As she drove out of the grip of the forest, the land began to clear and white drifts rolled away from the road, downhill. Leagues below, the lake spread out, all the way to the horizon in a breathtaking expanse of glory, the open water in the middle steel gray under a smoky sky. She imagined that, in summer, touched by the cirrus-streaked blue sky, the view could steal her breath.
The road arched and she kept her speed lest her wheels start to spin. At the top, she spotted the house.
Clearly Aggie and Thor had been more than farmers. Or perhaps just extremely successful farmers. The house, now covered in snow, rose three stories in the middle of a grove of dormant fruit trees. A mansard roof capped the third story, with a turret that jutted against one corner.
Green-shuttered windows on the second story peered over a shingled wraparound porch. Pillars made of stone, probably handpicked from the lake, propped up the roof and added an Old World feel to the structure.
In fact, as she drove up and stopped at the end of the plowed road, where it opened into a parking area, the entire place felt old.
Or perhaps vintage. Valuable.
Raina got out, pulling her satchel onto her shoulder, and surveyed the house. Around back, she made out a dilapidated greenhouse. And behind her, a barn for livestock or vehicles.
She could imagine sipping lemonade on the porch in the summertime, watching the boats travel the lake. See children running in the grassy field, apples dripping from the trees.
The image rushed up and wrapped a hand around her neck, choking her. Her eyes burned, and she bit her lip, blinking away the tears. Shoot. Someday, please, she had to get past this.
Probably she was kidding herself. How did you forget losing a part of your soul? Or even worse, giving it away?
The hollow places inside burned as she recalled Gust’s instructions: Monte shoveled to the front door and left it unlocked, so you should be able to get in.
She found the shoveled trail and hiked up the wide stairs that led to the front door. The protection of the porch left it clearer of snow, and she stood for a moment at the top, staring at the view of the lake, the road. The past.
She could imagine standing here in the fifties or sixties, a young girl in love, watching for her date’s Mustang . . .
She’d clearly read too many historical romances while recuperating. She stamped her feet free of snow and opened the door.
Time caught her up and settled her into an era of parlors and tea, of family dinners around a dining room table, the smell of pot roasts infusing the home with the taste of welcome.
She could nearly hear the voices calling from the upstairs bedrooms.
She closed the door. A stairway ran from the foyer to the second floor, a worn red carpet waterfalling over the oak treads. Green wallpaper, the color of jade, lined the entry hallway, and behind the door, on an oak coat stand, hung a blue woolen jacket.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
Her voice echoed in the frigid air. She stepped into the octagonal sitting room to her left in the three-story turret. A sheet covered a high-backed parlor sofa with eagle claw legs; another sheet draped a chair of the same design. In the center of the room, a marble-topped coffee table with carved legs held a milk glass tea set.
She ventured into the room, found dusty black-and-white portraits, solemn descendants of the Wilder clan in silent vigil over the capsule of time. A bookcase suggested highbrow reading—she recognized hardback Dickens, Alcott, the Brontë sisters, Austen.
Only the ancient square Panasonic stereo television pushed against the far wall gave a nod toward the modern era.
Raina crossed the hallway into the living room and found herself in the seventies, with wood paneling and built-in hickory cabinetry filled with framed photographs, figurines, and yet more books. In the center of the room, a green davenport, the fabric worn nearly through, suggested hours spent there reading. Two more chairs, dressed in gold velveteen, held needlepoint pillows crafted with Christmas patterns.
The place seemed as though someone had simply shut the door and walked away. Raina wandered through the dining room to the kitchen. A hand-tatted lace runner draped the oak table, more milk glass in the corner hutch.
Dark-hickory cupboards hung in the kitchen, accented with Tiffany-style overhead lights designed in fruit patterns. A side-by-side stainless steel oven, white Formica countertops, tall orange stools at an overhanging counter, and a floor covered in a wild geometric-patterned rug in lime green and red reflected a high-style early seventies makeover.
Although the freezer box stood empty, the green General Electric fridge stirred up memories of her grandmother’s frozen chocolate chip cookies hidden inside.
She opened the cupboards and took a quick visual inventory of the contents, her gaze lingering on a collection of Ranger Joe dishware, then headed upstairs.
Four bedrooms all contained double beds with eyelet dust ruffles, homemade quilts, and needlepoint bolster pillows. Papered in a print of tiny roses, each room held a writing desk and wardrobe and netted a small collection of vintage clothing. It wasn’t until she examined the bedside table of what she assumed must be the master bedroom that she hit the jackpot.
In a drawer of the round table she found two books. One, a handwritten journal of poetry. The other, a diary.
She picked it up, began to page through it. Scrawled on each page seemed to be the ongoing activities of each day, like a day planner.
Raina flipped to the front. Stared at the date.
OCTOBER 1929
Arrived at the station today, 3 p.m. Met by Father’s man, Duncan. He drove me to the school. It’s not at all what Father said, and I shouldn’t have believed him. I think I might perish here, and I suppose that is what he intends after the debacle in Paris. He says that he will have to arrange a marriage here, to someone who would overlook the rumors.
I have ruined myself and I miss Mummy more than I can bear.
Raina closed the diary.
She felt like an interloper. Clearly some mistake had been made. Certainly whoever lived here must be returning . . .
Indeed, outside, she heard a car door close. She got up and peered out the window. A black pickup was parked next to her car.
Downstairs, she heard feet on the porch, the door opening.
She turned, clutched the diary to her chest. Uh . . .
“Hello the house, anyone here?” The voice, male, drifted up the stairs.
She swallowed. “Here, I’m up here.”
More footsteps. She chased away her fear with the truth that anyone who might want to hurt her probably wouldn’t announce himself.
Right?
She tucked the diary back in the drawer and headed out of the room just as the man appeared on the landing.
A real estate agent, maybe, a business look about him. Tall, with short blond hair, hazel eyes, broad shoulders, lean hips. Wearing dress pants, holding leather gloves.
“Monte Riggs. I think you already met my grandfather, Gust.” He held out his hand and smiled at her, a dimple in his right cheek.
“Raina Beaumont.”
She waited for him to make the usual connection to her aunt, but he didn’t, and for some reason she liked him all the more for it.
“Grandpa says you’re new in town?”
And right then, she knew. She could reinvent herself. She didn’t have to be the woman with a past, a woman dogged by her mistakes. Just . . . Raina. At least until her aunt Liza returned home, and by then she’d have figured out what to do with the rest of her life.
“Yeah. I used to be a caterer, but I’m house-sitting for the winter. I’m not sure if I’ll stick around after that. We’ll see.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Next time try to find a house in Florida.”
“No kidding.”
“I was a little afraid you’d get stuck. I hired a guy to plow the driveway, but I wasn’t sure how good a job he did. I thought I’d better come and check on you.”
Galla
nt as well as handsome.
“I know you want me to catalog the place, but I think there’s been some mistake. The house feels lived in or, at least, would if there was any heat on. It’s like someone simply went out intending to come back.”
Monte shoved his gloves into his pockets, walked down the hall, peering into the rooms. “I know. I was out here once before, after Penny came in with her collection of milk glass.”
“Penny?”
He turned back to her. “Yeah, Penny Townsend. She’s the granddaughter of the owner, Aggie Wilder, who passed away about ten years ago. Before that, Aggie had to be moved into a nursing home. Apparently she fell and broke her hip one day and could never return to the house.”
“So they just shut it up?” She followed him down the hall and up another flight of stairs.
It opened into a giant room, empty save for the buffet built into the far wall. The windows jutted out of the mansard roof, offering a breathtaking view of the lake. He walked to a window as if also mesmerized by the view. Then he faced her again. His eyes held mystery and just enough sparkle that a girl might be hypnotized by them.
“Penny lives in Minneapolis with her family, and she owns this place. Until a couple years ago, they used it in the summer for vacations, but with her kids grown, she wants to sell it. She said that we were supposed to sell it all.”
Raina stared at him. “Seriously? There are years of memories here—pictures and books. Personal books.”
“We’ll catalog it all, but she said she went through everything she wanted.” Monte walked across the floor, stood in the middle. “I wonder what they used this room for.”
“Shuffleboard?”
He laughed. “So, Raina Beaumont, my grandfather tells me you have introduced him to something called the Intro-net.”
“Right. It’s my pleasure. He hadn’t a clue how to use that computer you got him.”
“I know. It’s my fault. I work out of Duluth doing estate sales, and I should have been here to set it up for him. I blame the weather.”
“It’s been brutal.”
“But that’s no excuse. And I have to admit, sometimes Grandpa’s stories can turn me blind.”
“He does like to spin a yarn. But he means well, and just think of all the history trapped in that head.”
“I think he’s been in Deep Haven since the dawn of time.”
He headed to the stairs, then turned and held out his hand as if she needed help. Sweet. She waved him off and grabbed the banister, but the thought counted.
“Well, we’re going to bring him into this century,” she said. “I set up a Facebook page for him and taught him how to use Excel. You know, if you list your store on eBay, you might have a real haul.”
“You, Raina Beaumont, are a true gem.” He stood on the landing. “I didn’t know how I was going to get this place cataloged and ready for sale. You are exactly what I was hoping for.”
Another smile. It hit her like a fresh breeze.
“I’m heading back to Duluth, but is there anything you need before I take off? I’ll leave my cell phone number at the office. Grandpa doesn’t have one, so don’t bother. And don’t worry; I don’t expect miracles.”
She looked around at the rooms, the furniture, the accessories. “Frankly, I don’t know where to start.”
He nodded. “Here’s what I do. I start by going through the house and collecting all the personal items. Pictures and journals and letters—anything that would be difficult to sell. Then I box it up and sometimes it goes to the family, but in this case, you could see if the historical society wants it. Aggie and Thor made a mark here in Deep Haven. The Wilders owned the Wild Harbor Trading Post for years and ran a hotel on the harbor. I’m sure there is memorabilia the town might appreciate.”
“Okay. I can do that.”
“Then go room by room. We have an account with a moving box supplier, so feel free to order china boxes and anything else you might need. I know the prices on much of this, but we’ll hire an auctioneer, so you don’t have to tag anything.”
He jogged down the stairs to the first level. “You can leave the furniture behind—we’ll arrange for a tour and then pictures on the day of the sale so we don’t have to haul everything out of here until later.”
“Okay.”
Monte reached the bottom and turned. She stood two steps higher, now suddenly at eye level. She placed him at six foot three, maybe. Strong. Capable.
For a second, a strange, enigmatic emotion passed through his hazel eyes.
She smiled, not sure what to make of it.
Then he said, “I know we just met, but . . . I’ll be back in a few days, and, well, would you like to go out to dinner?”
Her mouth opened. Closed.
He made a face. “Too soon, huh?”
His words caught her—but he couldn’t possibly know she’d had a baby. And perhaps a date would chase any lingering memories of the Casper nightmare from her brain.
“Just dinner?”
“Pizza, if that’s easiest.” Was that a press of red on his cheeks?
“How about a burger someplace?”
He nodded, warmth in his eyes. “I know just the place.” He pulled his keys out. “You sure you’ll be okay here by yourself?”
“Yeah. I’m going to just put together the personal things, like you suggested. Hopefully the historical society will still be open when I’m finished.”
He stopped at the door, his hand on the knob. “Welcome to Deep Haven, Raina. I hope you find a reason to stay.”
Casper might be able to charm a customer into laying down a thousand dollars for an Armada AR7 and Full Tilt Booters ski package, complete with Marker Griffon bindings and Völkl Phantastick poles, but his real joy came from identifying the origin of a pair of spectacles he’d found in the bottom of the first box he opened at the historical society. After examining the class pictures from the one-room Mineral Springs School, he named Lyman Woodard as the owner.
So far, he’d mapped out the town’s main buildings based on sketches from Carl Linnell’s journal, including the Indian curio shop and general store, the post office, the Oakwood School, and the Congregational Church. He counted a total of forty-six households and even found the location of the cemetery.
And he managed to clear from his brain for two whole hours the fact that Raina had returned to Deep Haven.
He’d also refrained from glancing out the window toward the antique shop on the off chance that he would see her leave.
See. Not stalking.
Over her.
Forgetting.
Putting the past behind him.
He set the glasses on a tray and wrote out an index card labeling the object for Edith, as well as the picture of the six students in the 1932 class.
His stomach growled and he glanced at his phone. If he didn’t leave now, the grocery store would close, and he’d be eating a baloney and peanut butter sandwich.
But really, he’d sacrifice food for the opportunity to spend the evening with a slice of history. Still, he had to be at the Wild Harbor early, thanks to Ned’s management training program. Apparently that included having Casper open the shop so Ned could waltz in around noon.
He got up, turned off the light to the back room, and grabbed his jacket. Edith had walked out around the time he’d walked in, but she’d left the light burning. Now he grabbed his keys and was just reaching out to flick off the lights when he heard a knock.
He opened the door. “We’re closed—”
“I just have to drop off a box!”
Raina?
There she stood in her powder-blue jacket, her hair held back by earmuffs.
Her eyes widened, and had she not been holding a box, she might have turned and bolted based on the expression on her face.
“Hey,” he said, drinking her in again. Shoot, but his traitorous heart resurrected the feel of her in his arms, the memory of her smile as he kissed her.
Apparently
he would have to work harder to break free of this spell she had on him.
She stared at him. Looked at her box. Back to him. “What are you doing here?”
“Here as in Deep Haven? Or here as in the historical society?”
Perhaps it didn’t matter because her face paled under the overhead light. He watched her breath form in the air as she considered what to do.
He couldn’t take it. “Come in, Raina. I promise I won’t bite.”
She managed a slight smile as if he were joking. But his last conversation with her played in his mind, and yeah, maybe he’d be a little gun-shy if he stood in her shoes.
He’d worn out their conversation at the hospital, replaying it, and decided that he might have been gentler. He put that regret in his voice now as he took the box from her. “How are you?”
She stuck her hands in her pockets. Wouldn’t look at him. “I’m fine. I . . . I’m working at the antique shop up the road, helping to catalog an estate, and . . . Why are you not as shocked to see me?”
Oh. He swallowed. “I saw you a couple days ago . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “You told me to leave you alone, so . . .”
She nodded. Sighed. “Thanks for that.”
They stood a moment in silence, their past boiling to the surface. Then she saved him by pointing to the box. “These are personal things we found at the estate. The owner doesn’t want them, so I thought I’d drop them off here, see if you—the historical society—was interested.”
He set the box on the table. Opened it. Pulled out a few of the framed pictures, studying them. Family photos from the forties, fifties, and later.
“It’s the estate of Aggie and Thor Wilder.” She stepped up to him, reaching for a photo. A middle-aged couple sat on a green sofa, hands folded together, smiling into the camera. “Is this them?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I never met them, but they’re famous. They helped build the hotel in town and owned the trading post. They had one child, a girl, but she moved away long ago. Aggie is a bit of a legend around here for her philanthropy work. She was famous for her huge summer lawn parties too.”
“Apparently Aggie fell and broke her hip and never returned. The house looks like she left it yesterday, if you ignore the dust.”
Always on My Mind Page 10
