by CeeCee James
Chapter 1
Sunlight splintered across the floor, reflecting off the shards of a glass fruit bowl that I’d just dropped. I stared at it guiltily, afraid to meet my grandfather’s eyes. After all, we’d just met a few weeks prior. Now, like the proverbial bull in a china shop, I’d broken his deceased wife’s cherished heirloom.
I heard a raspy sound, like wind over dead leaves, and glanced up to see he was laughing. The reaction was so unexpected, I hardly knew what to do next.
“You should see your face,” he wheezed.
I bristled at that. “I feel terrible! What do you mean I should see my face?”
His eyes twinkled behind his coke-bottle thick glasses. “Stella, I can tell you’re sorry. Don’t worry. This wasn’t one of your grandma’s favorites.”
“It wasn’t?” I asked.
“No. This came from the neighbor when she brought me some pears last year. Nicest lady ever.” He tottered over and pointed out the window, his finger as knobby as the apple tree branch outside.
I followed his gesture and saw a huge house on the other side of the hedge. Cars and a van filled the driveway.
“That’s the Baker Street bed-and-breakfast,” Oscar said. His name was Oscar, and that’s what he asked me to call him, so that’s what I did. He had the body of a man who had once been fit, but long years and a hard life now curved his spine and shortened his height. He stared at me, his eyes blinking behind his black-framed lenses. “The owner’s name is Cecelia,” he continued. “She’s my new cutie.”
“Your new cutie, huh?” I said as I got a broom. Oscar’s Pomeranian came prancing over. I shooed her away so she wouldn’t step on the glass and made quick work of sweeping up the broken bowl. It took me a minute to remember where he kept the trash.
“Pantry,” he said dryly.
Yes, that’s right. I located the plastic can and tossed the chunks of glass.
After returning the broom and pan, I sat down at the table across from Oscar. It was set with two mugs and a plate of cinnamon toast. Sensing the coast was clear, the little dog came running back.
“Come on, Peanut,” I said, patting my lap.
Oscar harrumphed loudly.
I quickly corrected myself. “I mean Bear. Come on, Bear.”
Bear was the name Oscar called her now, but Peanut was the animal’s original name. Oscar detested that name—it’s sissified, he said—so it came down to a battle of the wills. I can tell you who was ahead. Normally, the dog didn’t answer to anything but Peanut, but today, the dog jumped up regardless. She spun around twice in my lap. Her sharp nails dug into my leg until she finally found a sweet spot and settled down.
“So you have plans later on, do you?” he asked before crunching on toast.
I nodded, stroking the dog’s silky neck fur. “I have a house showing in about an hour.” I took a sip of coffee and then confessed, “It’s the first time I’ve done it by myself. I’m nervous.”
“Pshaw,” Oscar waved his hand, scattering crumbs of sugar. “It will be as easy as drinking a glass of water. You’ll see.”
I stared at my mug, highly doubting that. It hadn’t helped that I’d walked in on my uncle, who was also my boss and the owner of Flamingo Realty, talking with Kari, someone who had trained me and I also considered a friend. I wrinkled my nose as the memory played in my mind.
I’d heard them as I approached his office. When I walked in, Uncle Chris and Kari both looked guilty, like a dog caught eating from the butter container.
“Stella, how are you?” my uncle had said, trying to recover his composure.
I’d been blunt and to the point. “I heard you guys.”
They exchanged looks.
“Heard us what, hun?” Uncle Chris said, smiling like when I was five and had tried to tell him about a dream I’d had. It had been annoying then, and was annoying now.
“Heard you say you didn’t think I was cut out to sell real estate.” I crossed my arms, raised an eyebrow, and gave them the stare-down.
Uncle Chris had cleared his throat as Kari jumped in. “He didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I mean, my first few sales were so sloppy.”
Sloppy was not my favorite adjective when it referred to me, but I’d known instantly what she’d meant. I’d just signed my first contract with the seller. Unfortunately, I’d accidentally left off half the signatures. I’d also let them talk me down a full half a point on my commission. So far, my first two official days as an agent had been running back and forth to fix that mistake.
“Sorry. I’m sure you’ll develop the killer instinct.” Uncle Chris clapped me on the back.
Remembering that now, I sighed again.
“What are you huffing over there for?” Oscar asked. “You sound like an air compressor filling a tire.”
“Uncle Chris doesn’t have a lot of faith in me,” I said, and then immediately felt guilty. Chris and my dad, Steve, were Oscar’s sons. Neither of them would have anything to do with their dad.
“How are my sons doing, anyway?” Oscar asked.
I shrugged. “Being as stubborn as usual.” I smiled.
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t know,” Oscar said, hinting at the feud.
I wanted to remind him that he hadn’t exactly reached out to them either, but I didn’t want to deal with the grumpy response. Instead, I set the dog on the floor where she promptly ran over and jumped on Oscar’s lap. I grabbed my mug and brought it to the sink. As I was rinsing it, the alarm chimed on my phone, reminding me of my appointment to meet the potential buyers.
“All right, I guess that means showtime. Thanks for breakfast.” I shrugged back into my sweater. It was cool this early fall morning.
“Where’s it at again?” Oscar asked.
“It’s at Johnson Lake.”
Oscar’s bushy eyebrows rose above his thick eyeglass frames. “You mean the one that flooded?”
“I’d heard something about the original homestead flooding. That was years ago, though right? Like ancient history?”
“Ancient history that everyone knows! What is it with today’s generation not realizing the importance of knowing history?”
I bit my tongue. “What was so important about it? It was just a dam being built, right?”
“It was more than that. It has to do with a property line squabble that went back over a hundred years. Still going on, last I heard. I’m wondering what’s going to happen when you sell the place?”
“You mean the neighbors? Why didn’t they get it surveyed?”
“Oh, they have, but the lines have been blurred so many times that neither would accept the surveyor’s results. I even heard the neighbor has shipping containers that cross the property line. He keeps them way down deep in the woods.”
I worked my keys out from my purse. “Well, I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
Oscar stared hard at me with a shake of his head. “You’ll see. You’ll see.”
“Ha!” I laughed. “After dealing with the men in this family, I think I’m more than prepared to tackle another feuding challenge.”
“Do you hear that, Bear? She thinks her family is as sweet as a cake of burnt corn bread.” Oscar whispered to the dog. At least, I assumed he thought he was whispering. It came out with the subtlety of a chainsaw.
“I’m just saying I have lots of experience with stubborn men who like to argue.” I balked then. Had I gone too far?
There was that raspy leaves sound again.
Oscar was laughing.
Chapter 2
The road to Johnson Lake curved through the beautiful land of the Appalachian Mountains. The autumn colors of the trees took my breath away. Blood red, fiery orange, and yellow the shade of lemons.
It reminded me of the first time I’d seen my dad cry.
I don’t remember much of my mom, but I remember the day she left. It’s one of those memories that will stay with me until the day I die, but not for the reasons you might think.
I remember it was sunny. My dad stood in front of the opened front door with his hand on the frame. I saw his back, the light shining around him, and the edges of his silhouette seemed to glow. It must have been autumn because I remember the light dancing in the distance in the leaves of red, yellow, and orange.
It was silent, a silence that no words could fill. I now recognized it as the moment when the painful reality of losing my mother made its first presence known as a black hole in our lives. A loss I never understood, but whose gaping emptiness stole from every memory and experience from then on, always whispering what could have been.
After a moment, my dad’s head dropped. His knuckles rose white under the skin as his trembling fingers clenched the wood, as if the weight of what our new life would be like, always dancing around the black hole, fell on his shoulders. And then, slowly, he shut the door.
He turned around and saw me. Whispered my name. I was very young, at the age where I thought fireflies were fairy warriors who battled the darkness to protect the sleeping flowers.
I ran over on legs still chubby and clumsy. He reached for my hand, squeezing it as if to reassure himself that I was really there. And then he stooped down to lift me into his arms. He hugged me tight and I felt his chest heave.
I caught his cheeks between my two hands, hands pale against his tan skin—his face scratchy to my palms.
“Hi, Sweet Pea,” he whispered. His eyes were red-rimmed. “You ready for breakfast?” His face lied about breakfast, with its promises that everything was okay. It contorted as he grimaced to control himself, his breaths coming in gulps.
I remember gazing into his eyes, my little heart filled with worry. I realize now that I was looking into the eyes of a man who was heartbroken. Who knew he couldn’t protect me from the pain that was to come.
I didn’t say anything, just stared. A tear trickled down the side of his nose. I watched it with wonder.
“Daddy, are you hurt?” I asked. Can daddies get hurt?
He squeezed his lips together—his eyes—and he nodded.
Fear filled my little body. I hugged him, like I could give him my strength. “Don’t worry, Daddy. I’ll get you a band-aid.”
He carried me over to the couch where he lay down on his side. I sat in the tiny space left and patted his shoulder as he curled around me. He hid his face in my arm, his breath warm gusts against my skin.
I made it my goal right then, to always take care of him. I would be his firefly against the dark. With my finger, I drew a row of smiley faces down his arm.
Finally, he sighed. His eyes were wet when he looked at me, but his lip lifted at the corner, which made me feel better. “I’m okay, Sweet Pea. We’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”
And then I remember that Dad had slowly stood up and wandered into the kitchen to make some cinnamon toast for me.
Just like Oscar had done.
They’d both done their best as fathers. I knew that. Everyone needed their father, and I think my dad needed his. I was determined to bring them back together.
Sighing as the memory faded to its last painful squeeze, I flipped on the blinker and turned down a dirt road that led into a valley. It was beautiful back here, a land nearly untouched by human hands. If you ignored the power lines, that is. The road eased to the left and opened up, and the explanation for the flooded fields became obvious. The acreage sloped to a large lake that could be seen in the distance cuddling the bottom of the valley. Underneath all that water was where the original house had once been.
An old barbed wire fence filled with half-dead blackberries seemed to race along side me. I eased off the gas to watch for a driveway opening. Finally, I found it and pulled to the side of the road. I searched the length of the fence as I climbed out. Now, where was that property corner? There was nothing that stood out.
What should have been standing out though, was the Flamingo Realty’s mascot. Yesterday, I’d made a quick stop to hang the for-sale sign and plunk down the four-foot plastic pink flamingo. But now he was missing.
I walked along the road to see if it had blown down. Sure enough, there it was in the bottom of the ditch. Grumbling about the blackberries, I carefully climbed down and yanked it out.
The plastic bird was unwieldy. I waddled back with it and jammed it hard into the ground next to the post.
There.
Not quite satisfied, I gave the bird a little jerk to level it, and then got back in the car to pull it into the driveway.
After parking, I slammed the car door shut and straightened my sweater as I surveyed the property. This place was a steal. Someone was going to really love it.
Oh shoot, I’d forgotten to hang my sign, the one with my name on it. It was so shiny and official. I’d been nearly giddy when I’d received it this morning. But then overhearing Uncle Chris and Kari sort of flushed that down the toilet. You know what? I’m going to prove them wrong.
I walked back to the post and hung it up, then stood back to admire it. Stella O’Neil. A smile spread across my face, and I tapped the sign lightly, sending it swinging. Still smiling, I straightened the flamingo one more time.
It was funny that the bird was a trademark of my uncle’s company. Anyone would have thought the flamingo was the antithesis of his personality—him being this burly, retired bad-boy, race car driver with a reputation of being a hot head.
But just one lost bet in a high-stakes car race led him to this.
A breeze lifted the hair off of my neck. I sniffed deeply. Fresh. Clean.
Cold.
I shivered and buttoned up my sweater, then crossed my arms. Definitely should have worn something a little warmer for today.
It was easy to see why the wind picked up here. Glaciers had once scraped through this valley, creating a perfect channel for the breezy air.
And water. I walked to the edge of the driveway where it met the lawn. Eighty acres was a lot of land.
After I’d left Oscar’s house, I’d made a quick phone call to Kari for a little more information. She’d grown up around here and I figured she’d know the scoop.
The story she told me was that, years ago, Brookfield diverted the river to prevent the yearly flooding they dealt with. The Johnsons, the original owners, had been given notice to move their things, but something must have become screwed up, because the house, along with everything they owned, had been buried under millions of gallons of water. Their furniture, clothing, dishes, the whole shebang. Gone.
They’d tried to save what they could but there wasn’t much salvageable. Even more gruesome, the original Mr. Johnson died on one of those dives.
Kari whispered that the gossip in these parts was that the neighbor had drowned him in revenge for an old property line dispute in which his cow was killed, and now the Johnson ghost wandered the land.
Well, from that point on, everyone stayed away. The Johnson family moved to town and the property changed hands with another family member who sold it again.
And then a single man drove down from Pittsburgh and offered the family a ridiculously low amount, but the family had taken it. That man had built a house, this little one that I was standing before right now.
You would never know the history, seeing the property now. Everywhere I looked, the terrain had that softened appearance that autumn inching into winter brought. Even the lake was peaceful, with a few weeping willows along the grassy shores.
Now that I knew more about the property, I was hoping the reputation about the ghost had died long ago. When I’d written the realty listing, I’d tweaked the verbiage to describe it as ‘an artist’s get-away for someone to build their dream house.’ Hopefully, these potential buyers I was meeting were as much in the dark as I had been about this place.
I walked toward the quaint little house built far from the original homestead, new by Brookfield gossip standards, but my listing papers said it had been there since 1980. It had white shutters and rickrack around the awnings. Although just shy of
nine-hundred-square feet, the home had a charm that reminded me of a gingerbread house. All it needed were a few peppermint candies on the front wall.
My phone rang, and I answered it, wondering if it was the buyers. “Hello?”
“Stella, darling. How are you?” a woman asked. I recognized her right away. It was Mrs. Crawford, my landlord. She was in her seventies, and as graceful and lovely as any legendary movie star.
“I’m great. Standing in front of my first listing, actually. I’m supposed to be meeting people here, any minute.”
“Oh, how fun. What house is it? Any I know of?”
“I’m at the Johnsons’ house. The one with the lake.” I figured if Oscar knew about it, then she did as well.
“I know of it. Good luck with that, honey. You know what they say….”
“What do they say?” I smiled, expecting to hear the flood story again.
“That there’s a treasure buried at the bottom of that lake.”
“What? Are you serious?” Hearing some old wives’ tale was the last thing I expected her, of all people, to say. She was a sensible, well-traveled woman.
“Yes. I remember it well. They talked about it when I was in school, you know. Kids dared each other to go in the water. Supposedly there was a root cellar with a fortune hidden inside.”
“A fortune? Really?”
“Well, who knows. The treasure was never truly discussed. We all had our own imaginations on what it could be. I, of course, always fancied it was a great chest filled with gold. It wasn’t that hard to believe. You know, there were decades where people didn’t put any trust in banks. Back then, after horses or crops were sold, they’d stash their money in mattresses even. Who knew what the treasure was.”
“You think the money’s still there?”
“Oh, surely not. Any paper money would have rotted away by now. And I’ve found treasure chests filled with gold pieces are decidedly rarer than the cartoons that I grew up with led me to believe.”
“Yeah, that and quicksand.”
She chuckled. “I guess every town has a story about an old house. This one even has a ghost. Old Mr. Johnson.”
