Praise for The Lady in Residence
“Visions of a spirit that reside in a historic hotel are always on the top of my list for haunting heaven. The Lady in Residence will leave the reader turning pages faster than they can drift away into the darkness of the Menger Hotel. The vivid mystery is delicious and a few goosebumps might even find their way onto the reader’s arms. A high recommendation from me!”
–Jaime Jo Wright, author of The Haunting at Bonaventure Circus and the Christy Award–winning, The House on Foster Hill
“Allison Pittman’s newest novel is hauntingly delicious. I savored every page, from the colorful descriptions of San Antonio and the historic Menger Hotel, to the entertaining lessons in magic. Readers are transported to the past in a unique way, leaving it hard to decide which time period and set of characters is my favorite. The Lady in Residence is a thoroughly charming read that I highly recommend.”
–Michelle Shocklee, author of Under the Tulip Tree
“This fun dual-timeline romance is a must-read for proud native Texans and those who’ve always longed to explore the home of the Alamo. Fans will delight in Pittman’s beautifully written prose, witty dialogue, and organically infused tour of San Antonio. As rich in history as it is in modern San Antonio’s vibrant culture. Bravo!”
–April W. Garder, San Antonio author of Christian historical romance
“The Lady in Residence is that perfect blending of history with gothic story that pulled me in and wouldn’t let go. Told in split-time, I was vested in each story and couldn’t wait to flip the page to learn what would happen next. The weaving of the two worlds worked, with a sweet romance and intrigue that left me wondering what was real. A book that readers of split-time stories laced with mystery will love.”
–Cara Putman, award-winning author of Flight Risk
“Open the door to a breathtaking read but beware! Do not start reading The Lady in Residence at bedtime, or you’ll never get any sleep. Pittman’s deft hand at weaving the twin stories of Dini and Hedda kept me guessing while the growing romance kept me smiling. This book is a keeper!”
–Kathleen Y’Barbo, Publishers Weekly bestselling author of The Black Midnight and Firefly Summer
The Lady in Residence
©2021 by Allison Pittman
Print ISBN 978-1-64352-748-2
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-64352-750-5
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-64352-749-9
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible. New Living Translation copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover image © Magdalena Russocka / Trevillion Images
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.
Printed in the United States of America.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 1
San Antonio, Texas
March, First Friday Night
The tour ended where it began—in the courtyard of the Alamo, the fortress bathed in white light, flags snapping in the night sky. Standing still after the nearly four-mile walk, Dini Blackstone felt the chill. The Victorian-esque costume she wore to lead the two-hour walking Alamo Haunting Spirits Ghost Tour of downtown San Antonio gave little warmth. Spring in this city was a meteorological frustration, and this was one of those nights when you could feel the temperature drop with every step. By the time they made it back to the plaza, those with coats were clutching them closer, and those without were stuffing their hands in their pockets and bouncing on the balls of their feet through the last of Dini’s spiel.
“And so ends our tour of the haunts of the Alamo City. You may not believe there are such things as ghosts, and maybe you’re right. But what is a haunting, anyway? It’s something that stays with you. And I hope the worthy tales of our restless spirits will follow you home.”
Like all of the tour guides with the Alamo Haunting Spirits Ghost Tour, she was allowed to embellish the narrative script with her own interjections, and Dini had been delivering the same lines for nearly five years. So comfortable was she with the patter that she sometimes drifted away, letting her mouth move along with her feet while her mind soared, only to come back midsentence—just in time for a spooky punch line. So she was now, her face frozen in a smile as she posed for the millionth tourist selfie, standing close but not too close, before happily accepting the folded bills of gratuity. These she dropped in the deep pocket within the fold of her skirt, keeping a mental tally. Within hours her face would appear on the social media pages of strangers, hopefully tagged with the company name. Somebody in the office had the unenviable task of tracking those things, and the walker with the most mentions got a bit of a bonus every quarter.
The last pic (“say, ‘Boo!’”) finally taken and the final tip in her pocket, Dini made her way across the street and walked into the bar of the Menger Hotel. The welcome warmth touched her face and hands—the only parts of her body exposed. Once inside, her eyes adjusted immediately to the comforting dark. The Menger Bar was exactly this hue no matter what time of day, giving respite from a bright, hot afternoon and solid shelter on the coldest night. With its well-worn wood floor and sturdy columns and tables, travelers and patrons had been greeted with this exact same view for almost a century. As was her habit, Dini looked directly up at the portrait of Teddy Roosevelt.
Blustery one is it tonight, my girl?
“Yep, but just in the last half hour or so.” The fact that she spoke aloud to Roosevelt’s silent, imagined question drew very little attention, mostly because there was little attention to be drawn. While other bars and nightspots in downtown San Antonio might be pulsating on this First Friday night of March, the Menger Bar remained its accustomed, dignified, nearly empty self. One elderly couple at a table sipping wine and a gentleman at the bar, foot balanced on the brass railing, tie loose and shirt collar open, absorbed in his phone.
“Wind’s picking up?” This time the voice was real, and happened in its uncanny way to echo the essence of Roosevelt’s speech. Troy Gil—Gil, according to his silver name tag and all who knew him—stood behind the bar, already reaching for the carafe of coffee and a thick white mug. “Should’ve worn your coat.”
“Spring is the season of should’a,” Dini said, tugging at her bonnet string. She wasn’t supposed to be seen bareheaded in public while in costume, but the thing was unbearable. How did women ever survive viewing their entire world through a tunnel? She combed through her liberated short waves—blond, but interspersed with various pastel curls,
like she’d just walked through a cloud of confetti.
“People always want to make March out to be spring. It’s winter still. Always more winter than warm. But I have a sweater in the back,” Gil said, gesturing with the carafe. “You’re welcome to it.”
“Thanks.” She wrapped her hands around the mug. “Any chance I could get this à la Hedda?” It was her code—their code—for an Irish coffee, and Gil raised one eyebrow in chastising amusement.
“You know the rule, Blackstone. Coffee’s free if you’re in costume. You’ll have to present yourself a proper modern lady for anything else, and I’ll have to charge you a proper modern price.”
Dini thought about the folded bills in her skirt pocket. Plenty for her loose expenses. “I’ve earned it.”
Gil reached in for the coffee and took a sip for himself. “Go on, then. I’ll make you one fresh when you come out.”
He handed her a key, and she went behind the bar, through to the employee area to a small room lined with lockers along one wall. Within minutes she had divested herself of the skirt and blouse and pulled on jeans and T-shirt, this one featuring a local band with images of popular sci-fi monsters. She put her walking boots back on because they were of her own choosing and as comfortable as they were cool. She’d probably walked the equivalent of the entire state of Texas in these boots. The rest of the costume, though, got shoved into the depths of her vintage brocade satchel. It was due for a dry cleaning over the weekend, as she didn’t have another tour gig booked for at least a week.
There was only one garment hanging on the brass coatrack in the corner—a grayish-green cardigan that must be Gil’s, though she’d never seen him wear it. Theirs was not a relationship that ever strayed beyond the Menger Bar. He was handsome enough, with a high brow and ready smile. He wore his hair in long, thin braids tied neatly at the nape of his neck. Their first conversation had felt like a meeting of long-lost friends. Three years before—she, newly twenty-one and he seemingly ageless—talked until last call about the Menger Hotel, its famous history, and its two most infamous women: Sallie White and Hedda Krause. He was a font of knowledge and endless stories.
Gil was expertly spooning thick cream over the top of her drink when she emerged. “By the way, one of the guys who took your tour tonight? He’s staying here, and we talked a bit before you set out.”
“Okay.” Dini drew out the syllable, suspicious as she laid her money on the bar.
“I think you’re going to want to meet him.”
“Stop. You know better than to try to fix me up—”
Gil held up his hand in protest. “It’s not a fix-up, I promise. Promise. And I’m not gonna tell you any more, because the best mysteries are the ones you solve yourself, right?”
“Right.” She looked up at Teddy Roosevelt and recalled the faces of her tour group. Four women, six men. Mostly coupled up, but of the two single guys (one cute, one…not), neither seemed heavily invested in her ghoulish tales of San Antonio ghosts. “Well, I don’t recall anybody interesting in my group tonight.”
“That’s because I told him to hang back, listen, and talk to you after. But if the idea makes you uncomfortable, I can kick him out.”
“No.” Dini took a sip of her coffee to counter the unfamiliar buzz of wary anticipation. Never, in all her nights of coming in for coffee after a tour, or coming in for nachos before a tour, or hanging out—alone—on a Saturday night with a book and her cards had Gil ever intimated that he cared about her social life. Then again, something in his voice sounded like this had nothing to do with her social life. “Mind if I hide upstairs until he gets here?”
He scooped up the money. “You are officially a paying customer. Do as you please.”
Breaking with the tradition of playing 1930s swing music, and undoubtedly for her sake alone, the dark room soon flooded with the soft sounds of the seventies. Drink in one hand, her bag in the other, Dini took the narrow staircase up to the second level and settled at the corner table where she took out a small timer—old-fashioned, with grains of sand—and a deck of cards. It was a new deck, the cards slick and stiff. In a fluid motion, she upended the timer and commenced to shuffling, counting under her breath, “One…two…three …” A mere fraction of a second lapsed between the fffttt of the cards arched between her palms and their clack on the table before the next interspersing zzzip. “Sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy, seventy-one—” and the last grain dropped through the glass. She gave the deck a final, frustrated tap against the thick wood of the table.
“Table riffle’s faster,” Gil called from behind the bar.
“And if I were some Vegas table dealer, I’d use it,” she said, giving the deck a series of soft overhand tosses. She glanced down and noticed the new arrival, recognizing him instantly from the tour. The cute one.
He lifted his glass—a dark ale, two gulps down. “I was only listening—but it sounded impressive.”
“Thanks,” she said, with the perfect amount of gratitude to seem polite.
She took advantage of the balcony to study him. “You were in the tour group earlier?” Phrasing knowledge as a question put people at ease, not that this guy seemed to be the least bit nervous.
“I was. You were entertaining and informative.”
“In that order?”
“Maybe ‘engaging’ would be a better word.”
She looked to Gil. “This the guy you were telling me about?”
“It is,” Gil said.
“I am,” said the guy. “Shall we continue the balcony scene? Or may I join you?”
She looked past him to Gil, who gave an oddly encouraging nod. He mouthed the words Trust me.
“Fine,” she said.
Watching his first few steps away from the bar, Dini thought him to be cautiously aware of his physique, moving purposefully. His footfall on the ancient staircase was even. Precise. The back of her neck still fizzed, and she admonished herself. Don’t be weird, don’t be weird. She was comfortable leading a crowd around the city, telling ghost stories, and even more comfortable in front of an audience, holding them spellbound with close magic and card tricks. The average back-and-forth conversation, however, danced outside of her comfort zone.
By the time he was upstairs and at her table, whatever strength she’d gained from her pep talk had utterly dissolved. She barely managed to invite him to sit opposite her before asking, “Want to see a trick?” So much for not being weird.
He set down his glass. “I love card tricks.”
She shuffled the deck three times, set it down for him to cut, then recommenced shuffling.
“What’s your name?” She knew he would eventually introduce himself, but asking allowed her to control the conversation.
“Quin.”
“Quin? So, you’re a fifth?”
“How did you know?”
She tapped a finger to her temple. “It’s what I do. Magic. Plus, you had a bit of a hesitation before you answered. Means you had a choice in what to tell me, and you went with the nickname, even though we don’t know each other well enough for you to be so informal. Also, it’s a nickname that needs explanation. Not like Bob, short for Robert. A lot of people aren’t aware of the tradition. Sure, maybe a guy named Trey is just a guy named Trey. But maybe he’s really Morton Snoddinghouse the Third. So, you know, Third…Trey. And if Trey Snoddinghouse had a son? The Fourth? Drew. Like quadruple. Fascinating tradition, right? Almost lost in the rush to name everybody after Western cities. Austin. Cody.” There she was, rambling in an attempt to explain the man’s own name to him, like there was some invisible audience in need of distraction. So much for being normal.
Shuffling blind as she spoke, the cards moved almost as quickly as her words, so she stopped—the shuffling, not the speaking—and studied his face. Bemused might be the best word to describe his expression. Bright blue eyes behind light-prescription lenses. A hint of red in his neatly trimmed beard, darker in his hair cut short with a sharp pa
rt on the left. A bit of gel to keep it in place.
“Are you from out of town?”
“I am.”
But nothing more. She launched into the conversation she would have in a darkened theater in front of an audience even though they were just two people at a tiny table in a dark bar. “Okay, Quin from out of town. Where are you from?”
“Buckhall, Virginia.”
“What do you do in Buckhall, Virginia?”
“I teach high school math.”
“Ah, math nerd.” She hazarded a look up from her shuffling to make sure he was smiling. He was. “Here for a conference? Those are usually at the Marriott.”
“Nope. Spring break. Being a tourist. And a little business. Some research, actually.”
Dini committed a tiny fumble in her shuffling at the word research. He said it with a lilt that almost made it a question. Given Gil’s mysterious lead-up, she had a feeling she might be part of the answer.
She focused with a breath. “Count a number of cards off the top of the deck. Up to twelve. Don’t tell me how many, and put them in your pocket.” He was wearing an athletic fleece with a zippered pocket. “Now, count out the same number. Still don’t tell me.” She kept her eyes trained on his face as he did so, noting how—unlike most people—he didn’t move his lips as he counted. When he finished, she held her hand out for the remaining deck and told him to look at the top of the stack he’d counted out and memorize the card.
“Got it,” he said after a moment of mock concentration.
“Now give it here.” She put the small stack of cards on top of the deck and made a show of shuffling—once, twice, three times—never allowing the top cards to be mixed in, but keeping her hands at a practiced angle to disguise her skill. She slid the deck back over. “Now, I want you to think of three names. Any three. Your first, middle, and last. Or your favorite actors. Anything at all. Spell them inside your head and take out a card for each letter.”
He counted off six cards. “You haven’t told me your name. Unless it really is Henrietta, like you said on the tour. But you don’t look like a Henrietta.” He counted off five more cards.
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