Aunt Ivy’s Cottage
A totally gripping and emotional page-turner
Kristin Harper
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Summer at Hope Haven
Hear More from Kristin
Books by Kristin Harper
A Letter from Kristin
Acknowledgments
For my sisters, nieces and aunts
Prologue
The daffodils that were meant to brighten the room were already going limp in their vase and Zoey Jansen felt as if she were wilting, too. It was a sunny afternoon in mid-April, but the thermostat was set at seventy-four. Zoey’s sweater stuck to the small of her back and she wiped perspiration from her upper lip. Yet her great-aunt Sylvia, who was covered to her chest with a quilt, kept saying she was cold.
Zoey lifted the blankets only enough to gently place a freshly filled hot-water bottle into her aunt’s hands. “This should help warm you up.”
“Mmm,” Sylvia murmured drowsily, her eyes closed. “You’ve always been so good to me, Ivy. More like a sister than my own sisters.”
She thinks I’m my great-aunt Ivy. Zoey didn’t correct her mistake. Sylvia had been so restless the past several days that she didn’t want to rouse her if she was finally sleepy. As she started to withdraw her hand from beneath the blankets, Sylvia feebly grasped her fingers.
“Don’t go. I need—” her voice crackled. Assuming what Sylvia needed was a cool drink, Zoey reached for the water glass on the nightstand but her aunt tugged her hand again, pulling her closer. “I need to tell you something important.”
Zoey touched her shoulder to reassure her that she had her full attention. “What is it?”
“Mark doesn’t deserve this,” Sylvia uttered. “It’s not fair. I can’t let it happen.”
Mark—whose given name was Marcus—was Sylvia’s grandson. Ivy’s great-nephew. And Zoey’s cousin. His second wife had recently divorced him and Zoey figured that was what Sylvia meant was unfair. The old woman had always doted on her only grandchild, so Zoey understood it must have been upsetting for her to realize not every woman thought the sun rose and set on Marcus Winslow III. Struggling to say something that was honest yet kind, Zoey resorted to one of the platitudes she’d often heard Sylvia use.
“Sometimes, these things have a way of working out for the best for everyone.” Especially for his wife.
“No, no. That boy can only take so much.” Sylvia wiggled her head back and forth against the pillow, clearly agitated. “Enough is enough.”
Zoey gently pulled her hand free to smooth down her aunt’s flyaway hair, vaguely aware of how self-conscious Sylvia was about her appearance, even now, at eighty-four. “He can take it. He’s a lot stronger than you think.” Some might even say he’s a bully.
“What about Zoey? She’s such a dear girl. I’m concerned about her.”
“She’ll be fine. She’ll find another job soon.”
“What if she doesn’t? She’s lost all of her savings and she can’t pay her mortgage. Where will she live?”
Zoey’s breath caught. She had told her great-aunts she’d been laid off from her job as a librarian when the city closed the branch where she worked, but how had Sylvia found out that she’d lost her savings and was on the brink of losing her townhome? Zoey hadn’t wanted to burden her aunts by telling them that the guy she’d been seeing for the past year, a financial planner, had risked—and blown—all of her savings in a series of investments that turned out to be just shy of illegal. And she was too ashamed to admit she hadn’t even realized what he’d done until she tried to withdraw money from her depleted retirement funds to pay her mortgage.
Guessing that her aunt must have overheard her ranting about it on the phone to her friend, Lauren, she pleaded, “I know you’re worried about me, Aunt Sylvia, but Aunt Ivy can’t find out about that yet. She’ll get upset and stress is bad for her heart. When the time is right, I’ll talk to her about it. Meanwhile, please promise you won’t tell her.”
Upon hearing Zoey call her aunt, Sylvia opened her eyes and blinked in apparent surprise. Then she knitted her brows together, agreeing, “You’re right. It’ll be our secret.”
“Thank you.” As her aunt’s eyelids fell shut again, Zoey stood to leave.
But Sylvia added in a raspy voice, “For now, it’s best to let the past stay buried in the past… beneath the roses.”
What does that mean? Although her aunt’s health had been improving, Zoey wondered if she was feverish again. She leaned down and kissed her forehead. No, no fever…Yesterday, right before dozing off, she’d rambled on and on about dancing in the stars. When she woke, she had no recollection of having said anything and they concluded she’d been dreaming. Maybe she was only semi-awake now, too.
Zoey waited. When Sylvia didn’t say anything else, she straightened her posture and tiptoed across the room toward the heavy old door, slightly ajar. Aware it would creak if she opened it any farther, Zoey turned sideways to ease across the threshold. Before she left, she impulsively stopped to glance back at the bed and whisper, “I love you, Auntie. Sleep well.”
Chapter One
After escorting an elderly funeral guest to her car, Zoey Jansen paused on the sidewalk to appreciate the contrast of vibrant red, yellow and orange tulips against the white picket fence. Her aunt Sylvia had been an accomplished gardener and tulips were always her favorite spring flower. She had planted them around the perimeter of the yard and in abundant bunches in front of the stately sea-captain’s home her sister-in-law Ivy owned and where she herself had lived for most of her adult life.
It’s too bad she didn’t get to see them bloom this year, Zoey thought. She quickly dabbed the corner of her eye. She couldn’t start crying. Not yet. Maybe after all the mourners had left and the food had been put away and she’d made a kettle of tea and consoled her great-aunt Ivy. And after Zoey had persuaded her to go to bed early and then had sat beside her in the dark, chatting about nothing in particular until she drifted off to sleep, the way she’d done every night for the past week so her elderly relative wouldn’t feel so lonely. Maybe then Zoey would creep down the hall to her own room and allow herself to have a good cry. But not now.
As she unlatched the gate to follow the walkway to the front door, a burst of raucous laughter rose from the side of the house. What could possibly be so hilarious at a funeral reception? Worried that someone who’d had too much to drink might be about to drive home, Zoey changed course and continued down the sidewalk toward the brick driveway.
Scanning the area in front of the detached garage, which was once a carriage house, she saw four or five men, drinks in hand. Zoey had met a couple of them at the church; they were islanders who went to high school with Mark the year he stayed with Sylvia and Ivy after his father died. Apparently, when his buddies learned about the funeral, they took advantage of the opportunity to reunite with him. She’d overheard two of them planning a golf tournament for the next day while they worked their way down the buffet table, piling their plates high with shrimp and cocktail quiches and cheesecake. Now, they clustered around her square-jawed, golden-haired cousin, paying rapt attentio
n as he dominated the conversation. That would explain the ruckus.
A sweetly pungent odor tickled her nose and she noticed Mr. Witherell, the town’s notorious eccentric, leaning on his cane and smoking a pipe in the back yard. Zoey hoped her great-aunt Ivy didn’t smell it; pipe tobacco reminded her of her long-departed father, and she was distraught enough already.
“Now that Sylvia’s deceased, it won’t be long before Ivy goes. She’s not going to be able to handle the loneliness.”
Mark was talking so loudly that Zoey could hear his appalling remark clear at the other end of the driveway. She set her jaw and made a beeline for him. Or as straight a beeline as she could make, given that her heels were blistered from her new shoes and the brick terrain was slightly uneven in spots.
“Who will get the house?” a redhead with his back to Zoey asked. He was the one who’d been talking about going to the golf club earlier.
“You’re looking at him.” As Ivy’s oldest blood relative, her great-nephew Mark was next in line to inherit the estate, in accordance with the will Ivy’s father had drawn up years ago that ensured the house would always stay within the family.
“You going to sell it or move here and live in it yourself?”
“Unfortunately, it has to remain in the family, otherwise I’d sell it in a heartbeat and retire tomorrow,” Mark answered, rubbing his thumb and fingers together to indicate how wealthy he’d be.
Although Ivy’s house wasn’t nearly as grand as the other homes—some were mansions, really—overlooking the harbor, the land it was situated on was worth a mint. Last in a row of residences built on the southern end of the village’s one-sided Main Street, Ivy’s was the highest on the hill and it afforded the best vantage points. From the front was a panoramic view of the harbor and bay. From the back, it looked out over a shallow valley of modest cottages interspersed among sprawling summer residences, and four miles beyond that, the glittering open ocean.
But it was the widow’s walk on top of the house that offered an unparalleled perspective. Accessed through a trapdoor in the attic, the balustraded, open-air platform provided a three hundred and sixty degree vista of awe-inspiring beauty; the whole of Dune Island and its surrounding waters. So Mark was right; he could have earned a bundle one day if he were permitted to sell his inheritance. Fortunately, he wasn’t.
“There’s no way I’m relocating from Boston to Benjamin’s Manor,” he continued, referring to the quaint, historic fishing village, one of the five towns on Dune Island that collectively comprised Hope Haven. “I plan to lease this place out to corporations for executive retreats. Obviously, I’ll have to make major renovations first, but the investment will pay for itself in no time. Especially if Ivy goes before summer begins.”
Zoey couldn’t quite believe how openly callous Mark was being about their great-aunt’s future death. Just as she got close enough to ask him to kindly lower his voice, a tall, dark-haired man facing in her direction greeted her with a cordial hello. The other men immediately whipped their heads around to see who had come up behind them. The tall guy nudged his way through them until he stood directly in front of her, blocking everyone else from her range of view.
“We haven’t met… I’m Nick.”
Momentarily sidetracked from her mission, Zoey reflexively shook his hand. Nick who, from where? she wondered as she peered into his hooded, deep-blue eyes. She noticed that his heavy brows, like his hair, were flecked with gray and she guessed he was about the same age as her cousin. Another pal from high school? Mark liked to be considered the best-looking person in the room, and this guy was a lot more attractive than he was. Which meant if they were friends, there must have been something about him that was useful to Mark. That was just the way he operated.
Zoey was about to let go of his hand when he leaned forward, bringing his mouth nearly level with her left ear, and softly said, “Your aunt Sylvia spoke very fondly of you. It was clear how special you were to her. I’m really sorry for your loss.”
Thank you. Two words. She had been saying those two words all afternoon. All week. It was all she needed to say now, too. But as Nick’s cool, strong hand enveloped her sweaty one and his condolence resonated deep within her heart, Zoey was tongue-tied. Aunt Sylvia was very special to me, too, she replied silently. She could feel herself faltering, emotionally and physically. Dipping her chin, she inadvertently pressed her forehead against his chest. Nick must have thought she wanted a hug because he lifted his other hand and patted her back. To Zoey’s dismay, his unexpected gesture caused a smattering of tears to bounce down her cheeks. Oh, please, not now, she thought, panicking. Not here. Not in front of them.
She jerked her head upright and pulled her hand from his to whisk her face dry with her fingertips. Nick quickly dropped his arms to his sides and she noticed several wet circles darkening his gray tie. Embarrassed, she stepped around him and addressed her cousin as neutrally as she could manage through more tears that were still threatening to fall.
“Could you please lower your voice so Aunt Ivy doesn’t hear you talking about that?”
The redhead who had been questioning Mark about the house kicked at a pebble and the other two guys studied the labels on their beer bottles. At least they had the good sense to act chagrined. Unlike Mark, who took a long, slow pull from his drink and then crudely smacked his lips.
“So Ivy doesn’t hear us talking about what?”
The year he turned sixteen, Mark started referring to and addressing their great-aunt by her first name, as if they were peers, instead of calling her Aunt Ivy. Now that he was forty-one, it didn’t seem quite as disrespectful, but it still grated on Zoey’s nerves whenever he said it—an annoyance which probably had more to do with his superiority complex than with whether or not he used the title, aunt.
“About her…” Even though they were at a funeral reception, it seemed strangely inappropriate to use the word “death,” so Zoey repeated Mark’s euphemism. “About her going. What if one of the windows had been open?”
The rest of the men were furtively dispersing, but Mark stood his ground, wearing an amused expression. “If one of the windows had been open, I wouldn’t have had to come outside in eighty-five-degree weather to cool off.”
Eight months of the year, Sylvia or Ivy complained about how cold they were. They didn’t turn the heat down until the end of April and didn’t put window screens in until late May. So even though today was unseasonably warm, the windows remained shut. But that wasn’t Zoey’s point and Mark knew it.
“Someone could have opened the back door and Aunt Ivy could have heard you.”
“So what? I’ve already spoken to her about it.”
Zoey struggled to keep her volume low. “You talked to Aunt Ivy about her dying?”
“Dying?” Mark guffawed. “Who mentioned anything about her dying? I said she would probably be going soon.” Mark looked at Zoey as if she were the one who had zero sensitivity. She felt foolish for misinterpreting his comments but his response begged another question.
“Going where soon?”
“To an assisted living facility. I think it would be advantageous for her.”
Zoey was taken aback; her aunt had never mentioned anything about moving anywhere, especially not to an assisted living facility. “How would it be advantageous? She loves this house and she’s managing fine on her own. When I’m not here, Carla comes twice a week to clean and Aunt Ivy still enjoys cooking for herself. And the cardiologist said her heart condition is treatable with medication.”
Now it was Mark’s turn to look puzzled. “Ivy has a heart condition?”
Me and my big mouth. “Yeah, she has occasional chest pain. It’s called angina. But Dr. Laurent said she’s in good health for someone who’s eighty-seven, especially considering her medical history.”
Ivy had had non-Hodgkin lymphoma when she was in her early sixties. It recurred twice, but she’d been cancer-free since she turned seventy. And until she was eighty
, she routinely walked two miles a day. She also watched her weight, never smoked and rarely drank. It was only during the past five or six years that she’d slowed down a little—but she was nowhere near stopping.
“Her physical health might be okay. But up here…?” Mark tapped his temple.
“What are you talking about? She has all her mental faculties.”
“Then why didn’t she turn the gas burner off a couple weeks ago?”
She was surprised Ivy had told him about her recent oversight, considering how vexed she’d been by it. Zoey hadn’t been there when it happened; she’d gone back to Rhode Island for a few days to collect documents to file her taxes. But according to her aunt, if the carpenter who was tightening the staircase banister hadn’t happened to smell gas, Ivy, Sylvia, and Moby —their gray, seventeen-pound, thirteen-year-old tabby cat—all would have perished. Since the gas had only been on for a few minutes and Ivy would have smelled it eventually, Zoey was reasonably sure that was an exaggeration, but her aunt had bemoaned her error for days.
“How did you hear about that?”
“I do check in from time to time to see how they’re doing, you know. You’re not the only one who cares about them.” Mark scowled and averted his eyes.
That was as close as Zoey had ever heard him come to expressing… well, not love, but at least concern about Ivy and Sylvia. She realized she ought to go a little easier on him. If she’d heard her aunts say it once, she’d heard them say it a hundred times, Mark isn’t good at demonstrating affection, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care.
“I appreciate that you’re concerned about her,” she acknowledged. “But Aunt Ivy didn’t leave the gas on because she’s experiencing symptoms of dementia. She just didn’t click the knob into place all the way—probably because of her arthritis.”
Aunt Ivy's Cottage: A totally gripping and emotional page turner Page 1
