliding over the silver frame as she examined the face behind the glass. The woman was beautiful, perhaps in her twenties, with long dark hair and full lips. Her dress appeared to be chiffon, cut in a V at her throat; a necklace of oval stones embraced her neck. Even in the black and white photograph her skin seemed to glow as she sat in a wing-backed chair with a baby dressed in unending ruffles cradled in her arms.
Abby turned the frame over and slid the old photo out, careful to keep her fingers on the edge of the paper. There was nothing written on the back, no indication of who the woman was or when it was taken. Disappointed, she put the picture back inside and placed it precisely in its spot on the mantle. Was this Marian? Perhaps Marian's mother, Edith? Abby frowned, feeling a brief surge of anger at being left in the dark about her own family. She and her grandmother had been very, very close. How could Gram have kept something as big as a family mansion from her only granddaughter?
Shaking off her melancholy, Abby turned her attention to the rest of the room. A gilt-edged mirror hung above the fireplace and it reflected an unlit chandelier over the table. For a brief moment she imagined the clinking sounds of silver on china and crystal. She figured out that the Fosters had been well-off when she'd seen the value of the estate. But this... this was living on a grand scale.
Eager to explore now, she made her way back to the wide hall. There was another chandelier here, prettier than the last. It would be gorgeous all lit up, but on closer examination she saw that the lights within were oil and that it hadn't been wired for electricity. It seemed a shame to waste its beauty simply because it was stuck in the past.
Across the wide hall she found what could only be called a drawing room. She opened the curtains in this room too, feeling an irrepressible need to let light into all the dark corners. There was an odd feeling about the house. Something heavy and dark, like a terrible secret.
It was just her overactive imagination, she chided herself. She turned her attention to the fireplace, identical to the one in the dining room, idly wondering if each room had one and if they still worked. It probably wouldn't be safe to light a fire anyway. Birds or bats or something likely lived in the chimneys, she thought, her blood running cold. She hated bats.
Abby returned her attention to the space around her. Too formal for a parlour or mere sitting room, the warm yellow walls were in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. The furniture was old and frayed around the edges but she could tell it had been opulent in its day. An upright piano was pushed against one wall and she went over and lifted the cover, her fingers pushing a few keys as she played an arpeggio. A tinny, twangy sound erupted from the instrument, crying out for a good tuning. She shut the cover again with a shudder as the dissonant notes echoed uncomfortably through the air.
According to the records, Marian had put in central heating in during the sixties, and the house was completely rewired only twenty years ago. As Abby's gaze took in the scarred floors and dingy rugs, not to mention the faded and chipped paint, she was at least thankful for that. Maybe the mansion had been grand in its day, but right now it looked as if it had been forgotten. Discarded. It would take a lot of work and a lot of Marian's money, she thought with dismay, to get it into marketable shape. It was worse than she'd feared. It didn't just need tidying up. It needed fixing.
Abby went back to the main hall. Past a small powder room was a kitchen with modern appliances—modern compared to the rest of the house, at least. There was a four-burner stove and a refrigerator that sat quietly. The fridge and stove were the only concessions to modernity. There was no microwave; no dishwasher. The tile floor was faded and the walls were painted in a very dated—and dowdy—avocado green.
Uck.
Next to the kitchen was a door leading to what Abby could only surmise was the basement. Abby put her hand on the latch but then drew it back as a cold feeling skittered down her spine. She'd leave exploring the cellar for another time.
She recalled visions of the basement in Gram's old house—stone walls, damp and cold, and the dreaded spiders. She hated them with a passion, even more than she hated bats. When she was a child, going down in the basement for a simple jar of jelly had felt like a penance.
The uneasy feeling she had touching the door was even stronger as she crossed the hall, pausing to look up the grand staircase. She shivered, cold again, as her gaze settled on the upper landing. Abby knew it was ridiculous, but something about the staircase unnerved her and made the little hairs on the back of her neck rise with apprehension. She shook her head and tried to laugh, the sound mocking in the silence. This was foolish. There was nothing there. Maybe the odd sensation was simply because the house was so huge and, well, quiet. Everything echoed, even the sound of her breathing. It wasn't the sort of house meant for one person. It was meant for parties and socializing, with men in dashing suits and women in long dresses. For the popping of champagne bottles and maids in white aprons serving canapés off silver platters.
Shaking off the heavy feeling, she entered the room beside the stairs, her uneasiness evaporating as her mouth dropped open in wonderment and delight.
Tattered or not, the old room was gorgeous. There were solid mahogany cases on each wall crammed full of old books, their spines faded and dusty. Their dark width was broken only by the dirt-smudged windows looking out over the vast gardens and peeking into what had to be an add-on sun porch at the back of the house. The drapes were faded and dirty but had once been a marvellous wine-and-tan striped brocade.
She stepped into the center of the room, completely enchanted. In addition to the bookcases, there was a gorgeous roll-top desk and a sewing table next to a pair of stuffed armchairs. And yes, another fireplace, backing on the same wall as the one in the drawing room. The walls that were visible were golden yellow, like burned sugar. The color set off wide white trim and wainscot. The dark cherry hardwood floor was utterly stunning—or used to be. It was quite scarred after years of use. But in its heyday...
It was the first room she'd visited that felt anything like a home. She could imagine herself curled up in one of those chairs with a Jane Austen novel and a pot of tea, a fire blazing in the fireplace...
She turned herself around in a circle, gave a huge, contented sigh, and choked on a puff of dust stirred up by her movement.
The romanticism of the moment was shattered by the harsh sound of her coughing as she doubled over, effectively raising an even bigger cloud. She was a fool to let herself be seduced, even for a moment.
The coughing fit eased and she gasped for air, holding herself very, very still to keep from disturbing more dust. She wasn't sure how long this place had been locked up, but Marian's lawyer had mentioned something about a few years. Considering the grime and neglect she'd witnessed just on the first floor, she guessed it was closer to "several" rather than "a few."
Despite the dirt and grime, though, the library was glorious. She could almost smell the redolent tang of cigar smoke, the bite of brandy mingled with the scent of leather and paper and ink. She closed her eyes, imagining for a moment what it must have been like during the glory days. Another time and place.
She opened her eyes, watched a mouse scurry into the corner, and raised an eyebrow. Rodents—and God knew what else—were not romantic. The mouse disappeared behind a wing chair and she sighed. In reality she knew this was just a room. What she needed to do was stop daydreaming and find the name of the nearest pest control company. So much for being in and out of Jewell Cove within a few days. Her first order of business was going to be looking into contractors. And to do that, she was going to need either the yellow pages or an internet connection—neither of which could be found at her current location.
A crash followed by the sound of muffled yet spectacular swearing from the front of the house propelled Abby out of her thoughts and sent her rushing to the front door with her heart pounding. Judging by the frustrated, not pained, language coming from the porch—she had to admit it was really quite inventive—she figured whatever was happening outside wasn't an emergency and at a particularly creative curse, she couldn't help but choke back a giggle. Still chuckling, she flung open the door.
The man on her verandah was big and he was burly, with blazing black eyes and matching hair a touch too long as it curled around his collar. He looked like a lumberjack, if that lumberjack happened to be on the cover of Sexy Outdoorsman magazine. His jeans were faded but clean, and he wore a white button-down shirt rolled up over tanned and muscled forearms. His very civilized attire seemed slightly out of place against his rugged good looks. Abby wasn't much into facial hair, but a day's growth of stubble framed his jaw and the total package was so completely sexy that something hot and forbidden wound its way through her abdomen. She scrambled to put together a coherent thought but couldn't seem to make the connection between her brain and her tongue.
"Are you Miss Foster?"
She nodded her head quickly in response to his sharp demand and realized one of his feet had gone through the floorboards of the verandah. Now the splintered fragments settled around his boot like jagged teeth. "You broke my verandah." Brilliant, Abby, she chastised herself. She crossed her arms in an old habit and bit down on her lip. Sex on a stick shows up on your doorstep and that's what you come up with? You broke my verandah?
"Me? The damned thing is rotten through. You're lucky I didn't break my neck."
Abby wasn't sure how to respond. A part of her felt the need to be polite and apologize—after all, he was standing ankle-deep in splintered wood. At the same time, he was a stranger, uninvited, and he'd already damaged the property she'd was in possession of for only a scant hour. She was tired and his abrasive tone rode on her last nerve.
"I beg your pardon, but it appears you're trespassing. I don't know you and I certainly didn't invite you here, Mr..."
"Arseneault," he answered. He gave his boot a good yank and pulled it from the hole. He planted both feet on the verandah after testing the strength of the boards, then looked up at her with a grin that melted the edges off her annoyance. "Tom Arseneault. And from the looks of this place, you're going to be seeing a lot of me."
* * *
Tom looked down into Abigail Foster's astonished face as he issued his declaration. She was a pretty thing, if you took away the coating of dirt that seemed to cover her from head to toe. Her mouth was a little too wide for the daintiness of her nose, and her hair was mousy-brown, coated with dust, and fell limply to her shoulders. But she had good eyes—a nice clear blue, kind of like Penobscot Bay on a clear summer's day. She wore faded, ripped jeans that seemed perfectly shaped to her figure and a plain cotton T-shirt. She was the kind of woman he probably would have given a glance to on the street—but not a second look. Until he saw her feet. She wore silly little flip flops, the strappy bit that ran across the top of her foot crusted with sparkly gems—and her toenails were painted hot pink. Sexy as hell.
Shaking off his sudden foot fetish, Tom tried to gather his thoughts. So the dusty little mouse had pretty feet. So what? She certainly didn't embody what he imagined Marian's heir to look like. He'd expected a man, actually, and older than the snippet of a girl before him. More regal, perhaps, in keeping with the family name and fortune. He frowned, not liking feeling off balance. Abigail looked as if she'd fit in at his cousin Jess's craft shop stringing beads on hemp bracelets rather than having a head for business.
He had to get back to the task at hand, which was snagging a contract to fix up this place. He wouldn't do that by glowering at her. It wasn't her fault the floor was rotted through and it wasn't her fault she has sexy feet. He took a breath, slapped his best "trust me" smile back on, and prepared to make nice. But her uptight little voice cut him off before he could begin to argue his case.
"I have never heard of you, Mr. Arseneault," she replied, as if oblivious to his smile. The pert nose lifted a little higher into the air. "But you can take your big boots and your bigger attitude and leave the way you came." Had he really just thought she wasn't regal? The proclamation was delivered in such a dismissive tone that he laughed. He couldn't help it. She was going toe to toe with him like she was the Queen of England. Maybe there was a good dose of Foster blood in her after all. She looked so serious it was very nearly adorable.
"Honey," he said smoothly, "we started off on the wrong foot." He chuckled, looking down at his foot recently freed from the porch. "Why don't we just talk and..."
Her cheeks colored. "I'm not your honey. I asked you to leave, and I am not afraid to call the police."
"You don't want to do that," he replied, his smile sliding away. All he needed was for Bryce to answer the phone. There'd be no end to the teasing. God knew Bryce didn't need any more ammunition. It was already too easy for Jewell Cove's Chief of Police to get beneath Tom's skin.
"Oh?" Her gaze brightened as if she sensed a victory in her grasp. "And why not?"
"Trust me, I'm doing you a favor. You'll look ridiculous."
She pursed her lips. "Do I look like the kind of woman who worries about looking ridiculous?"
She raised an imperious eyebrow. Impressive, he thought, with a glimmer of respect. Abigail Foster had a glint of challenge in her blue gaze that intrigued him. He was willing to call her bluff just to see how it would all work out. "Go ahead," he prompted. "Ask for Bryce Arseneault. That'd be my brother, by the way."
She looked as if she wanted to stomp her foot and he marvelled at how cute she appeared just then. Immensely satisfied, he hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets. The sooner this mess of an introduction finished, the sooner they could get down to business.
A sound of frustration escaped her lips. She went inside and surprised him by slamming the door in his face. He checked his watch. One minute. He'd give her one minute before knocking. He was pretty sure she'd come back out. When she did, he'd make a better case for himself. He'd gone about it the wrong way, trying charm and humor. It didn't usually fail him. Twenty seconds. Ten.
The door opened, precluding the need for him to knock and make nice. She stood in the gap, clicking her cell phone off. "Right. Bryce says hello and that Mary expects you for dinner at five-thirty."
He could rub it in her face but decided not to. The blush tainting her cheeks right now was satisfying enough. He looked around the sagging verandah, caught sight of the crumbling chimney, the cracked paint around the windows. "You're lucky it was me who put their foot through just now. Someone else might have been right angry. Maybe would have sued. It's a litigious world we live in."
Her lips puckered like a drawstring bag. "I feel so fortunate," she replied and the sarcasm washed over him. He liked it. It leveled the playing field. She might be tiny, but he guessed that she'd make a worthy opponent if given the opportunity.
Despite her quirky toes and ripped jeans, he just bet Abigail Foster liked to dot all her i's and cross all her t's, the complete opposite of his more laid-back approach to business. And looking at those pursed lips and the challenging glint in her eyes, he felt a shiver of anticipation that had nothing to do with the house and everything to do with the client.
Abigail might be the Type-A organizer, but things just weren't done that way in Jewell Cove. They were normally settled over a pint at The Rusty Fern followed by a handshake. If she stayed, she'd soon learn how things were done. And how they weren't.
Besides, Jewell Cove could use some new blood to stir things up. It was awfully dull lately. The gossip mill needed a new topic of conversation. Why not Abigail Foster and her family's mansion? It was a damned sight better than ruminating Josh's return and reviving long memories.
She tucked the phone into her back pocket. "Remind me who you are again?"
He smiled, determined to get it right this time. "The best contractor on the midcoast. And the answer to all your troubles."
Abby and Tom might have got off on the wrong "foot"...but there's a spark. Keep reading at Amazon and for free in Kindle Unlimited at https://amzn.to/3Isq42a