by Jessica Berg
Jessica Berg
A Place to Call Home
Copyright © 2018 by Jessica Berg
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Jessica Berg asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Jessica Berg has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
Cover created by Josephine Blake of Covers and Cupcakes. Take a look at all her amazing work at https://coversandcupcakes.wordpress.com/.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Afterword
About the Author
Chapter 1
June 1991
Sheriff Jeremiah Wallace was a God-fearing, righteous man with murder on his mind. He watched the movements behind the curtains of the old Victorian house, ignoring the clawing sensation in his chest, and concentrated on his breathing. Four counts in, four counts out.
“Sheriff?”
Jeremiah didn’t turn his head, didn’t even acknowledge his best friend and deputy. His tongue, thick and dry, stuck to the roof of his mouth. His gaze followed the bulging figure’s movements distorted by the curtains swaying in the sticky air.
The Kansas night offered little relief from the intense heat of the day, and sweat streamed down his back.
“Sheriff?” His deputy tapped him on the shoulder.
He jumped and wiped his hand over his mouth. A glance at his deputy told him what he already knew. It was time to move.
“Let’s roll.”
Glancing behind him, he noted his backup in their positions. He knew his team wouldn’t fail him. He prayed he wouldn’t be the one making a deadly mistake. Or was it too late for that? He knew, without a doubt, he should have passed this one on. But no one, not even the devil himself, kidnapped his children without a personal visit.
Shaking the cobwebs from his mind, he crept with the grace and agility of a cat along the weeds bordering the old house. Thorns pierced his hands as he crept through the noxious stinkweed, steadily moving until his girls’ wails made his gut clench. He concentrated on every noise, every movement, his every breath. One wrong move and his only reason for living would be destroyed.
He checked his gun one more time and lifted himself enough to peek into the large picture window. Lights danced before his eyes, and he knew and accepted it for what it was— cold, blind hatred. His palm itched, and he knew firing his bullets into the soft belly of the man who had kidnapped his daughters was precisely what he wanted to do.
His daughters huddled on the dirty green couch. He wanted to see their faces, but all he could glimpse was their hair. One red and one black. The dresses they’d been wearing the day they were taken away from him were torn, and their feet were gritty with dirt. Tears threatened to overwhelm his senses. He needed them now more than ever. He swallowed them back.
No one but the moonless night and God saw Jeremiah’s eyes go cold. He locked it all away and stored it for later. Later. What a stupid concept. Later never got anybody anywhere. It only stalled it. Later meant the fat man currently stuffing his mouth with a Hot Pocket would be sitting in a jail cell watching Days of Our Lives. Sooner meant he’d be lying on the green couch with a bullet between his eyes. Fighting for control, he breathed through his nose and counted again, this time to ten.
With deft finger motions and hand signals, Jeremiah readied his team, and everyone positioned themselves. The time was right. The time was now.
* * *
June 2017
Ugly! Grace McIntyre slipped on her oversized sunglasses and glared at the ugly, dilapidated Victorian house. Panic wrapped around her gut and squeezed. She fought the urge to kick the red dirt at her feet and glared at the fat, balding man standing next to her. How dare he be ugly too.
Surveying her surroundings, she winced at the sun-scorched pasture bordering the old graying house. Is everything in this God-forsaken place dying? She longed for the cool, refreshing mountains she’d fled. Tears pricked her eyes.
She needed to breathe like her father had taught her: inhale for four counts and exhale for four counts. She shook the cobwebs from her brain and put her game face on. This balding man would soon figure out no one messed with Grace McIntyre. She gave the black-haired girl in 80’s flashback gear next to her a glance. Nobody messed with Phoebe either, sister by fate, best friend by choice, and Xena, Warrior Princess look-alike. If only Phoebe weren’t the biggest wimp in the world. Phoebe rolled her sapphire eyes and stared at the house with noticeable trepidation.
The man standing next to Grace cleared his throat. “This is a lovely house. It just needs some work.”
“Needs some work?” She stared at the realtor. “Some work. This house is a mess. You specifically stated over the phone the house was in good condition.”
The man mopped his sweaty head with a yellowed hankie and stuffed it back into the left pocket of his knee-length khaki shorts. He patted the pocket on his tight yellow polo shirt. With a sheepish grin, he stammered, “Wife keeps stealing my cigarettes.” When he received no response, he cleared his throat and pointed to the house. “It’s got character.”
Grace huffed, stared at the house, and waited. Nothing. No nightmares, not even a slivered memory. Whipping her hair into a ponytail, she stalked toward the house, critiquing every detail. Once a grand house, it had fallen into disarray from years of neglect. A sagging wraparound porch enfolded the house’s front and right side. A rounded corner tower peaked over the house, and a bay window on the opposite side balanced out the house. Double-hung windows adorned the façade of the house, and the occasional stained-glass window glinted in the sweltering, June morning.
A small tree grove hugged against the house, providing much-needed shade for the old thing. Dandelions carpeted the brown lawn surrounding the house. The cheery yellow did nothing to hide the other weeds growing around the structure. Stinkweed and creeping jenny i
ntertwined with the rickety porch steps and seemed to be the only thing supporting the stairs. What used to be a white picket fence danced around the property like jagged, graying teeth.
She bit her lip. As much as this house needed her, she needed this house. For too long, she had wandered, trying to fill the bottomless void. With a quick sniff, she straightened her shoulders and imagined all the future possibilities. “We’ll take it. Dad would approve, right, Phoebe?”
Phoebe latched on to her hand, squeezed. “He most certainly would.”
Grace faced the sweaty realtor. “We’ll take this house. But I swear, if this thing falls on us and kills us, I will come back and haunt you.”
He blanched. “Well…this is a solid house and …”
“Save it, Mr. Weasel. I was only partially joking.”
He fished out the now sopping wet bandana and wiped his forehead. “It’s Mr. Wisel, and you’ve got a lot of house for the price.” At her incredulous stare, he backtracked. “Since you seem like such nice young ladies, I’m knocking off a couple thousand from the price, and I’ll give you the name of a good contractor.”
Grace glanced back at the house. She grabbed for Phoebe’s manicured hand and squeezed. Phoebe tucked a stray strand of jet-black hair behind her right ear and squeezed her hand in return.
Grace released her sister’s hand. “Where do we sign?”
He beckoned toward his car, and the ladies followed him to his pink Cadillac.
“Nice wheels.” Grace leaned against the hood.
“It’s my wife’s car.” He blushed and dug his shiny shoe into the dirt. “She does the whole Mary Kay thing.” He leaned into the car and reached for the papers on the passenger seat. His short arms couldn’t make the distance. He wriggled his ample butt farther into the car and blessed Grace and Phoebe with his hairy plumber’s crack. Seizing the papers, he emerged red-faced and panting.
Grace put her arms across her chest. “Would’ve been easier going to the passenger side.”
Mr. Wisel struggled with the armload, attempting to pull his shirt over his droopy belly. “Suppose it would’ve, but it don’t open. Stupid Cadillac. They don’t build them like they used to.” After arranging himself and his papers, he laid them out on the Caddy’s hood, and Grace and Phoebe signed by the little yellow sticky arrows.
He handed them the keys to their newly acquired gamble. “There, you two are now the proud owners of a beautiful Victorian home.” He jotted the name and number of a contractor on a sticky note and soared from the yard before Grace could conjure a witty comeback.
She stared at the house they had purchased, waiting for it to fall in upon itself. “This could be the biggest mistake we’ve ever made, Pheebs.”
“No! The biggest is when we mooned Superintendent Wick.”
Grace laughed at the memory. “Yeah, those were the days. Now we’re stuck with a house that will make the one from The Money Pit look like a five-star hotel.” She stuck her hands in her back pockets and rocked back and forth on her heels. “Are you getting any vibes from this place?”
Phoebe pulled a cherry sucker from her purse. “Yeah, kind of. I’m not scared or anything, but I’m a little nervous about this being the same house. Funny, I don’t recognize it at all.” She whispered, “What if we can’t do this, Grace? What if we fail? What if …”
“Phoebe, remember Dad’s old saying? Well, this is a time to get back on that darn horse.” Grace wrapped an arm around her sister and squeezed. “Let’s take a look inside the house, jot some ideas, and grab some lunch.” She bit her lip. “We should have asked Mr. Weasel if he knew of a good place to eat in this town.”
* * *
A black pickup idled on the shoulder of the gravel road parallel to the house. Sweet-smelling cigar smoke drifted from the window; it exhaled from the dark-tinted windows, the smoke curling wistfully before disappearing. The man inside was patient. Another smoke curl emerged from the idling Chevy. As a spider spins a web and awaits his prey, he, too, would lie in wait. His lips curled back. His fists clenched in his lap as they came down the steps of the ridiculous excuse of a house.
Of all the girls’ features, he remembered their hair most of all: one flame red, the other coal black. Both reminded him of their father. He ignored the fact they had grown to be real beauties. This was business. Unfinished business. He waited as they pulled from the drive and drove down the rutted gravel road. He flicked his fingers. The cigar flew out the window and lay dying on the side of the road. With gravel crunching, the Chevy obeyed its driver and followed the rusted-out Ford to town.
* * *
Grace and Phoebe seated themselves in a neat little diner on Beacon’s main street. Red booths, black tabletops, and shiny chrome walls and ceiling made up the color décor. Reed’s Diner boasted the best hot beef sandwich in the area and an old- fashioned ice cream fountain.
Grace eyed the ice cream area with something just short of lust.
“Your passion for ice cream is a little creepy.” Phoebe dunked a fry in ketchup and waved it at Grace.
“And the fact that you’re eating ketchup makes me want to hurl.” Grace dunked her fries into mustard and stuck them in her mouth. “That’s a good fry right there.”
Phoebe glanced at the notebook in front of her. “From the looks of things, the previous owners at least attempted to remodel the place.” She nabbed a fry from Grace’s plate and pointed to the paper. “Looking at this drawing we did, we should keep the front parlor for our guests to use. We can use the back parlor for our personal use.” She pointed to a large mustard smear. “And where you splattered mustard is where we could place the front desk.”
“Totally an accident.” Grace tilted the napkin toward her. “Yeah, sounds good, and we should also keep it all in the Queen Victorian style as much as possible. We’ll have to scope out some antique stores in the area and see what we can find. We want guests thinking the Queen herself will be dining with them.” She bit into her sandwich and chewed. “Dang, that’s good.” She swallowed and closed her eyes. “Imagine it, Pheebs, tasseled lampshades, elegantly carved mahogany furniture, elaborate tapestries will make our bed- and-breakfast the most opulent place in Kansas.”
“That won’t be hard to accomplish.” Phoebe reached for another napkin and passed it to Grace. “You got a little something on your chin.”
Grace wiped her chin. “We’ll need to renovate the upstairs, though. Every room should have a private bathroom with a sink, toilet, and a stand-up shower.”
Phoebe grunted her agreement between bites of her Monday Special, a double bacon cheeseburger on a sourdough bun. “We have space to put five rooms upstairs, and the downstairs bedrooms will be ours to use. We’ll have to put a bathroom in one of the downstairs rooms, but that’s something to consult the contractor about.”
Grace took the name and number Mr. Wisel had given them from her back pocket and placed it on the tabletop. “Dominick Carson.” She stuck another fry in her mouth and ate around it as she spoke. “I don’t know if we can trust someone recommended by a weasel.”
Phoebe choked on her Diet Coke. “Don’t make me laugh when I’m drinking.” She cleared her throat, took another sip, and continued, “We can meet with him and get an idea of what he’s like. Nothing says we have to hire him.”
“True.” She glanced outside the diner’s window and watched as traffic lazily drove past. “This town is small, but I’m sure it boasts more than one carpenter who can do the job.”
Heat waves blasted the women’s faces as they made their way out of the diner. They stopped at a bench situated outside the building and sat. Eating their ice cream sundaes, they watched small-town life pass by. Cars with no particular place to go or in no particular hurry to get there rumbled down Main Street. The people in them politely waved at other drivers and passengers and occasionally honked at pedestrians strolling along the sidewalks. Evenly spaced out oak trees provided the hot and sweaty civilians of Beacon, Kansas, a shaded walk.
Various businesses made their homes next to the shady trees. A bookstore proclaimed itself the Tiniest Book Store in the West, and the hardware store next to it had a dude named Hank as its mascot. Between the bookstore and hardware store, there was a pet shop with a sad-looking puppy looking out at some potential owners, a bakery, a bar where bikers were welcome, and a lamp and shade store. Other businesses dotted the landscape, and Grace knew she’d eventually step into every single one, especially the lamp and shade store. What woman doesn’t need a lamp or an extra shade in the prime of her life?
Eating ice cream evoked thoughtfulness in Grace, and she sat next to her sister, taking stock of her life. She owned a run-down money pit, a used Buick LeSabre, and a cat named Mrs. Sloucombe. She dug into her sundae in despair. My life sucks.
Her lip twisted at the things that no longer belonged to her: a cheating, slithery husband with a penchant for enjoying blonde bimbos on their dining room table, a house on The Hill, and a membership to the Hill Valley Country Club. She’d miss the country club the most. Even though its members emitted snobbery, the place always had the best little éclairs.
She’d left Hill Valley, Colorado, for the vast open Kansas plains, hoping that conquering her past and working on a new business adventure would help heal the wounds. With a bank account full of money from her divorce and a house waiting to be reborn, she pondered her future.
Grace snuck a glance at her sister, who was licking out the inside of the sundae cup. Growing up, she had coveted Phoebe’s black hair and perpetually sun-kissed skin. Phoebe inherited all the beauty of their mother. Grace, on the other hand, took after their rancher father, with his red hair, green eyes, and whip-like temper.
Phoebe struggled to snatch all the gooey goodness from the bottom of the container. Her tongue couldn’t make the distance. She slicked it up with a finger and stuck the fudge in her mouth. Phoebe snuck a guilty glance at Grace. “Did you see that?”
“Every disturbing moment.”
Phoebe glanced nervously around, and seeing no one staring at her, she relaxed. “What do you think of this place?” Crunching up her licked clean bowl, she attempted to make a basket. “Crap. Never was any good at basketball, was I?”
