Wild lupine, foxglove, and yarrow, punctuated with the vibrant orange of California poppies, clung to the cliff edges between the ocean and the blacktop. At one point she’d driven through a grove of eucalyptus. The smell of menthol invaded the car’s open windows, cool like camphor, bright and cleansing.
California’s Highway 1 was a bizarre convergence of forest, rocky cliffs, and the vast blue-green of the Pacific. The end result was a breathtaking drive that felt like you’d wandered into a painted movie set, a landscape that couldn’t possibly be real, except that it was.
“Well now, you must be starved. I have dinner enough for a crowd. Evan, would you like to join us?” Cora looked at Evan expectantly.
Please say no.
Beside her, Evan shifted and adjusted her cap lower over her eyes.
“Thank you, Cora, but I have other plans.”
“All right then, it’ll just be Foster and me for my homemade lasagna.” Cora shadowed Evan to the front door.
“Miss Spencer won’t be joining you?” Evan seemed surprised, maybe even concerned.
“I’m afraid not. She’s still down with that terrible headache.” Cora turned to Foster apologetically. “She had to retire to her room a few hours ago. We probably won’t see her until tomorrow.”
Damn. The mysterious Abigail Spencer would remain a mystery for one more day. It was just as well. Foster was tired and after a meal would no doubt be ready to turn in early. She was in the wrong time zone. It was well past the dinner hour in Georgia.
“Evan, before you take your leave maybe you could help Ms. Owen with her bags. You do have bags, don’t you?” Evan paused on the threshold as Cora turned to Foster.
“I just have the one bag. I can manage.” There was no way she was gonna let Butchy McButch tote her luggage for her.
“Are you sure?” Cora pressed her.
“Yep, I’m sure. But thanks for offering.” She followed Evan out the door to claim her luggage from the car.
Her economy-sized rental was hilariously dwarfed by Evan’s truck. She smiled and gave a half-hearted wave to Evan as she pulled away. She shouldered her leather briefcase and then popped the trunk for her suitcase. Cora fidgeted in the doorway until Foster returned with her bag, a faded blue Samsonite that had belonged to her grandma. She was fairly certain her grandma had only ever used it once, on a vacation to Disney World in Orlando when Foster was a kid. Her grandma wasn’t big on travel or vacations, or fun, for that matter.
“Let’s get you settled into your room and then you can join me in the kitchen for dinner.” Cora glanced over her shoulder as she led Foster up the grand staircase.
The house looked like something from a classic movie. The wide staircase curved gradually as it rose to the second floor. The wood, darkened from age, had a scarlet carpet runner up the center. Foster tried to notice details without tripping on the stairs as she followed Cora. Portraits were stacked all along the staircase. Serious looking individuals painted in dark tones, thickly rendered in oil. She wondered if any of them were acquainted with her grandma because they had a similar expression of disapproval on their faces. Foster knew it well. Her grandma had mastered it and passed it down to her mother. Owen women had a gift for making you feel loved and barely tolerated at the same time.
She nearly bumped into Cora who’d stopped at a door along the upstairs hallway. Foster had been distracted by a particularly spooky looking sculpture. The hallway was full of them. This one looked like some fabled creature, half man and half horse. The next one looked like a bighorn sheep emerging from a rock. There were others, but she couldn’t make out the details of them in the low wattage lighting.
“This room should suit you. There’s a bathroom just across the hall.” Cora swiveled with her arm outstretched. “I left clean towels at the foot of the bed. I’ll give you a minute to settle in then just come down to the kitchen when you’re ready.”
“Um…where is the kitchen exactly?”
“Oh, yes, you haven’t had the tour.” Cora rested her hands on her hips. “At the bottom of the staircase, then left. You can’t miss it.”
“Got it.” She stepped past Cora into the lushly decorated room. “I won’t be long.”
“Good. I’ll just go set the table for us.”
Foster leaned back through the door to say thank you, but Cora was already halfway down the stairs. She closed the door and surveyed the large room. There were deep red tapestries hanging on the wall on either side of a very substantial four-poster bed piled with pillows. The bed faced a fireplace with an ornate wood mantel carved with what looked like Celtic patterns. She set her suitcase at the foot of the bed and rotated in the room. A dressing table and oval mirror were opposite the hearth. On either side of the dressing table were tall windows facing west. The heavy drapes were open so that the last bit of the sun’s orange glow lit the edge of the earth, the Pacific horizon.
A proper writing desk was the only thing the elegant room lacked. But surely a house like this must have a beautiful study or possibly even a library lined with books. Maybe she’d get a chance to investigate after dinner.
***
It was getting dark when Evan parked the truck in front of the cottage. She took off her boots just inside the front door and stomped to the fridge for a beer. Who the hell was Foster Owen? And why hadn’t Cora mentioned her earlier during her late lunch? Having one more person to navigate would only make keeping things quiet more difficult.
She’d have taken Cora up on her offer of lasagna in order to find out a little more about Abby, but not with Foster as an audience. She hated chitchat, and she certainly wasn’t in the mood to make small talk with Clark Kent’s nerdy younger sister.
Evan sank into her new favorite armchair by the window and took a long draw of beer. It felt cool on her throat, but she had the immediate thought that this beer would taste so much better with a burger, or even pizza.
She put on shoes that hadn’t spent all day tromping around on soggy ground, grabbed her keys and her jacket. Foster’s rental car was still parked in front of the main house as she left. The tiny Toyota inspired a frown. Who was Foster Owen and why was she here? Was she an old college friend? That seemed doubtful because she’d referred to Abby as Ms. Spencer. Was it possible she didn’t even know Abby? And if that was the case then Evan was exponentially more annoyed by her presence.
It turned out that the taqueria on the far end of town was the least crowded spot for food. She revised her craving. Beer also tasted good with Mexican food. Yeah, tacos and beer sounded just about perfect.
Evan was reaching for the door when the waitress who’d served her coffee that morning surprised her by stepping out. She held the door with one hand and a brown paper bag with the other.
“Hi.” The woman blocked the door for a moment before letting it swish closed behind her.
“Hi.” Evan was regretting she’d stayed at home for that first beer. If she’d been fifteen minutes faster maybe she’d have ended up with a dinner date.
“Are you working at the Spencer place?”
Evan was flattered that the woman had obviously asked around about her, possibly someone at the feed store knew who she was. The coffee shop was probably the social hub of Spencer’s Cove. The hardware store and the feed store were her main stops in town, and the Spencer estate had an account at both places.
“Yeah, I’m Evan.” She didn’t really want to broadcast personal details, but if they stayed on a first-name only basis what would be the harm?
“I’m Jaiden. My friends call me Jai.” Jai held out her hand and Evan accepted it, keeping contact for a little longer than was necessary.
Yes, Jai was definitely flirting. The direct and lingering eye contact, the tilt of her oval face as she tossed her hair. She was still wearing the snug fitting T-shirt from the café, signaling she’d probably just gotten off work.
“It looks like you already have dinner, or I’d have asked you to join me for a beer.” Evan was
fishing to find out who the to-go bag of food was for.
“Maybe another time.” Jai smiled teasingly.
Evan couldn’t help smiling too because Jai had used her earlier brush-off line. She watched the tempting sway of Jai’s hips as she walked toward the car. She looked back at Evan and smiled one more time before she opened the passenger door and climbed in. The driver was nothing more than a shadowed outline, which gave away no details. Evan shook her head as she turned and entered the restaurant. It was just as well that she’d missed Jai. It wasn’t like she was on holiday; she had a fucking job to do, a job she wasn’t feeling particularly good about at the moment.
***
Foster was anxious to explore the Spencer residence, but good manners dictated that she tamp down her enthusiasm a bit. At least until someone offered her a tour. The first order of business was to sample Cora’s lasagna. She left the room and followed the grand staircase back down to the first floor in search of the kitchen. She needn’t have worried about finding it. The delicious aroma was an easy guide to follow.
“Well, now…just have a seat. Would you care for water?” Cora served a healthy portion of lasagna onto a plate.
“Yes, water would be great.” Maybe it was the air travel, but Foster was feeling very thirsty. She sat down, and after a minute, Cora joined her.
She was trying to guess Cora’s age but couldn’t. She was probably in her early sixties, and she had a very pleasing Irish accent. Her round and rosy cheeks kept wrinkles to a minimum. Age didn’t really matter, but as a writer, Foster always wondered about names and the eras they likely came from. She kept a running list of interesting names for future story use.
“Have you worked here at the Spencer place for very long?”
“Oh, let me see… Goodness me, I think it’s been twenty years now.” Cora looked away as if she were picturing something in her head. “Hard to believe it’s been that long, but yes, a little over twenty years.”
“So, you must know a lot about the family history then?” Foster figured she might as well ask a few questions over dinner. Maybe Cora would say something that would give her a clue of where to begin this Spencer family history project.
“Some I know, some of it might be more folklore than fact.” Cora chewed thoughtfully.
Hmm, folklore? That sounded promising.
“Folklore, huh?”
“Oh, yes…and I’m not giving away any family secrets here. Everyone knows the story.”
“Everyone except me.”
“Well, everyone in Spencer’s Cove.” Cora smiled.
“Can you tell me then?”
“The story goes that in the mid eighteen hundreds there was a shipwreck in the cove. This was before the lighthouse, mind you, or about the time the lighthouse was being built. It was an opium ship from the Far East. When some men from the town finally got through the rough water to the ship, they found not a soul on board except one young girl, floating in a lifeboat, the captain’s daughter.”
Cora took another bite. Foster chewed slowly and waited for her to continue. Maybe this would make an interesting book after all. It sounded as if there was some sort of mystery to be solved, her favorite sort of story to research. Even if the memoir was a bust, which, given what Gertie said about Abigail’s lack of interest in the project, might be the case, she could still craft a convincing work of fiction on the bones of an actual historical event. She was encouraged.
“This young woman ended up being taken in by one of the founding families, and when she came of age she married Thomas Spencer. He was the one who built this house…as the story goes, in the hopes of having lots of children.”
“And did they? Have lots of children?”
“No, only one son.” Cora paused, as if she were pulling some fact from some recess of her brain that she rarely accessed. “Funny thing about all the Spencer families. In each generation only one son was born…until Abigail. And she has no children, so she’ll be the end of the line. The last Spencer.” A sad expression passed over Cora’s face.
What were the odds that in every generation since the mid 1800s only one child was born in the Spencer line and that child was always male? That seemed to defy the odds.
“So, Abigail’s great-grandfather was Thomas Spencer?”
“Her third great-grandfather was Thomas Spencer.”
“Oh, right.” Foster hadn’t quite done the math correctly. “Maybe I’ll get a chance to meet Ms. Spencer tomorrow.”
“I hope so.” Cora took a sip of her tea. “She’s a bit…shy.”
Cora nearly whispered the detail as if shyness was a disfiguring and contagious condition.
“Oh, I didn’t know.” Foster tried to remain serious, but it was hard not to smile.
“She’s spent too much time by herself in my opinion.”
“Well, maybe she’ll help me with some research of the family history.”
“I hope so.”
Chapter Five
Abby blinked, but the darkness didn’t recede. She sat at the edge of the bed and tilted her head from side to side in an attempt to ease the tense muscles in her neck. When she tugged the thick drapes aside, moonlight flooded the room. The sky was clear and so was her head, finally. She wondered how many hours had passed. She’d left her cell phone in the library so she couldn’t check the time.
Cora had brought soup and tea to her room, but she’d been unable to eat more than a few spoonfuls without feeling nauseous. Food was what she needed more than a clock.
A few coals on the hearth in the kitchen still glowed. She stirred them and added one stick of wood. It wasn’t so chilly that it was necessary to build a fire, but a small flame would be pleasant while she ate. Watching the fire would be soothing. The kettle was still fairly full so she lit the gas eye and set the water to boil. There was a good chance that she’d find some leftovers in the refrigerator, and if not, she’d make toast or something simple and go back to bed.
Abby was staring into the glow of the fridge when she heard a noise and turned.
Foster stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the woman standing in the kitchen. Like some ethereal creature frozen in place, the woman was cast in a ghostly glow from the light of the open refrigerator. Maybe she was a ghost because surely this old mansion had a few.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was up.” Foster wondered if she should leave. The woman didn’t exactly look interested in sharing the space. “I’ll just…I’ll go…”
“Are you Foster Owen?” The woman let the door go and it closed with a soft whoosh.
“Yes.”
The small bulb under the stove vent hood was the only illumination in the room besides the fireplace. The woman took a few steps toward Foster. She was beautiful. That was Foster’s first thought, and she considered pinching herself to make sure she was awake, but if she were awake then that would probably seem weird.
“I’m Abby Spencer.”
“You mean, as in, Abigail Spencer?” This was not who she’d pictured at all. “It’s nice to meet you.” Foster extended her hand, but rather than accept it, Abigail hugged herself and took a step back.
“Only Gertie calls me Abigail.”
Okay, Abigail Spencer was not surrounded by cats and she certainly wasn’t old. What had Cora said? That she was shy. That seemed obvious. Foster guessed her age to be thirty, maybe. Her skin was fair. She had blond hair that fell past her shoulders, not curly, but not straight either. It framed her face in subtle silky waves. Her fingers were tapered and delicate. The T-shirt she was wearing looked like a favorite, washed and worn until it had reached maximum softness. The scooped neck cotton shirt hugged her girlish frame from the waist up. Plaid flannel pajama pants finished off the sleepwear ensemble.
“You can call me Abby.”
Foster’s hand still hung in midair while she inventoried Abby’s appealing features. Feeling awkward now, she swept her fingers through her hair. Meeting Abby, she had the eeriest sensation
of déjà vu, as if they’d met before, but that was impossible. She couldn’t imagine forgetting someone like Abby.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” She could’ve sworn she heard something, someone. Maybe more of an echo than a voice.
“Um, no…” Abby tilted her head and regarded Foster as if she’d just shared some secret, or as if she was surprised by the question.
Weird. She would have sworn Abby said something. Foster cleared her throat and shifted weight from one foot to the other. It had not been her intention to make Abby uncomfortable, and even as she thought it, she wasn’t sure she had. If it was possible, Abby seemed simultaneously shy and intimidating, aloof and alluring. Not knowing what else to do, Foster smiled.
Abby wanted to ask Foster a million questions just to hear her talk. The cadence of her speech, the smooth drawl of her Southern accent, made Abby want to curl up by the fire in the library and have Foster read aloud for hours. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been around someone with such a pleasing voice.
There was something unexpected about Foster, some ineffable quality that she probably had no conscious awareness of, but Abby assumed a lot of women responded to. Foster had a gentleness about her that, despite Abby’s usual anxiety, put her at ease. The expression on Foster’s face was guileless, open, and the thick dark frames of her vintage-looking glasses drew attention to her soft brown eyes.
From the stove, the kettle whistled, breaking the silence. Abby walked around the large rectangular table in the center of the room to the stove. She felt Foster’s eyes on her as she set the teakettle off the burner. The most tantalizing shiver slithered up her spine. She turned to see that Foster was indeed watching her, wide-eyed, and without one hint of reserve. Abby had caught her staring. And after a moment, Foster averted her gaze.
Foster hadn’t said she wanted tea, but Abby made them each a cup of chamomile anyway.
Foster was much cuter in person than in her author photos. In those pictures she looked so serious. In person, she gave off a more whimsical air. She was tall, with angular broad shoulders beneath a white cotton crew neck T-shirt. She had a slender face with a strong jaw and a patrician nose, capped with tousled short dark brown hair. She was barefoot, with faded jeans cuffed just enough that they still brushed the stone floor.
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