“The serious answer to your question is I haven’t decided. I told him I’d let him know.”
Her features relaxed in a sort of cautious relief, like someone who’d been given a reprieve but not a full pardon. “So there’s a good chance you won’t?”
The hope in her eyes went straight to his gut, and he had to remind himself again it was a business decision. But even with business decisions, sometimes intangible factors came into play. “Not in the foreseeable future. I think I would have to reach a certain level of desperation.”
“And what level is that?”
“Flat broke, living in my car and struggling to fend off starvation.”
She laughed, a pleasant, musical sound that wove through his mind and wrapped around his heart. The candlelight and music were getting to him.
“So you weren’t exactly impressed with him.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite so full of himself.”
“Frankly, I haven’t, either.”
Vanguard’s offer was good. Fair market value and then some. And the man was ready to act now. Finding another buyer would likely take months. But he could wait it out. He wasn’t hurting for money. Not by a long shot.
He would give the Realtor a chance. Several chances, if need be, because the thought of letting Vanguard get his hands on the property filled his gut with lead. His dislike for the man had started with that phone conversation. The face-to-face meeting had only intensified those feelings. If the Realtor could find a buyer, it would be better for everyone involved. Including Jami.
As much as he hated to admit it, he cared what she thought. She’d woven herself into the hearts of the people of Murphy.
If he wasn’t careful, she was going to find her way to his own.
“Excuse the mess. I think my gardener flew the coop.”
Jami sidestepped the brambles and other undergrowth that had taken over the McAllister gardens and smiled back at Grant. “No problem. I’m always up for an adventure.”
She wasn’t about to complain. When Grant offered to let her take pictures, she’d almost dropped her fork. She hadn’t been nearly as confident as she’d let him believe.
She leaned forward to step over a small downed tree, bracing herself on its trunk before straightening to shoot a series of photos. The neglect framed in her lens had obviously started long before Elizabeth McAllister’s departure. It wasn’t just the yard. The house showed the same lack of care. The back deck sagged, its weathered boards graying, cracked and warped, and the top portion of the chimney lay scattered about its base, a haphazard jumble of stones and mortar.
She dropped the camera to let it dangle from the strap around her neck. “I think that about wraps it up outside.” She made her way back around to the front of the house, Grant next to her. “So what do you know about the McAllisters?”
“Nothing. Remember, I never met them.”
“Surely your mother told you something.”
His jaw tightened, and he walked in silence so long she gave up hope of an answer. Finally, he drew in a slow, deep breath. “Elizabeth and Franklin McAllister were Charlotte socialites. They had lots of plans for my dad. Falling in love with the daughter of poor Hungarian immigrants wasn’t one of them.” His words were heavy with sarcasm. “They tried hard to break them up, even offered to pay my mother if she would disappear. She told them to keep their money, and they eloped.”
“And the McAllisters disowned him.”
He nodded. “When my mom and dad got back from their honeymoon, my dad tried to reconcile with his parents.”
“How did that go?”
“We’ll never know. He didn’t make it home. But since my grandparents refused to have anything to do with my mom and me, I can make an educated guess. We weren’t good enough for the high-and-mighty McAllisters.”
Jami cringed at the resentment lacing his tone. He wasn’t letting his grandparents off the hook, even after their death. And judging from his attitude toward marriage, he hadn’t let his ex-wife off the hook, either.
She flashed him a sympathetic smile. “You know, as long as you let it eat at you, you’re giving them a certain amount of control over you.”
“Now you’re a psychologist?”
“No, just someone who’s been there. Life’s a lot better when you let it go.” She ignored his frown and continued. “So why do you think she left everything to you? She could have donated her fortune to charity.”
He shrugged and opened the front door, letting her go in ahead of him. “Who knows?”
“Maybe she regretted the way she treated you and your mother and was trying to make up for it.”
“It’s too late. We could have used it when my mom was struggling to keep us fed. I don’t need it now.”
His tone had softened only slightly. That stern facade didn’t just hide a wry sense of humor; it also hid a lot of hurt and betrayal. If only he could experience the same freedom she had. She knew what it would take. Getting him to see it would be another thing altogether.
He closed the door and held out a hand, palm up. “Feel free to wander through.”
“I will.” She lifted the camera to her face and squinted through the viewfinder. The small green brackets framed only half of the stairway. She snapped the photo anyway, then captured the upper half before letting the camera once again dangle.
For the next several minutes, she took pictures, oohing and aahing as she went. Even with the lack of care over the years, the attention to detail was amazing. So were the furnishings and artwork. The paintings and sculptures alone would fetch a small fortune.
She pushed open a door, then let out a low, appreciative whistle. A fireplace was nestled into one wall, a padded leather chair flanking each side. Built-in bookshelves covered the other three walls, floor to ceiling. Every shelf was full. She stepped forward and ran her finger across the spines of several classics, likely original editions. “This is a book lover’s dream.”
She moved back to survey the room again. Grant stood in the open doorway, leaning against the jamb, watching her. His pose was relaxed, and he wore a half smile. “I had the same reaction the first time I walked in. I’ve always been an avid reader.”
“Me, too. If I wasn’t in school or hanging out with Holly and Sam, I had my nose in a book.” Reading was still her favorite pastime. She could easily picture herself curled up in one of the big leather chairs, surrounded by the sight and scent of old books, a roaring fire next to her and one of the classics open in her lap.
Grant pushed himself away from the doorjamb and walked into the room. “When I was a kid, we moved around a lot. Mom would go wherever she could make the best money. And while the babysitter watched her soaps, I read. Always being the new kid, I found it easier to connect with the characters in my books than the people I went to school with.”
Warmth infused her chest. In spite of his refusal to grant her an interview, he’d just given her a rather personal glimpse into his childhood. That cozy image she’d created moments earlier flashed through her mind again, except this time Grant was occupying the other chair. She pushed the thought aside and flashed him a sympathetic smile. “I can imagine it’s not easy being the outsider. Kids can be cruel.”
She snapped several pictures, then stepped back into the hall. Around the corner, an open double doorway led into another room. This one was huge, probably twenty by thirty, with marble floors and intricately carved molding beneath a ceiling of decorative wood panels. Three sets of French doors led onto the deck spanning the back.
“This is the ballroom.” She spun slowly, taking in the detailed carvings, huge mirrors with heavy gold frames and crystal chandeliers that captured and disbursed whatever stray shafts of light found their way through the dirt-caked windows and doors. “Can’t you picture it? Ladies in their colorful gowns, hair piled atop their heads, jewelry glittering in the lamplight. Men in their starched shirts and dark suits. Servants slipping in and out with their trays o
f delectable sweets and crystal champagne glasses.”
He wasn’t smiling, but his brows were raised, and there was a hint of amusement in his blue eyes. “I think your writer’s imagination is working overtime.”
“I’m not a writer. I’m a journalist.” Well, she was both, but the former she didn’t broadcast. She couldn’t claim to be a writer when she had yet to finish something.
“Same difference.”
She raised the camera and snapped a picture. “No, journalists don’t make things up.”
“They just embellish the truth.”
Her gaze snapped to his face. The distrust she’d seen in his eyes when she first confronted him in the Holiday Inn parking lot was back. His refusal to let her interview him wasn’t because of a desire for privacy. Sometime in the past, he’d had a bad experience.
“They’re not supposed to. And I can assure you this one doesn’t.” She turned away from him to take shots from several angles.
“So what do you think this room was used for?”
“Entertainment, for real.” She continued working as she talked. “The McAllisters regularly threw lavish parties. Some of the older people in town still talk about them.”
“See, you do know more about the McAllisters than I do.”
She leaned against the doorjamb and snapped one more picture. This one had Grant in it. She might end up keeping it. He stood in a relaxed pose, one hand in his pocket, the other resting at his side. His expression was serious, which, from what she knew of Grant, was typical. She hadn’t witnessed very many spontaneous smiles. But that didn’t detract from his good looks. It just made him look that much more distinguished—strong, masculine, brooding, a bit untouchable.
“I’ve learned a few things.” The things that were public information, anyway. Not the kind of details that made for compelling, in-depth reporting. “Your grandfather made his money in Charlotte, in banking and real estate. Right after your dad was born, they bought this property and had the house built. Although this was a second home for them, they kept the place fully staffed—gardener, maids, cooks, butler—and the parties they held were something else.”
Grant moved toward her. “That explains the kitchen. It’s pretty state of the art for sixty years ago.”
When she walked into the room, she had to agree. Cabinetry and countertops stretched to ridiculous lengths along three walls, the expanse broken by two double sinks and a pair of matching cooktops. Two islands in the center offered more workspace.
He motioned toward the far wall. “Someone could replace these two old Frigidaires with a couple of stainless steel side by sides, update the ovens and stoves, add a couple of commercial dishwashers and a convection oven, and they’d have a chef’s dream.”
She lifted her brows. “For a guy, you’re awfully enthusiastic about a kitchen.”
“I don’t cook much anymore, but I used to do it a lot. I was actually pretty good at it.”
She studied him, then wrinkled her nose. “I’m having trouble picturing you in an apron and chef’s hat, slaving away over a hot stove.”
“It’s not that far-fetched. I learned to cook for self-preservation. My mom’s idea of a gourmet meal has always been a frozen dinner and salad-in-a-bag.”
“I’ve got you beat there. My mom was an awesome cook.” She moved around the kitchen, taking shots at different angles, until she once again stood next to Grant. “Why don’t you cook anymore?”
“Just busy.” He turned away, but not in time to hide the hardness that had settled in his eyes. He made several slow swipes of his hand across the butcher-block surface of the island, clearing away the dust in a widening arc. It drifted downward, joining the thin layer already blanketing the hardwood floor. “I guess I’m going to need the name of a good cleaning person before the Realtor shows the place.”
“I think we can arrange that.” Whatever his reason for no longer cooking, it wasn’t because he was busy. Nor was it something he wanted to discuss with her.
He turned to face her, brushing the dust from his hand. “Are you ready to tackle the second floor of this tour?”
She followed him back to the foyer and up the curved stairway. At each end of the second floor was a master suite, complete with a sitting area and huge bath. One was masculine, the other distinctly feminine. Two other bedrooms lined one side of the long hall. The door on the opposite side was closed . . . and locked.
She dropped her hand and turned to study Grant. “Something you don’t want the local newspaper reporter to see?”
“Since it was locked when I arrived, I have no idea.”
“So you don’t even know what’s in there.”
“It’s the only locked room in the place. There aren’t even any locked closets.”
She stared at the door, her lower lip trapped between her teeth. “How are you at picking locks?”
“Pretty rusty. My burglary days are long over.”
Her gaze shot to his face, but there was no hint of teasing there. “You used to break into houses?”
A smirk quivered at the corners of his mouth, hidden amusement that almost broke the surface. “You are gullible.”
She poked him in the ribs. “I’m not gullible.”
He twisted and grabbed her hands, obviously ticklish. His touch sent an electric charge shooting through her, one she tried her hardest to ignore. But the sensation wouldn’t go away. His hands were strong, even a little calloused. Probably the result of lifting weights, the home gym he mentioned earlier.
She pulled from his grasp and looked up at him. His smile was broader now, and it did funny things to her pulse. All the oxygen seemed to leach from the room. She drew in a quivery breath and turned back to the door, breaking the connection before she said or did something stupid. She had no business feeling that way about anyone at the moment, and certainly not Grant.
“I wonder what the McAllisters thought was so important it needed to be locked up.”
“I’m sure I’ll run across a key somewhere. If not, I’ll call a locksmith.”
She shook her head. His nonchalance was making her crazy. “Aren’t you going nuts, wondering what’s in there?”
“I am a little curious. I’ve just been too busy to do anything about it.”
“A little curious! If this was my place, I’d be kicking in the door. I mean, it’s like this big mystery, begging to be solved.” Especially with the secrecy surrounding the McAllisters. There were likely answers in that room. A great angle for her story.
“So you think there might be skeletons in the McAllister closet.”
“Think about it. They suddenly disappear from society.” She held up an index finger, then followed it with two others. “No one goes in or out for thirty years. And now this mysterious locked room. What do you think?”
“I think they were serial killers, and this is where they hid the bones of their victims.” His tone was flat, deadpan, a teasing glint in his eyes the only hint he wasn’t serious. She was starting to figure him out.
She grinned up at him. “You never know. But if you’re interested, I can put you in touch with a good locksmith. Like right now.” She pulled her phone from the pouch on her belt and scrolled through her contacts.
“You keep the locksmith’s number programmed into your phone? You must lock yourself out on a regular basis.”
“I have locked my keys in the car a few times.” Maybe she shouldn’t admit it. Grant seemed too put together to have engaged in any of her absentminded foibles. “That’s not why I have the locksmith’s number, though.” She punched a final button and put the phone to her ear. “Brian happens to be my cousin, Aunt Lily’s next-oldest son.”
Once she reached him, she provided a brief explanation and handed Grant the phone.
A minute later, he ended the call. “He’ll be here in thirty minutes.”
She finished taking pictures and had just made her way downstairs when the doorbell chimed. As soon as Grant swung open the door, B
rian stepped inside and engulfed her in a bear hug. Of all of her cousins, if she had to choose a favorite, it would be Brian. They shared no family resemblance. He was a good ten years older than her, fair skinned, freckled and built like a linebacker for the New York Giants. But for as long as she could remember, they’d shared a special bond.
When she made introductions, Brian grasped Grant’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “So where is this locked door my cousin is dying to get into?”
“Up here.” Grant waved a hand and led him up the steps.
Jami hesitated. There was likely a reason that room was locked. Would Grant want her there when the door was opened for the first time?
She shook off her doubts and headed up the stairs. Grant didn’t invite her, but he didn’t ask her to leave, either.
If she was going to compete with Howard’s legacy, she would have to be bold enough to pursue the story. The worst thing Grant could do was throw her out.
FIVE
Grant watched Brian make quick work of the lock. “You made it look easy.”
“Comes with experience. There’s not much I can’t get into.” He grinned at Jami and gave her a playful wink. “I’ve become a pro at Pontiac Sunbirds.”
She punched him in the shoulder. “Hey, that’s not fair. I’ve only locked my keys in the car twice.”
“Three times.”
“Okay, three times. In how many years?”
Brian paused, apparently doing the math. “Seven.”
“So that’s less than once every other year.”
Grant watched the exchange, the warmth filling his chest tinged with longing. Jami was lucky to have family nearby. With both of his parents being only children, he’d missed out on cousins. Aunts and uncles, too. His maternal grandparents had passed away by the time he reached his teen years, so most of his life, he’d had no family except his mother.
Brian stepped aside. “Come on in. I’ll have the lock rekeyed in no time.”
Grant entered and scanned the room. It was a typical teenager’s bedroom. Black bedspreads with bold splashes of color covered two twin beds, and model cars and sailing ships were prominently displayed on high shelves wrapping three sides of the room. Two large paintings hung on one wall, and a wooden desk stood in the corner, beneath a poster of the Beach Boys.
Trust My Heart Page 6
