by Willa Blair
Holt nodded, picturing a petite girl with lustrous, dark hair. “How long ago?”
“Ten years and three kids.” Jack shook his head. “Best years of my life, so far.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast and took a drink.
“No kidding? With three kids?”
“Sure. They’re a pain, but they’re also a lot of fun. Gotta have someone to leave this place to someday like my old man did to me. You married?”
“No.” Holt’s stomach sank. The way he let work consume him, he never would, especially if all the women he met were like Helen Conroe. Not that Caitlin was anything like her. But even Caitlin would be out of reach once she returned to Scotland. He’d always heard long-distance relationships were complicated. The distance between California and Scotland would make theirs impossible. Holt chewed on that for a moment. He hadn’t been thinking in terms of a relationship with Caitlin Paterson, at least not one that involved more than some fun while they were both here. But the idea of Scotland being so far away that he would never see her again didn’t sit well with him.
Anita arrived with the pizza before he could try to analyze the empty feeling in his gut. The tantalizing scent of sauce, meats, and veggies distracted him into thinking he must just be hungry.
Anita was a slightly rounder, softer version of the girl Holt remembered, with a few silver strands showing in her dark hair, now cut short. He stood to greet her.
“Holt! It’s great to see you.” She put the pizza on the table and stepped closer to her husband.
“You look as gorgeous as ever, Mrs. Romano,” Holt told her, saddened that he hadn’t known her well enough to get a hug or, at least, a hand on his arm that a friend might have offered.
“Hey,” Jack teased. “That’s my girl.” He tucked an arm around her waist, and she leaned down for a kiss.
“It’s great to see you two so happy.” Holt smiled to hide the twinge of envy coursing through him.
“We’re doing all right,” Anita said with a smile. “I’ll leave you two to catch up.” She returned to the kitchen.
Holt resumed his seat. After they’d both had a bite of excellent pizza, Holt asked Jack, “How is your dad?”
Jack grinned. “Enjoying his retirement in Florida, lucky bastard.” He sobered. “I’m sorry about your mother. It’s been, what, five years?”
“Six.”
“She used to come in here now and again with some friends.” He paused, then asked, “So what brings you back?”
Holt sipped his drink before answering. “Her aunt left me her beach cottage. I’m wandering down memory lane while I decide what to do with it.”
“Wow, must be worth a fortune. A lot of upkeep, huh?”
“You could say that.” He snagged another slice of pizza. “And since I’ve been away, I’ve lost track of everyone. Do you know if any of those friends of my mother’s are still in the area?”
Jack shook his head. “Sorry, not a clue. Haven’t seen any of them in years.”
So the ones she came here with might have been co-workers at the defunct accounting firm, not friends. Holt pulled out one of his cards and wrote his private number on the back. “If you see any of them, could you ask them to give me a call? I have some family history questions. People she knew might have some answers.”
Jack took it and tucked it in a pocket. “Sure. Be happy to.”
They finished the pizza, and after giving Anita a good-bye kiss on the cheek and getting a brotherly pounding on the back from Jack, Holt left. He hadn’t found any answers, but re-connecting with old friends had felt good. Better than he’d expected. He wondered what Caitlin would think about where he’d been. She’d probably tease him for unbending enough to find anything from his past he could enjoy. Picturing her grinning at him felt good, too.
****
When Caitlin came down for a late breakfast—or early lunch—she was surprised to find out that Holt got up early and had gone out. “He’s not still asleep?” She had worked late last night doing research online while waiting for Holt to return from the city. Once she heard him come in and go straight to his room, she finally was able to shut down her laptop and go to sleep.
“I believe he decided to look up some former acquaintances,” Mrs. Smith told her as she set a sandwich in front of her.
Caitlin didn’t know what to say. Holt hadn’t shown any interest in any part of his past that didn’t involve unloading this estate. She took a bite and chewed, thoughtfully. “What made him decide to do that, I wonder.”
“I asked if he’d looked up any old classmates and such,” Mrs. Smith admitted. “He seemed taken with the idea, and off he went.”
Caitlin nodded. That might be very good. If he reconnected with old friends and his walk down memory lane showed him that things were better here than he remembered, he might finally see a reason to keep the estate.
Farrell came into the kitchen then. “If you’re looking for Mr. Ridley, he drove away hours ago.”
“We know.” Caitlin and Mrs. Smith’s replied together, then they chuckled.
“I wonder if he’ll change his mind about decorating the house,” Mrs. Smith said suddenly. “Farrell, the decorations are all up in the attic—”
“Attic?” Caitlin broke in. “How did I not know this house has an attic?”
“Most do,” Farrell said.
Caitlin kicked herself. Ye daft eedjit, of course, there is an attic in this pile. “What’s in it, besides Christmas decorations?”
“Why, a lot of old things,” Mrs. Smith answered. “I thought you knew…”
Caitlin shook her head. “How do I get up there?”
“Farrell, will you do the honors? After both of you have lunch?”
“Of course,” he replied. Once the meal was over, and Mrs. Smith allowed them to leave, he led Caitlin to a set of stairs that had been hidden by what she assumed was a closet door in an empty, unused bedroom.
“Give a shout if you need anything,” Farrell told her and went on about his business.
Caitlin mounted the stairs, determined not to let her hopes get the best of her. Still, attics were often treasure troves. Perhaps this attic would be full of the very sort of things she’d come here to find. Not high-quality English or Scottish antiques of the first water, the kind on display in the parlor downstairs, but pieces reminiscent of Scottish history, perhaps even Jacobite pieces carted off by murderous and avaricious English lords who took control of much of Scotland after Culloden.
Or there might be nothing of value. Junk that no one had the heart to discard. Broken pieces of an earlier time, but not as early as the period that interested her.
At the top of the staircase, Caitlin paused and took a breath while she surveyed the open attic space that had been to the side and behind her as she mounted the stairs. Cobwebs draped from rafter to exposed lightbulb across the ceiling, dangling down to the attic’s contents. Caitlin shuddered. She hated spiders.
Well, there was no way to avoid this other than going back downstairs for a broom. She moved into the space, gaze drawn by a grouping of furniture once covered with sheets and now half exposed as old fabric rotted and gaped. She ducked under a low-hanging cobweb but managed to catch some of it in her hair. “Shite!” she cried, batting at it and shuddering. At least she didn’t see any creepie-crawlies…yet.
Straightening, she fingered the fabric. Linen, yellowed by time. She flipped up a corner to expose a sideboard and coughed as dust filled the air. She turned away and breathed through the fabric of her sleeve until the dust settled. Next time, she’d bring a broom and a dust mask with her. But while she was here…she turned back to the sideboard and studied it.
Older than the showpieces downstairs, not as finely crafted. The finish had darkened almost to black. The linen might have blocked some of the dust, but not all of it. She ran her finger across the top and left a revealing streak of woodgrain.
Next she tugged at a drawer. It slid open with a squeal of protest, then got stuck
halfway. She couldn’t see anything inside it and made a mental note to add a torch—a flashlight on this side of the Atlantic—to the list of things to carry up the stairs next time. Another drawer wouldn’t budge, but one below it slid open smoothly. As near as she could see, it too was empty, but she hesitated to put her hand in and feel for contents. Something might have taken up residence in there. Instead, she pushed it closed and lifted more of the linen out of the way, revealing a side table tucked between the sideboard and a headboard.
They all looked to be of an age, darkened by time, of simple lines and graceless construction. Crouching down, she tugged the small table out into the light. Square, with four square legs and one drawer, there was nothing fancy about it. It might have been used as a place to put a water pitcher or washbowl in someone’s chamber or stood beside a chair. During a later time, it would have sported inlaid wood, cabriole legs, or a center column with three curved feet, an ogee edge on the top surface and a metal or glass drawer pull. Nay, this was much rougher stuff, this wee table. Possibly older than the showpieces downstairs…or just cheaper.
Caitlin left it and pulled the linen away from the piece behind the headboard. Another cabinet, taller than the sideboard she uncovered first, but still rough, with several columns of small drawers. Serviceable, not decorative. Something from servants’ quarters, she mused? Or used in a kitchen or apothecary? Interesting for its history, but she doubted it would prove to be very valuable. Still, in this light, it was hard to tell. She turned to head back to the stairs, still thinking she’d come back up later with her list of items and something to add to the illumination, and walked right into a dangling cobweb.
Shrieking and batting at the gossamer threads like a madwoman, she backed away, knowing if she darted toward the stairs, she might run into another and find one inhabited.
At first she thought she heard the sound of her heart pounding in fear, then realized she was hearing footsteps pounding the floor below her and up the stairs, while she fought to clear the mess from her face.
“Caitlin, what the hell?”
“Help!”
For a change, Holt’s laugh didn’t please her. And it certainly didn’t help the situation. Caitlin stopped thrashing long enough to glare at him out of the one eye she’d managed to uncover. “Are you going to help me or not? There might be spiders!”
Holt moved toward her, his grin widened the closer he got. At the moment, she couldn’t enjoy it.
“Nope, no spiders.”
“Nay?” Caitlin’s hands fell to her sides, and her shoulders dropped, then she went back to trying to clear away the mess. “How…?”
“According to some of the paperwork I’ve been reading, an exterminator sprayed up here last month,” Holt told her while he helped pull sticky strands from her face and hair. “These cobwebs are probably as old as the Jacobite stuff you’re interested in.”
Caitlin sighed in relief that she wasn’t going to die by spider bite. Only then did she become aware of how good Holt’s hands felt brushing her skin, his fingers plucking at her hair, her cheek, her throat. Her pulse ratcheted up again.
“Here, let me get that,” Holt said, grasping her hand and moving it out of the way so he could remove a long strand of a spider’s web lying across her nose and down her cheek. “How did you manage to walk into a web?”
Caitlin forced herself to focus on what Holt said, not what he was doing. “I was thinking about what I needed to bring up here and not paying attention.” Heat climbed her throat again. He must think her daft. She gestured upward. “A broom moved to the top of my list.”
“No doubt.” He tugged at her hair, then nodded. “There. I think that’s most of it. The rest will wash out.”
Caitlin shuddered.
“So you’re not fond of spiders?”
She planted her fists on her hips. “If you laugh again, I’ll bloody well shove you into one of these and see how you like it.”
Holt held up both hands, palms out. “Truce.” He glanced around. “Now tell me what you found up here.” His lips quirked at one corner. “Other than cobwebs, that is.”
Caitlin muttered a Gaelic curse under her breath, then gestured toward the furniture grouping. “I need a good torch…flashlight…and some lamps, among other things, to be able to see much of these. Hence my list.”
“Of course.”
“Where have you been today? And how was your trip to the city?”
“Out and about. I’ll tell you later.” Holt took her hand and tugged her toward the stairs. “Let’s gather what you need and leave it at the bottom of the steps. I’ll help you carry it up after dinner. To make up for laughing at your predicament.”
“If that’s an apology, I accept it.”
“Good enough.”
****
Holt stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, where he’d gone to clean up before dinner after helping Caitlin gather what she thought she needed. He almost didn’t recognize the man he saw there. Where were the grim expression, the tight shoulders, the downturned mouth? He didn’t understand what was happening to him. In the space of a few days, his whole world seemed brighter. He realized that while he enjoyed simple meals, simple tasks, and verbal sparring with Caitlin Paterson, he’d forgotten all about his company’s problems, the aggravation of taking Helen to court, and his antipathy toward the estate.
Caitlin challenged him. Entertained him. Attracted him. Influenced him to the point of seeking out his past and enjoying time with some old friends, even though he’d sworn to get here, focus on selling this place, and get out as fast as he could. He glanced around the bathroom and out the open door into the bedroom. Somehow none of that seemed as urgent as it once had.
Rescuing Caitlin from imagined spiders was the most fun he’d had since the wave dunked her and he’d rescued her from the ocean. Peeling sticky webs from her hair had given him the excuse to touch her face, her throat—caresses that seemed somehow more intimate than carrying her cradled against his chest, or tending to a cut on her foot. He swallowed, imaging putting his hands on her lush body anywhere she’d allow—teasing her just to hear her laugh. He wanted to know everything about her. He suddenly realized he didn’t want to lose her to Scotland or for her to be far, far away from where he lived and worked.
This was bad.
He’d just won the case against Helen. She’d had no case, but she hadn’t accepted her lawyer’s advice. So she’d been forced to listen to his lawyer and witnesses refute every claim she made and confirm Holt’s. Once it was over, his lawyer advised him he had grounds to sue her for libel, slander, and a whole host of workplace violations, but Holt didn’t have the heart to drag her through any more mud than she’d already splashed on herself. He understood she’d moved to Texas somewhere. He hoped she’d learned her lesson.
He’d learned one, too. Don’t go anywhere socially near a female in a professional relationship. Of course, Caitlin wasn’t his employee. He was her client. That gave him some latitude to chip away at his reserve—and hers—to get her interested in him as a person, which seemed to be happening. With Mrs. Smith going out of her way to make dinners and lunches and breakfasts as homey as possible, going so far as to share meals with them in the kitchen rather than consigning them to the small dining room, this was far from a standard workplace environment.
Still, he’d better take a step back, enjoy the time they had together, but not expect more from Caitlin, no matter how much he wanted it.
He wondered how long his resolve would hold.
Chapter Seven
Thanks to a business call that kept Holt occupied after dinner, Caitlin didn’t get back up to the attic until the next morning. Farrell preceded her, wielding a broom like a sorcerer’s wand, wiping away the cobwebs that had terrorized her yesterday. Finally when the only remnants left were high in the eaves out of reach, Caitlin thanked him, and he headed back down the stairs, carefully avoiding the heavy-duty extension cord Holt had dragged up earlier.
Holt plugged in the lamps he had brought up while Caitlin finished her breakfast, then spread them out in a rough circle as far as their cords would reach.
“Perfect,” Caitlin told him. “That gives me a bright area to work within.”
“What else do you need?”
Hands on hips, Caitlin surveyed the space. While what she’d seen the day before didn’t look terribly promising, she knew better than to make assumptions. Some of the most attractive pieces were the least valuable and vice versa. Everything came down to provenance, history, even sentimental value. Until she’d carefully examined everything up here, she’d reserve judgment.
Much less scary now that light reached all the way to its walls, the attic took on more manageable dimensions, and the light revealed pieces she’d missed. She took a step toward a tallboy secretary, then stopped when she spotted a low, dark shape. “Look. There’s a trunk. Help me move that over here first.” With an evil grin, she added, “In my experience, ye never ken what treasures a trunk might hold.”
Holt didn’t comment until they stood over it. Then he ran a finger across the top, leaving a streak. “If it held treasure, someone would have emptied it by now.”
Age had darkened the center metal lock plate to the point Caitlin couldn’t be sure if it was originally brass or steel or something else. The painted wooden sides lacked carry straps, so she braced her hands on either side and tried lifting. The trunk didn’t budge. “It looks like a late nineteenth-century travel trunk—the kind people used for long trips on trains or ships, but I’ll know more when we open it. It’s heavy, so there’s something in it. Will any of the lights reach over here so we don’t have to move it?”
Instead of trying to lift it, Holt gave it a shove. It budged, but only a little. “I guess we’ll have to. It appears to be full of rocks.”
“Or gold?”
“Or lead,” he replied then moved as many lights as he could to create a half-circle of illumination around the front of the chest.
