He tempered the rejection with a soft tone. “Look, I wouldn’t be any help for your story. I never knew my grandparents. The McAllisters disowned my father when he announced his marriage to my mother.”
“Oh.” Disappointment flashed across her features, but almost instantly, her face brightened. She smiled more broadly, and his gaze traveled to her mouth. Her lips glistened with gloss tinted the same shade as her toenail polish. “You can still help me out. I’ll need photos of the house, something on what you’re planning to do with the place, any prospects you might have, information about you and your mom and dad . . .”
He shook his head and reached for the door. “Sorry.”
“Please? I’m not beyond begging.”
A pang of something shot through him. It felt an awful lot like guilt. Why couldn’t it be a pushy, obnoxious middle-aged guy trying to get the story? Why did it have to be someone so sweet and fresh and wholesome?
But he couldn’t give in. Once he had, to give the press his side of the story. He’d learned some valuable lessons—words are easy to spin, even impartial people have a viewpoint, and there’s no such thing as off the record.
“Sorry, sweetheart. You need to go chase another story.” He shut the door, started the car and backed from the space. As he pulled onto Holiday Drive, he glanced to his left.
He shouldn’t have. His young reporter stood in the same place he’d left her, lower lip pulled between her teeth, watching him go. His chest tightened. The poor girl, stuck with the world’s most stubborn interview subject for her first assignment.
He eased to a stop at Highway 64, then made a right turn, pushing aside the image of sad green eyes. He had things to do, and he didn’t need to get tied up with some small-town newspaper reporter. This whole Murphy detour was putting a major crimp in his plans. Before the phone call from his grandmother’s attorney on Monday, he’d been just two weeks away from total freedom. A much-needed break.
For the past twelve years he’d driven himself. Actually, he’d always driven himself, for as long as he could remember. But during the twelve years since high school, he’d been obsessive about it, finishing college and then law school at the top of his class, then getting hired by a prestigious New York City law firm. Now, five years later, he was on the brink of making junior partner. He was ticking off every goal on his smooth climb to the top.
So why wasn’t the sense of accomplishment there? Why wasn’t he experiencing the satisfaction success always brought?
He reached for the radio dial and let it scan. After landing on one gospel and two country and western stations, he turned it back off. Finding a Mendelssohn symphony played by the Boston Philharmonic wasn’t likely to happen.
He heaved a sigh. He was probably just suffering from burnout. Twelve years without a real vacation would make anybody crazy.
Whatever was wrong with him, he was getting ready to remedy it. He had it all planned out. While in Murphy, he’d sort and dispose of the first-floor contents. And he would list the property with a Realtor, possibly sell to the investor whose name the attorney had given him. Then he’d fly back to New York and wrap up everything there. A final trip to Murphy would have the last of his grandparents’ possessions sorted and, if he was lucky, a contract signed.
Then for two months, the man who always had a plan for everything was going to hit the road with absolutely no plan at all.
Jami sat at her kitchen table, spoon suspended over a half-full bowl of cereal. “Don’t look at me like that. You already ate.”
Two sets of sad brown eyes met hers, and twin tails wagged.
The trip to the Valley River Humane Society hadn’t gone at all like she’d planned. She’d intended to just look. After all, getting a puppy was a big decision, a fifteen- or twenty-year commitment, not something to be taken lightly. She’d planned to do her research, decide on a breed and purchase all the accoutrements of pet ownership before making her choice. But those good intentions had fallen by the wayside. Maybe Robert was right. Maybe she was too impulsive.
Well, at least one thing had gone according to plan—she hadn’t brought home a puppy.
Penny had shown her several litters, but when she’d gotten to the cage on the end, her heart had melted. Inside were two long-haired dachshunds, looking up at her with such hope it broke her heart. Then one gave a pitiful wag of her tail and tried to nuzzle her hand through the front of the cage.
Her plans to eventually get a puppy flew out the window. Instead, she became a dog owner—times two. And seven-year-old sisters Bailey and Morgan became part of the Carlisle household.
She shoved her spoon into the bowl and brought the last bite to her mouth. Dark eyes followed her every movement. “If you give the breakfast you inhaled time to settle, you’ll feel satisfied. I promise.”
She hoped so, anyway, because she had no clue what she was doing. She pulled a neon pink Post-it from the dispenser on the table and made herself a note—Library, book about dog care—then plopped it next to the green one with her grocery list.
Life had changed in a hurry. Two days ago she was agonizing over whether to marry Robert, anticipating the start of her dream job and not even remotely considering adding a pet to her household. Thursday night, Robert walked out of her life, maybe permanently. Last night she slept nestled between two warm, furry bodies. And this morning, she would work on wearing down a stubborn, unbending interview subject who was more tight-lipped than a CIA operative guarding the nation’s military secrets. The dream job wasn’t quite as easy as she’d hoped.
Howard Blackburn didn’t help things. Not that he was trying to make her look bad. At least not intentionally. He’d been a reporter for the Cherokee Scout the last thirty-something years and recently retired, leaving the opening she had filled. In the eyes of the people of Murphy, he’d reached almost iconic status. So far, eight people had pointed out what big shoes she had to fill, what a great reporter Howard was and how Howard always got the story. And that was just yesterday, her first day on the job. Nothing like a little pressure.
But she was up for the challenge. Maybe this Grant McAllister was stubborn. But he was about to find out she could be quite stubborn herself.
Jami rose from the table and retrieved her empty bowl, stepping over Morgan on her way to the sink. Both dogs watched her pick up a foil-covered plate. She had just that morning baked the chocolate chip cookies it held. Supposedly, the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. She wasn’t interested in getting to Grant’s heart. But if chocolate chip cookies would help wear down his resistance, this morning’s activities would be well worth it.
When she walked from the room, both dogs raced past her to stand at the front door, fuzzy black bodies quivering with excitement.
“No, you can’t go with me. You have to stay here.”
Bailey responded with a bark and an enthusiastic wag of her tail, and Morgan pranced back and forth in front of the door. Hopefully they wouldn’t destroy the place while she was gone. She didn’t have crates to put them in, but she could at least minimize any possible damage.
She closed both bedroom doors, then moved to the small room she used as an office. Several stacks of papers littered the desk, one consisting of bills, one with research for story ideas and one composed of miscellaneous paperwork, along with a pile of yesterday’s mail. Three Post-it notes topped the stacks, information she didn’t want to forget but hadn’t yet had time to deal with.
Robert had always complained about how she kept her writing and school projects, saying she worked in chaos. Granted, it didn’t look organized. But she always knew where to find everything. If her work area was chaos, it was at least organized chaos.
After squatting to receive sloppy kisses on both cheeks, she slipped her purse over her shoulder and stepped out the front door. Cutting through the woods would get her to the McAllister mansion as quickly as driving. But she hadn’t set foot on the property since the morning after she got home. Now that Grant
was there, traipsing through the McAllister woods didn’t feel right anymore.
So she got into her car and followed Ranger Road to where it ended at Panther Top. Her goal for today’s visit would be to get Grant to drop his guard. She would show up as a friendly neighbor welcoming him with a plate of cookies. She wouldn’t even mention the story. If he could get to know her in a nonthreatening way, maybe he would agree to an interview later.
By the time she turned onto Panther Top, she was already having second thoughts. She was a straightforward person. And a lousy actress. If she pretended to be something she wasn’t, he’d see right through her. And she could kiss her story good-bye.
She pushed the thought from her mind and turned into the gravel drive. The wrought iron gates were open, a first for as long as she could remember. But there was nothing welcoming in the sight. Kudzu had taken over both sides of the drive, turning the shrubs and trees beneath into looming, nondescript shapes. The long gravel road snaking its way through the property had almost disappeared under years of unrestrained growth.
Then the trees thinned and cleared, and the mansion lay before her, as neglected as the grounds. The drive circled around a huge two-tiered stone fountain, a vague hint of long-forgotten grandeur. At some point over the years, the statue at its top had toppled over to rest facedown in the now-empty basin. If Grant decided to keep the place, he would have his work cut out for him.
She braked to a stop next to his Mercedes. When she’d talked to him at the Holiday Inn, she’d been too focused on trying to get the interview to pay much attention to what he drove. Now she took the time to eye the car with appreciation. Nice. Silver with a convertible top. Actually, the car wasn’t his. With the Massachusetts tag, it had to be a rental. What kind of person rents a Mercedes? Someone wealthy and sophisticated, that’s who. And she was showing up on his doorstep with chocolate chip cookies.
After a stabilizing breath, she retrieved her foil-covered gift, trying to calm the butterflies taking flight in her stomach. What if he told her to go? What if he took the plate, thanked her for her thoughtfulness and closed the door, leaving her standing on the porch? Or what if he saw it was her and didn’t even open the door? Well, she would have to make sure that didn’t happen.
“I can do this.” Her voice was a squeak. A couple of those butterflies had made it into her throat. She swallowed hard and tried again. “I can do this.” Better.
Yes, she could do this. Maybe she was new at reporting, but she wasn’t born yesterday. She was confident—comfortable with people and comfortable with herself. She would melt his objections with her smile and wow him with her wit. And try hard to not think about how far out of her league he was.
She squared her shoulders and started up the front walk. If she could get those butterflies to cooperate, the rest would be a breeze.
THREE
Another photo album landed atop the growing pile slung carelessly across the wood floor while Jesus stared down from the opposite wall. Grant wasn’t totally comfortable with his silent observer, but he wasn’t surprised, either. That was another tidbit his mother had given him about his grandparents—how they were such good churchgoing people. Like so many others he’d known, it was all for show.
He picked up another album and flipped the pages, giving each no more than a cursory glance. Soon it joined the others. Album after album, all devoted to his grandparents. Wedding pictures, trips, social events. Hundreds of photos and not a single one of his father. His dad grew up in this house. At least spent summer vacations here. There should be something in all the mess definitively branded Gary McAllister. But it was as if he’d never existed.
Grant tossed the book he held onto the floor. He didn’t need to look at the rest of the photos. It was his grandparents’ wedding album. There would be no pictures of his father there. He dropped to his knees and packed the albums into a box. After closing it up and scribbling trash across its top, he carried it into the parlor to join the two others already there. Why hadn’t he found a single picture of his father? Granted, he still had 90 percent of the place to go through, but he should have come across something by now.
The doorbell interrupted his private gripe session, and he glanced at his watch. The Realtor wasn’t due for another hour. The investor wouldn’t arrive until midafternoon. When he stepped into the foyer and approached the double doors, someone stood on the other side of one of the oval glass inserts. The image was broken and somewhat distorted. But it was clear enough to know he wasn’t looking at the Realtor or the investor. The pesky newspaper reporter now stood on his front porch. Sheesh, what would it take to get rid of the woman?
He swung open the door. It didn’t matter how cute she was. Never again was he going to have things he said twisted and spun to fit someone else’s idea of a good story. If firm didn’t work, he’d resort to rude.
“I already told you, no interview.”
She held up a hand in denial. “Today’s Saturday. I left my reporter hat at the office. This is a neighborly visit.”
He frowned. “We’re not neighbors.”
“Yes, we are. The back corner of my property butts up to the back corner of yours. I’ve been hiking through your woods for years.” She flashed him a friendly smile. When Jami Carlisle smiled, her eyes joined in, underscoring the gesture with a confirming sparkle.
She extended her hand, and his gaze dipped to her foil-covered offering. He wasn’t going to be bamboozled by rosy lips and sparkling green eyes. Or whatever was on that plate.
Another dazzling smile lit her face. “Chocolate chip cookies. I baked them this morning. I know your stay is probably temporary, but I still wanted to show you some of the warm friendliness Murphy is known for and welcome you to the neighborhood.”
“Thanks.” He took the plate from her hands. If he invited her in, he’d probably live to regret it.
“If there are any services you need—someone to clean, a contractor, ministries to donate any unwanted items—I can probably help you. I’ve lived here all my life.”
“Thanks. I might take you up on that.”
Several seconds ticked by in silence, tense and uncomfortable. Actually, he was the only uncomfortable one. She maintained a casual pose, weight shifted to one foot, right arm hanging loosely at her side, left thumb hooked around the strap of the purse hanging from her shoulder. It was apparently easier being the pursuer than the pursued.
Okay, thirty minutes. He could use a break, anyway. “Would you like to come in?”
The smile climbed higher. “I’d love to.”
As soon as she stepped over the threshold, her eyes circled the room and widened in awe. “This is pretty impressive.”
“You wouldn’t have thought so a couple days ago. When I first walked in, with the power off and the drapes drawn, it was like stepping into a cave.” Or a tomb.
Even with everything lit up, he didn’t view the old place with the same appreciation she did. To him, it was a monumental inconvenience, one more thing to deal with before embarking on his two months of freedom. But she was right. Under different circumstances, he would find it pretty impressive himself. The curved entry walls rose almost thirty feet, melting seamlessly into the domed ceiling. A massive stairway wrapped two-thirds of the room, and a huge crystal chandelier hung in the center. Paintings lined the walls, following the rise of the stairs.
“I’ve never even been inside, so this is pretty cool.” She turned to face him. “Even though we’ve been neighbors most of my life, I never met the McAllisters. No one came to visit, and they never left.”
“I guess my grandparents weren’t very friendly.” That was an understatement. Based on everything his mother had told him, the elder McAllisters were stuck-up snobs.
He strode toward the parlor, and Jami followed, chatting as she walked.
“For the last twenty-five or thirty years, they kept to themselves. But it wasn’t always that way. They used to entertain on a regular basis. Then it all stopped.
No one came or went from here again, except the housekeeper. Every Wednesday she would slip out and disappear for a few hours. Whatever she was doing, she didn’t do it in Murphy. Probably wanted to avoid the questions.”
“Strange.” Pretty intriguing, actually. But he was here to dispose of their stuff and get on with his life, not investigate a mystery. He removed one dust-covered sheet from the couch and a second from the coffee table. “Have a seat. I’ll even share my cookies.”
She settled onto the couch and gasped. “The window’s broken.”
He followed her gaze to where a large rock lay beside one of the chairs, untouched since being hurled through the large window. Shards of glass had found their way between the drapes and littered the hardwood floor. “I know. That’s how I got in the day I arrived.”
“You broke the window?”
Grant laughed, his reaction sudden, spontaneous and totally unexpected. That was what pleasure felt like, something he hadn’t experienced in . . . a while. And it had come from the least likely source. But Jami had an innocence about her he found refreshing. “No, I didn’t break it. But I didn’t get a key until I met with the attorney. So I reached through the empty frame, unlocked the window and climbed in.”
He removed the foil from the plate and, after offering her a cookie, took one himself and sank his teeth into it. It was warm and moist and, if he had to guess, made from scratch.
“Two other windows are broken. But I’m surprised that’s the only vandalism, considering the place has sat empty for five years.”
She nodded. “I’m sure all the stories helped you out. No one got any braver than to run up and bust out a few windows.”
“Stories?”
She took a bite of her cookie and continued. “All the kids think this place is haunted. Even when the McAllisters lived here, everyone was afraid to get anywhere near it. You know how kids make up scary stories. In Murphy, this is the setting. They say the ghost of the dead son roams the halls, and on a full moon—” She stopped suddenly, color creeping up her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
Trust My Heart Page 3
