When You Find Love

by Willa Blair

  Holt shrugged. “Finding that trunk was a fluke. I don’t think it had been touched in decades, maybe not since the beginning of the last century. There’s no reason it would provide answers to anything.”

  As the sky darkened, fairy lights popped on in the white-painted gazebo set in the middle of the side lawn.

  “How lovely,” Caitlin exclaimed. “Let’s go over there.”

  Holt frowned, then gestured for her to lead the way. The untrodden snow was deeper on this side of the house, up to Caitlin’s ankles. She walked carefully, on the lookout for ice patches that might have formed as the day’s melting refroze. Holt lagged a step behind her, ready, she suspected, to catch her if she slipped. But she reached the gazebo without incident and mounted the two steps to the interior. Inside, the fairy lights cast a warm glow that bled onto the surrounding snow. A row of benches circled the outside edge, and the roof rose to a pointed peak. Carved columns and fancy gingerbread, all painted white, supported the roof and provided a sense of cozy enclosure.

  Holt crossed to the side that the roof had protected from the last snowfall. “The bench is dry over here if you want to sit down.”

  Caitlin joined him. “This is such a magical spot on a lovely estate. You’re lucky to have inherited it.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” Holt replied, his expression grim as he looked around. “My mother loved this spot. She told me after she got pregnant with me and her aunt kicked her out, she despaired of ever setting foot here again. When I was very young, mother drove me past here, pointing out where she’d come from and that we were not welcome. I’d always thought the house was haunted…but not this…” He indicated the gazebo. “I begged her to sneak over here when we knew my great-aunt was out of town, so I could find out. Mother finally brought me when I was about nine.”

  “That was kind of ye to give her a reason to return.”

  He shook his head. “You know what they say about good intentions. It was a sunny summer day with a cooling breeze off the water, puffy clouds scudding across the sky, and every plant on the estate in full flower.”

  “Magical.”

  “Then the wicked witch showed up.”

  “Ach, nay.” Suddenly the twinkly lights held no warmth.

  “Returned early from wherever she’d ridden her broom,” Holt continued. “Mother heard her voice and tried to hustle us away before her aunt found out we were there, to no avail. The scene that followed cemented my…distaste…for that woman and this place.” Holt paused and looked around, his gaze tracking to the peak of the roof. “I’ll never forget my mother’s tears when her aunt suddenly appeared. She reinforced my childish notion that only evil spirits could make someone treat my mother so badly.”

  “Why did your mother make you aware of her background? Had you asked?”

  “Probably. I was a precocious child. My intellect and curiosity constantly got me in trouble. This time it backfired big time. The way my great-aunt reacted to our presence, I’m surprised she didn’t have this burned down.”

  Caitlin stood. “I’m so sorry. We should go. I never should have insisted we come out here.”

  Holt grasped her gloved hand.

  She wished she could feel the warmth of his skin.

  “You had no way of knowing about my past. Sit down and enjoy the present,” he said, tugging. “It all happened a long time ago.”

  Caitlin sat. It was that or be pulled off her feet onto his lap. “But it still hurts. I hear it in your voice.”

  “I’m a big boy now. I can stand it.”

  Caitlin pulled her hand free and stood. “Ye shouldn’t have to. Besides, I’m getting cold. Let’s go in.”

  Holt leaned against the column at his back, then blew out a breath and stood. “You’re right, the wind is picking up. Let’s go in.”

  Caitlin headed for the mansion. The warm yellow light spilling from its windows beckoned her. But she now had a better idea why she and Holt saw this place very differently. Appearances could be deceiving.

  Chapter Eight

  Holt regretted spoiling Caitlin’s enjoyment of the gazebo, but perhaps it was just as well. Maybe now she’d stop trying to convince him of the appeal the estate. He didn’t understand why she seemed so determined that he keep it. Live in it, for God’s sake, as if he’d ever do that. Staying here for a few weeks was bad enough, though his residence here kept him out of county court. Still, he couldn’t wait to get back to California. The only downside to leaving walked quietly at his side.

  He helped her up the stairs onto the front portico then held the front door open. Her scent reached him on warm air that wafted past them, stirring his blood. She touched his glove as she brushed by, and he remembered that all too soon, like that brief touch, she’d be gone. She was here to do a job, he told himself as he helped her remove her coat, then stripped out of his. Farrell appeared in time to take charge of them, along with their hats, gloves, and scarves and announced that hot cocoa awaited their pleasure. Holt followed Caitlin down the richly paneled hallway toward the kitchen, reminding himself with every step that the estate was a job site, nothing more, its contents merely items to be assessed, cataloged, and disposed of. As soon as she finished, and as soon as he dealt with the lawyers, the county tax office, and a wealth of other details, he’d sell the place and never set foot in it again.

  Then she would go back to Scotland, where he’d likely never see her again, despite his teasing threat to show up at her door.

  Holt squinted as they entered the brightly lit kitchen.

  Caitlin took a deep breath and sighed. “Ah, chocolate,” she said with a smile for Mrs. Smith. “Ye’re an angel to think of this,” she added as Mrs. Smith handed her a steaming mug.

  “I saw the two of you outside at sunset and knew you’d be chilled by the time you came back in.”

  “You were right,” Holt assured her as he took charge of his own steaming mug, then took a cautious sip. Hot, creamy, almost smoky, the cocoa satisfied a need he hadn’t known he had.

  “This is amazing,” Caitlin exclaimed after a few sips. “You must tell me your secret. What’s in it?”

  Mrs. Smith waved a hand. “It’s my special recipe I only make during the holidays. I use Mexican chocolate, which has cinnamon and a touch of cayenne to warm it.”

  Of course, Holt thought. “I’ve had something like this in California. I should have realized…”

  “I want the recipe,” Caitlin interrupted. “I’ve never tasted the like. I’m sure my friends at home would adore this.”

  Mrs. Smith beamed. “I’ll write it out for you. Care for more?”

  Caitlin held out her mug. “Aye, of course.”

  Mrs. Smith ladled out more fragrant chocolate and topped off Caitlin’s mug. “Have a seat at the kitchen table. I’ve been cooking all day, so this is the warmest room in the house. I’ll just leave you to it, and come back later to clean up and get dinner on the table.”

  “Thank you,” Holt replied and waited until she left the room. He took a seat next to Caitlin and thawed his hands around his mug.

  “This warms me all the way through,” Caitlin told him. “It’s going to be very popular back home.”

  “A worthwhile souvenir of your trip,” he quipped but left unspoken his thoughts about other, more pleasurable ways he’d like to warm her, or about how unhappy the idea of her leaving made him.

  “Mrs. Smith and Farrell are treasures,” she said. “I’m going to miss them.”

  He pictured her sitting with friends in front of a peat fire, sipping Mrs. Smith’s chocolate and realized if that actually happened, if he weren’t there, too, he’d never be able to drink spiced chocolate again without missing her. With every sip, her cheeks pinked and her eyes closed in obvious bliss. How he’d enjoy being the one to put that expression on her face, to watch a flush of color rise from her chest to her eyes. Damn it, he had to stop thinking this way. But her sweater hugged enticing curves, and her hair fell across her forehead,
making him long to brush it back, then run his fingers down the length of her throat while he kissed her.

  They sipped in silence for a few minutes, then Caitlin set her mug aside and frowned. “I’m really sorry, about…before. I can’t imagine how awful it must have been for you and your mother to be chased away. No room at the inn….” She trailed off with a frown, then shrugged and continued, “Even though it was summer and not Yuletide.”

  Holt struggled for words. He’d been too young to go to his mother’s defense, but old enough to understand most of the invectives her aunt hurled at her. To see the anger and hurt and shame in her eyes as she tried to shield him from the scene.

  “I have never forgotten my mother insisting I was not a mistake. At the time, I didn’t know what she meant, not really. Certainly my mother never treated me in any way that suggested she didn’t want me. Though her life would have been much simpler, much better, and perhaps much longer without me.”

  “Holt. Nay.”

  “I don’t know for certain, but I expect my great-aunt forbade my mother from seeing my father. He wasn’t from a good—in her estimation—family. Wrong social strata altogether.”

  “How awful for her. And then to find out she was pregnant…”

  “Years later, long after we were chased away from here, Mother told me her aunt kicked her out as soon as she started showing.”

  “I see why you never wanted to come back here.”

  “And why I’m eager to get rid of this place. Family curse aside, for my mother and me it was and is full of unhappy memories.” So why did the gazebo now appear in his thoughts with Caitlin glowing in the fairly lights rather than the painful daytime image of his great-aunt snarling at his mother?

  Caitlin drummed her fingers on the tabletop, a nervous gesture he’d never seen her indulge in before. Holt wanted to reach over and take her hand, to soothe away her disquiet. But touching her would do anything but soothe him. So he stayed still and let her think.

  “I want to pull the drawers out of that apothecary cabinet,” she finally said, a change of topic so abrupt, he didn’t understand her for a moment.

  “Apothecary cabinet?”

  “That’s what I’m calling it. The one with rows and rows of small, square drawers. Tomorrow morning, let’s drag it into the circle of light and see what there is to see.”

  “Why that piece?”

  “I could say because it’s the next nearest and we don’t have to move anything else out of the way to get to it, but I have this feeling…”

  “Feeling?”

  “We Scots women put a lot of stock in our feelings.” She straightened and grinned. “We come from a long line of seers, Druids, that sort of thing.”

  Holt laughed, and Caitlin quickly joined in. She’d been teasing. Well, she’d succeeded in lightening the mood. He was glad of that.

  “Then we’ll do as you say,” Holt promised, wondering if, behind her teasing, there was a bit of truth. The glint in her eyes said yes.

  ****

  The next morning, Caitlin grabbed a small notepad and black marker pen. Careful to avoid the heavy-duty extension cord running up the stairs, she made the climb to the attic. Holt was already there and had wrestled the apothecary cabinet into an open area and arranged their lights around it.

  Her granny might have had a good Gaelic word for the feeling Caitlin had when Holt talked about his family. All Caitlin knew was that Holt’s statement felt like a portent. For him, and perhaps, given the ice that had skittered down her spine, for her, too. She knew her decision to tackle the apothecary cabinet had thrown Holt, but in that moment, she had acquired a quest. Even though he’d once told her he didn’t want her meddling in his personal life, they were well beyond that now. She needed to discover what she could about Holt’s family, the curse he’d mentioned and tried to scoff at, and his missing father. She’d told Holt the truth. She had a feeling about the apothecary cabinet. She wouldn’t wait any longer to examine it.

  “Good morning,” she greeted him, glad to see him taking an active interest in the attic’s contents. “You’re up early.”

  “I have to be to get here before you. Eager to reveal its secrets?” He hooked a thumb toward the chest.

  After setting her burdens down on a nearby tabletop, Caitlin quirked an eyebrow. “Apparently I’m not the only one.”

  Holt shrugged. “You did say you had a feeling about this piece.”

  “I did. But you’ll have to be patient a few minutes longer.” She bent over the table and tore off single sheets from her notepad, then numbered each one until she had enough for each drawer. “That cabinet is so old, the drawers may fit only in their current slot, so I want to make sure each goes back where it belongs.”

  “Without damaging them,” Holt said, clearly understanding her concern.

  She opened the top left drawer far enough to slip the number one inside. “Exactly. You can help by putting the numbers in the rest of the drawers while I take a look at the back. Don’t open them any farther than you need to, to slip the number inside.”

  “Like you did. But why?” Holt took the stack she handed him and turned to the second drawer in the top row. He tugged it gently open and slipped in the number two sheet.

  “I’m going to do this methodically and carefully,” Caitlin told him as he closed that drawer, nodded, and reached for the next. “Because of my feeling, ye ken.” Satisfied he understood, Caitlin grabbed the torch and stepped around the cabinet, moving the light over its sides and back, looking for cracks, gouges, and any other damage. Given its apparent age, it appeared to be in remarkably good shape. A squeak and soft oath alerted her. “Problem?”

  Holt was pushing on the rightmost drawer in the row above the base row. “I think I jammed this one. Sorry.”

  Caitlin joined Holt at the front. “Leave it for now. It’s probably warped. Do the last row, and we’ll get started.”

  When Holt finished, Caitlin pulled a few drawers from the top row and set them on the table she’d been using as a workbench. Before she could finish with that row, he asked, “What are you doing? I could have taken them out if I knew that’s what you wanted.”

  She glanced at him, then resumed her task. “I didn’t want them out…then. I needed to see how sturdy the outer box was and to look for problems. Now I want the drawers out to inspect them, but also to be able to get to the interior.” Holt frowned and muttered something about wasted effort that Caitlin chose to ignore. “If you have something else to do, go ahead. I don’t need help with the rest of this.”

  “Okay.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a videoconference in an hour to get ready for.” He moved toward the head of the stairs then turned back. “Call if you need anything.”

  She didn’t bother to look up. “I will.”

  “Or scream if you see any spiders.”

  Caitlin planted her hands on her hips and gave him the glare she used on her cousin Ian’s adopted twins when they were trying to pull something over on her. “Again, not funny.”

  With a smirk, he went down the steps.

  Caitlin turned back to the cabinet and put him out of her mind. She finished pulling all the drawers, stacking them on the work table to study later for variations in construction, materials, size, weight, wear, and so forth. But first she wanted to know what shining her torch into the interior of the cabinet could tell her.

  She didn’t notice anything unusual in its construction. And fortunately, no critters had taken up residence. She smelled old wood and dust, nothing more. Each cubbyhole was large enough for her hand, so starting with the top row, she reached in and felt for loose framing. Often she would find things that way, that were not easily seen by the naked eye. She risked splinters, but some things were worth a little discomfort. Still everything seemed remarkably uniform for hand-made furniture, until she reached the space where the drawer stuck when Holt tried to close it.

  She might have missed it, but in withdrawing her hand, she scra
ped the top of the center cubby and felt rough wood, not the smooth plank she’d expected. Crouching down, she shone the bright torch beam at the top of the cubby. She couldn’t quite make out the damage there, but the color of the wood seemed off, and she suspected something kept in this drawer had repeatedly scraped the bottom of the shelf above it.

  She reached in and traced the gouges with her fingertips. Not parallel. Some ran perpendicular, some at angles. A thrill ran through her, raising goose flesh as she realized what she might be feeling. Writing. Something had been scratched or carved in what felt like a block set into the wood. But what? And how to see it?

  She needed a hand mirror. And she’d seen one, but where? She sat back on her heels and thought for a moment. Aye, the great-aunt’s chamber. One graced her dressing table. It might be too big, but if so, perhaps Mrs. Smith would know where to find another.

  As she headed for the steps, she told herself it might only be a maker’s mark in an unusual location, or something on the board from before the cabinet was made. But it might also be more.

  Then she smacked her forehead. Eedjit! She didn’t need a mirror. She turned back to the cabinet and opened the camera on her phone, checked that the flash was on, then slid it into the cubby, held her breath, and took the picture.

  Yes! It was writing, but she didn’t have all of it. She tried again, taking several pictures while sliding the phone all the way in and then inching it out. When she finished, she had a set of photos that she could overlay and stitch together. Once they uploaded to her laptop, she sat at the table and tried to puzzle out the carvings.

  French, not Gaelic, which told her either the piece was brought over from France, or the person doing the carving was educated and upper class, though given the type of cabinet and the rough finish, probably not nobility. Truly an apothecary? Or a clan’s healer? The carving would give her a clue. She went to work with her photo editing software, and before long, had a clear image of the entire inlaid carving. Its block of wood wasn’t a perfectly mortised fit, which is why the drawer stuck. But perhaps by the time the space had been chiseled out of the upper frame, and the carved block set in, the owner no longer cared, knowing the end was near. The lines defining the block’s edges were clearly visible, as were the words that someone felt were important enough to hide within this chest hundreds of years ago.