I ignore his pessimism. Twelve more stairs get us to the second floor. My mind is buzzing a million miles a minute. A salvage crew could come through this house and resell everything for way more than the hundred and forty thousand dollars asking price. The light fixtures, door hinges, crystal doorknobs, and crown moulding are a few of the treasures that could fetch a handsome price. Not that I’d condone that idea, I’m just saying.
“Who’s selling this house and why?” I demand.
“The Benter family has owned the property for the last thirty years. When the parents died, the kids kept the place thinking that one of them might move back to Creek Water, but they never did. They put it on the market five years ago and never got an offer, so they’re trying again now.” He adds, “It’s been vacant for eight years, so there’s a ton of deferred maintenance. Probably mold and rats …”
There are six bedrooms and four bathrooms on the second floor. All of them hideously carpeted. There are probably a dozen layers of wallpaper that need to be stripped away, and the two additional fireplaces are in pretty sad shape, but there’s simply too much to recommend this house to dwell on the negatives.
Beau says, “You see what I mean about it being a money pit?”
I’ve had enough of his lackluster enthusiasm. “Beau, my apartment in New York was barely over five hundred square feet and the asking price is over five hundred thousand dollars.”
“What?” He’s clearly shocked by this. “Why in the world would anyone pay that?”
“Because that’s considered a very reasonable rate for Manhattan.” I continue, “Bearing that in mind, can you see why spending less than a third of that on something fifteen times bigger with a huge property might seem appealing?”
“Luckily, Atlanta is considered a very affordable city, so you should have no problem finding somewhere nice to live there.”
My god, this man is like a dog with a bone, and that bone is named Atlanta.
Chapter 17
“Do you want me to look through the rest of the house by myself?” I ask.
My reluctant realtor rolls his eyes and replies, “Follow me.” I trail behind him to the bedroom at the head of the stairs. He walks through the door and crosses the room toward the closet. It can’t be bigger than five feet by four feet. “Are you coming?” he grumbles.
While I’ve never been shown through a vacant house before, I certainly never thought crowding into a closet with your realtor was part of it. Unless of course your realtor was putting the moves on you. A thrill of excitement zips through me at the very thought, even though there’s nothing about Beau that would indicate he’s anything but irritated with me. Which is fine because I’m pretty annoyed with him and all his negativity.
I join him, curious to see what’s going to happen. I’m so close I can smell his bay rum aftershave and I lean in to inhale the heady fragrance. “Turn around and face the wall,” he demands. I start to wonder if Beau isn’t a little bit kinky, and while I might not be opposed if we were dating, in present circumstances, it feels like an odd request.
“Why?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away, instead I feel his breath against the side of my neck. I swear that man is smelling my hair. My knees are in jeopardy of buckling and as a result I carelessly allow myself to lean against him, feeling the strength and solidity of his body. Mother. Of. God. I’m in a closet with a man who doesn’t appear to even like me, and it’s all I can do not to jump into his arms and beg him to do something very wicked.
Beau puts his hand on the empty clothes bar and motions for me to do the same, and I briefly wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am. Then he pushes the bar forward until it moves several inches. I have to catch myself from falling.
I expect him to start grousing about broken clothing rods, but he doesn’t say a word as the back wall pops open. Oh, my god, it’s a hidden door!
I follow him through and discover that we’re at the base of another staircase. This one isn’t at all impressive. It’s very narrow and the steps are super steep. “Where does it lead?” I ask with excitement.
“To a hidden room in the attic.”
When we get to the top, Beau flips a switch that illuminates a space no bigger than eight by ten feet. There’s nothing special about it and I ask, “Did they use this for storage or something?”
“Our ancestors built the house with several secret rooms and passages,” he answers.
“Why?”
“This was one of the first houses in Missouri used in the Underground Railroad,” he tells me.
Goosebumps erupt all over my body. This is the house Emmie told me about. I wonder why she didn’t mention that it was her family who built it. “Why in the world doesn’t your town buy this property and turned it into a museum?” I demand.
“There was talk of that at one time, but the expense was prohibitive. Creek Water is under fifteen thousand people and most of those people probably wouldn’t visit the museum. Even if they did, it would likely be only once. Ultimately, the town council decided it wouldn’t make enough to pay for itself.”
I can’t imagine such a treasure existing without people standing in line to be a part of it. Southern Missouri or not, this is a real piece of American history. Surely some federal historical foundation or something …
Beau continues the tour by showing me the basement. There are two more hidden rooms down here. I ask, “Why two instead of one bigger room?” They’re both suffocatingly small, and I feel itchy at the thought of anyone being closed into them.
“In case one of them was discovered,” he tells me. Taking in my confused look, he explains, “The reason for multiple rooms in the house is so that if one was discovered, it would hopefully be assumed it was the only one.”
“Why would anyone have suspected your family of being involved in hiding slaves?” I ask.
“Because folks with means owned slaves and my family didn’t. They paid their servants a wage, but they refused to own them. Even though they founded this town and were pillars of the community, some found their abolitionist beliefs hard to accept.”
I have great deal of respect for Beau’s ancestors. It couldn’t have been easy going against the status quo, especially during such a tumultuous time as the Civil War.
He takes me out to the garage, which used to be the carriage house. There’s another secret room under the floor there. It’s no more than an earthen basement; the thought of hiding in it makes me panicky, like being buried alive.
After we leave the garage, Beau declares, “The property must be full of ghosts.”
“Why would you say that?” I demand, angry that he’s trying to scare me off in such a childish manner.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he answers. “Can you imagine all the fear and anxiety that’s flooded through this place?
I shake my head. “That’s not how I see it,” I tell him.
“How do you see it, Lexi?” he looks like he might actually be interested in hearing my response.
“While there had to have been a lot of unrest, I think the predominant feeling is one of hope. Your family represented the promise of freedom, a new life. You can’t put a price tag on that kind of goodness.”
By the time we walk back to the house, I’m convinced I want to live here. I tell Beau, “I’m just going to stroll around the grounds for a bit. You can go ahead and leave if you want.” Please go, please go, please go, I chant in my head.
He looks down at me almost tenderly, searching my face for the answer to a question he wants to ask but doesn’t. “I’ll come along,” he says.
“No complaining,” I warn. “I don’t want to hear about how much work needs to be done or what terrible shape everything is in, okay?”
He nods his head once affirming that he understands the rules. We walk around the path that leads to the backyard, shuffling through dried leaves that have fallen from the trees. The crunch beneath our feet takes on a hypnotizing cadence as we near a small
outbuilding. “This is the icehouse,” Beau explains.
I open the door to the small brick building, peek in, and say, “I guess I could use it for a gardening tools or something.”
“It would make a great playhouse,” he offers. Heat floods my body as though I’m standing too close to a bonfire. Thank goodness for my darker complexion or I’d probably be beet red as unbidden images of Beau and me making those offspring pop into my brain. What is wrong with me? More often than not, Beau seems to barely tolerate my presence. It defies reason that I’m so attracted to him.
“As I don’t have any kids yet,” I manage, “I guess I’ll just keep my rakes here.” Instead of going inside the icehouse, I turn around and inadvertently walk right into his arms.
Darn this man and the feelings he arouses in me. Instead of backing away or walking around him, I lean into him and inhale his heat. It feels so good to be standing in the arms of a man, this man.
“Beau,” I say his name like a plea.
He runs his hands up and down my back several times like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me, before gently pushing me away. He clears his throat and grumbles, “It’s probably not even structurally sound anymore.”
I know I told him no complaining, but I let it slide because I’m pretty sure he’s only doing it to try break this draw we seem to have toward one another.
Once we’re standing a respectable distance apart, Beau announces, “I better get back to the office. Can I give you a ride?”
I shake my head. “No thanks. The walk will do me good.” The truth is that not being with him will do me good. I need to gather my wits and steer clear of Emmie’s cousin. I’m just afraid that might be easier said than done.
Chapter 18
My reasons for visiting Missouri were two-fold. One, to see my friend. And two, to unwind and hopefully clear my thinking—I need to figure out where in the heck my life is going next. I never expected to further complicate things by actually considering moving here.
I walk down the path to the sidewalk and turn around to stare at the house that has taken over my imagination. After several long moments, I turn, intent on continuing my investigation of Creek Water. I’ve been here fewer than twenty-four hours and already New York feels like it was a month ago. It’s a very strange sensation.
My phone rings as I pass an old firehouse. I look at the number and see that it’s Bertie. “Hey, Dad, what’s up? You miss me already?”
He doesn’t confirm or deny, instead, he demands, “Where are you right now?”
“I’m in Creek Water, Missouri, Dad,” I say, wondering how he could have possibly gone senile since yesterday.
“No, no, no. Not what town are you in, where in town are you?”
I look up at the street sign and answer, “I’m standing on the corner of Magnolia Way and Cricket Lane. Why?”
“Don’t move!” he demands.
I actually stand still for five minutes before wondering what I’m doing. Why doesn’t my dad want me to move? I finally start to walk again, only to barely miss getting hit by a car that comes barreling toward me. It comes to a screeching halt right before contact is made, leaving me breathless and in shock. I regularly dodged oncoming traffic in Manhattan, so that’s not new to me, but it wasn’t my expectation that I’d be doing that here.
Before my heart rate can slow, the passenger side door opens, and my dad gets out. What’s he doing here?
I watch as he asks the driver to wait a minute. “Dad?”
He looks around all twitchy and nervous while answering, “I need you to take me to that place you sent me pictures of yesterday.”
I wrack my brain trying to remember what pictures I sent him. There was one of the airport, several of the drive to Creek Water to prove that I arrived safely, and then there were the ones of the loft at the old sewing machine factory.
I assume he doesn’t mean the airport as he was just there. “You mean the loft?”
He nods excitedly. “Yes. Take me there.”
I stare at my him, concerned for his sanity. His sandy blond hair is all ruffled and going in multiple directions. His handsome, yet distracted, face is flush with excitement. Essentially, he looks like himself, with the exception of the manic look in his eyes.
“Are you planning to stay for a while? Did you bring a suitcase?” I ask.
“Didn’t have time,” he answers. “My toolkit is in the trunk, though.” His toolkit is where he keeps his paints and brushes.
“I’m sorry, why didn’t you have time?” I’m beyond confused as to what’s going on.
“When I went online to find a flight, I only had enough time to grab my paints and get on the subway. As it was, I was the last passenger on the plane before they closed the doors.”
“Dad, why are you here?” I sound like a broken record. My father’s previous attitude about Missouri was one of fear, but now he’s standing in front of me, demanding to be shown around. He’s hijacking my vacation.
“I need to see that loft. I need to see that lighting in person.”
The loft space truly is extraordinary, the way the sun reflects off the river, casting shadows in the corners while illuminating the majority of the space like a biblical epiphany could occur at any moment. I can see how it speaks to my dad. That is why I sent him the photos, after all. I never thought he’d be driven to come in person, though.
Bertie is an odd duck to say the least, and while I’m used to his eccentric behavior, I still would have never expected him to leave New York on his own. I get into the Uber with him and ask, “What does Mom think about this?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I left her a note.”
What? “You left her a note? I demand. “What did you say in it?”
“That I’d gone to Missouri and would talk to her later.” When my parents leave New York, it’s always together and always for somewhere in Europe. My mother is going to freak when she finds out my dad has taken off on his own.
“Why were you in such a hurry to get here?”
He stares at me like I haven’t been paying attention and yells, “It’s the lighting! Why doesn’t anyone ever mention the spectacular lighting in Missouri?”
I take a moment to thank God that my dad got here safely. For such an accomplished man, he can be remarkably simple—like Forest Gump simple. I have flashes of us walking through Central Park together and him stopping in the middle of a path and lying down on it, forcing people to walk around him. He was looking at a cloud formation and had to stare at it for twenty minutes to commit it to memory. Once he stayed on the Staten Island ferry all day, going back and forth, enraptured by the wave patterns that formed on the water.
“You came here for the lighting?” I ask.
“Lexi, I came because I was inspired. There’s a new series of paintings bubbling up inside me and I need to let it out. If I can capture the feelings in here,” he taps his head and then his heart, “I will create the most magnificent paintings of my life! The lighting is the key.”
I have no words. Just when I thought my dad was as bizarre as it was possible for him to be, he raises the weirdness bar. The frenzied look in his eyes is the same I’ve seen multiple times before and during periods of creativity. But there’s something different now; it’s more intense, like he’s a mad scientist or something.
I have no idea how I’m going to explain his arrival to Emmie, but I don’t dwell on it. She’s had enough exposure to my family to realize anything goes. So, I close my mouth and look out the window as the driver takes us to our destiny.
Chapter 19
“Bertie, what are you doing here?” Emmie claps her hands in excitement before giving my dad a hug.
“I didn’t realize what a beautiful sun you have here in Missouri,” he says instead of answering. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Dad,” I interrupt. “You do realize you’re still on Earth, right? And the sun here is the same one that we have in New York?”
&nb
sp; “It filters differently here,” he explains. “It may be the same heavenly body, but it might as well not be. I need to see that loft, Emmie,” he tells my friend.
Emmie looks positively delighted by his unusual behavior. She tells the girl who works for her that she’s going to go upstairs and that she should call her if she needs anything. Then my friend leads the way through the old factory, giving my dad a brief rundown as we go.
Bertie doesn’t say anything. He’s obviously so amped up to get upstairs he’s not paying attention to anything or anyone.
When we get to the second floor to pick up the keys, I wait in the hallway. I’m not prepared to see Beau again so soon. My insides are still doing flips over that moment we shared by the icehouse. Also, I can’t imagine what he’ll make of my dad.
But when Emmie comes out of Beau’s office, he’s with her. Drat. He stares at Emmie while he says, “I’ve come to meet your boyfriend, Lexi.” He’s obviously saying that for his cousin’s benefit as I already told him I wasn’t seeing anyone.
Emmie intervenes, “Bertie is Lexi’s dad, not her boyfriend.”
“But you told me,” he starts to say, when my friend smacks him on the arm to shut him up.
“Forget about what I told you,” she says.
Beau rolls his eyes. Clearly he’s back to feeling annoyed. Apparently it’s the main emotion he feels in my presence. I’m starting to think it’s a defense mechanism as he tries to keep distance between us. I know he wanted me in his arms early today, just as much as I wanted to be there. I’d put money it.
Beau addresses my dad, “Bertie, is it?” Then he puts his hand out to shake his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
My dad is so excited I’m surprised he can speak. He manages to reply, “Nice to meet you, too.”
The last time I saw him anything close to this jittery was when he produced his last major exhibit. One of the paintings is currently hanging in the Museum of Modern Art, on loan from the billionaire who bought it. Bertie is certainly on the verge of something. Happiness is building inside me knowing that his funk is ending and I will get to watch his genius unfold.
The Move (The Creek Water Series Book 2) Page 8
