Your House or Mine?

by Cynthia Thomason

  But contrary to his genetic makeup, Spencer had become a bookish sort of boy since his father left them. His beautiful eyes peered through the unbreakable lenses of heavy-duty glasses. And he rarely played outside, even in the near-idyllic sunshine of central Florida. He much preferred his room with its ever-expanding shelves of books and computer games.

  “I’ll call you every day,” she said, at last prying her hands away from his cheeks. “And I’ll have my cell phone on all the time so you can reach me.”

  “Okay.”

  “You mind your Uncle Jerry.”

  “I will.”

  Jerry put his hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture while glancing at his watch. “It’s seven forty-five, sis. I’m trying to keep to the schedule you set up, but you’re holding us back.”

  “I’ll be fine, Mom, don’t worry,” Spencer said.

  “I know you will. Go on now.”

  Meg stood at the door until Jerry backed his car out of the drive. Then she shook off an uncomfortable feeling of emptiness and tried to concentrate on the day ahead. She knew she could trust Jerry to take care of Spencer. He truly loved her son. But the auction—that was another story. She could only pray she had a business to come back to.

  She went into her room to retrieve her suitcase. She had almost a five-hour drive ahead of her, and even though every mile was taking her away from Spence, a familiar feeling of anticipation flowed through her now that she was only minutes away from leaving. After a nearly four-year absence, she was going back to Mount Esther, and in a way, it was like going home.

  AT ONE O’CLOCK Friday afternoon, Meg exited Interstate 75 onto a two-lane county road about fifteen miles south of the Georgia border. The road twisted and dipped in a westwardly direction over rolling hills. After twenty minutes she had her first glimpse of the Suwannee River through a thickly wooded area of oak and mulberry trees.

  She turned off her car air conditioner and rolled down the window. This far north, the humid June heat of Orlando was gone, replaced by a moist cool breeze that rustled the spring blossoms of purple and white trilliums along the side of the road. The rich, pungent smell of damp earth, and the fragrant scent of wildflowers teased the air outside the window.

  She rounded a curve that led into an expanse of flat land between the hills and immediately spotted the sign announcing her arrival in Mount Esther. Population 1412, it read. She smiled when she remembered that a member of the town council was appointed every year to change the figure with each birth and death in the close-knit community.

  At the traffic light in the center of Mount Esther’s business district, she turned right onto a narrow road that led across a single-lane wooden bridge spanning one of the tributaries to the Suwannee. After a mile she reached the turnoff to Aunt Amelia’s gracious old Victorian home—the home that Amelia had deeded to Meg several years before.

  INTENDING TO DROP off her belongings before heading to Shady Grove, Meg drove up the lane to the house. She frowned as she noticed the large potholes in the sparse gravel. This lack of attention to upkeep wasn’t like Amelia. Each spring she ordered truckloads of gravel for the drive so it was neat and resistant to flooding during the rainy season. It also looked as though the trees hadn’t been trimmed in ages. The magnificent live oaks dripped with spongy gray moss that bristled against Meg’s windshield and cloaked the road in deep shadows.

  But soon she cleared the three-hundred-yard drive and had her first look at the house. The green and cream colors she remembered seemed duller now, faded in the harsh Florida sun, but the structure, with its turret and peaks and wraparound porch was still a remarkable example of Queen Anne Victorian. Meg might have simply stopped for a moment and enjoyed the welcome sight had it not been for one detail that was completely out of place.

  A police car was parked midway between the house and the barn.

  Her heart pounded. Meg considered that she should approach the parked car with caution. After all, if a crime were being committed at this moment, she shouldn’t interfere with police procedures. And she certainly didn’t want to become a victim herself. But concern for her aunt’s home, and basic burning curiosity, got the best of her. She accelerated and pulled alongside the police car.

  Mount Esther Sheriff’s Department was printed on the driver’s door panel. Meg shifted her car into park and peered out the windows to scan the backyard and trail to the barn. Seeing no one, she opened her door and stepped onto the path.

  And then she spied a tall man pushing a wheelbarrow out of the barn. There was nothing in his appearance or demeanor to indicate that he was a law enforcement officer. He was dressed in blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and a Yankees baseball cap. He turned the wheelbarrow to guide it around the side of the building.

  Realizing that for the moment at least she was the only other person witnessing this activity, Meg hoped she’d catch the attention of the police officer who must be elsewhere on the property. This was her aunt’s home—she wasn’t about to stand by and let someone take something from the barn.

  “Hey, you there. Stop!”

  Amazingly the man did what she said. He set down the back supports of the wheelbarrow. Then he stared across the open space at her and said, “Okay.”

  Still looking around for the police, Meg marched up to him. He truly didn’t look all that threatening up close though he stood over six feet. He appeared strong but with a lean, solid strength defined by hard work rather than the sculpted tone of weight training. He took a kerchief from his back pocket, removed his cap and wiped his brow. After stuffing the cloth back into his jeans, he said, “Do you want something?”

  Meg put her hands on her hips and tried to make the most of her five feet five inches. “What are you doing?”

  He gave her a look that might have been more appropriate if he were indulging a child’s question. “Pushing this wheelbarrow around to the back of the property.”

  She took a step closer. “What’s in there?”

  His mouth lifted at one corner in a cocky sort of smile. “You don’t want to know, ma’am.”

  “I asked you, didn’t I?” She walked near enough to have a look for herself. A healthy whiff of foul air curled up from clumps of damp straw. She wrinkled her nose and hopped back.

  The man snickered. “Satisfied? It’s good old-fashioned horse manure. I figure it’ll be a lot more welcome down by the Suwannee than up here by the house. The wild ferns by the river bank seem to like it.”

  “Where did you get it?” she asked.

  He merely raised his eyebrows while his smile widened.

  “You know what I mean,” she amended. “There hasn’t been a horse here in twenty years.”

  “There is now.”

  Meg glanced over her shoulder. No one else had appeared, prompting her to assume that she and this man were the only people around. But she was no longer worried. Obviously this man wasn’t stealing from the barn. He was cleaning it. And somehow her Aunt Amelia had neglected to tell her that a horse had taken up residence in Uncle Stewie’s old stable.

  She folded her arms over her chest and said, “Who are you?”

  He held out his hand, glanced down at the dirt, or whatever, that had stuck to his palm and dropped it to his side. “My name’s Wade Murdock. I’m the deputy sheriff of Mount Esther. Been here five months now.”

  That explained the patrol car. “And whose horse is in the barn?” she asked.

  “My daughter’s. I promised her a horse when we left Brooklyn.”

  And that explained the man’s distinctive northern accent. “Mrs. Ashford allows you to keep the horse in her barn?”

  “We worked out a deal,” he said and let his gaze wander over the property from where they stood to the back of the house. “For all practical purposes it’s my barn anyway. I bought this place, lock, stock and barrel from Mrs. Ashford.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  DEPUTY MURDOCK frowned with concern. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  No, she
wasn’t all right. He’d just aimed verbal darts at the reality she’d always depended upon. She wanted him to take them back. I just bought this place lock, stock and barrel, he’d said. That couldn’t be.

  He held out his hand, cautiously, as if he might have to grab onto her. Apparently she looked as shaken as she felt. “Stay there,” he ordered. “Don’t move.”

  For some reason she obeyed. Maybe she didn’t trust her legs to hold her up if she tried to move. Or maybe she stood still because he was a cop. He stepped inside the barn and returned with a galvanized washtub which he upended next to her. “Sit down.”

  She didn’t want to sit, but he obviously thought she should.

  He slapped at his pockets, searching for something. “Do you need medical attention? Where’s my damn cell phone?”

  As if a 911 call would provide an antidote for what he’d just said. “No, I don’t need medical attention,” she assured him. “I need answers. You can’t have bought this property.”

  He seemed to relax once she started talking. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not for sale. Amelia Ashford would never sell this house to anyone.”

  He scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Well, I’m sorry, but she did. She sold it to me six weeks ago.”

  Six weeks ago? Impossible. Meg had spoken to her aunt at least twice during that time frame, and Amelia never mentioned anything about it. She snorted her disbelief and sat on the washtub. This was ridiculous. Ashford House had been promised to her when Amelia prepared a Quit Claim Deed four years ago giving the property to Meg.

  She surveyed the house and acres that stretched from the out buildings through groves of stately trees to the river. This land, that beautiful, curious, gingerbread house was her safety net, her last resort, the refuge for her and Spencer if all else failed.

  Meg stared at Deputy Wade Murdock, a newcomer to Mount Esther, a man who couldn’t possibly understand what Ashford House meant to her. She wanted to believe he was lying to her. Unfortunately he didn’t look like the sort who would make up this story. He had a strong, proud face, centered by a nose with a subtle crookedness to it, as if he’d defended his principles on more than one occasion. His hair was the deep brown color of a walnut, slightly unkempt and just long enough to be interesting—the outward symbol of a man who avoided fussiness.

  And he wasn’t likely a con artist or a crook. After all, he was the deputy sheriff of Mount Esther. Surely the man the town appointed to defend the law wouldn’t be the one to break it. But there had to be a logical explanation for what he believed to be true and what Meg knew to be fact.

  Wade leveled a look at her that was every bit as intense as the one she gave him. “Look,” he said, “there’s obviously some mix-up here. Why don’t we try to get to the bottom of this. Tell me your name and your connection to this property.”

  Once she told him who she was, he would have to accept that there had been a terrible mistake and they could work to correct it.

  “My name is Meg Hamilton,” she said. “I live in Orlando….”

  He nodded. “You’re the niece, the one whose husband—”

  “Yes, I’m her niece,” she announced, cutting him off. She was acutely aware that while Aunt Amelia may not have told Meg all the details of her life the last few times they’d talked, she’d obviously been confiding personal information to this stranger. Did he also know that Dave had left her and Spence without so much as a forwarding address?

  “I was called here yesterday,” she continued, “because my aunt fell in her home a few days ago and is convalescing at Shady Grove.”

  “That makes sense,” he said.

  “She asked me to come to Mount Esther to help sort out some things.”

  “So let me get this straight,” he said. “You didn’t know that your aunt sold her house?”

  Meg stood up and faced him squarely. “Frankly, I’m not at all convinced there has been a sale.”

  “Do you think I’m imagining the contract that she and I both signed and which is right now sitting in my desk drawer?”

  “No, I’m not suggesting that you are making up a contract. Clearly something was signed, something that has you believing you own this house. I would like to see the document for myself. Then maybe I can sort this out.”

  “I’d be happy to show you my contract,” he said. “Although your aunt has a copy, and so does Betty Lamb, the real estate agent who handled the transaction. You might feel more comfortable dealing with one of those ladies instead of me.”

  “I’ll certainly ask my aunt,” she said. “As soon as I take my suitcase into the house.” She half expected him to contest her right to stay here. To his credit, he didn’t. Once she’d moved her things in, she would go to Shady Grove and evaluate her aunt’s medical condition. And if Amelia were in good spirits, Meg would question her about this supposed contract.

  Wade pointed to the rear of the house. “Go in the back way,” he said. “I left the door unlocked.”

  “You have a key?” An alarming thought occurred to her. “You’re not living here, are you?”

  He smiled. “No, not yet. But I have access to the property. With your aunt’s permission, of course.” He swatted his ball cap against his thigh, settled it back on his head, and took a few steps toward the wheelbarrow as if he were dismissing her. “Oh, by the way, don’t be alarmed by what you see in there. The place may not look exactly as you remember it. Your aunt’s been a busy lady the last few weeks.”

  She matched his smug expression with her most skeptical one. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ll see when you get inside.” He grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow, but before he turned the corner of the barn, he called back over his shoulder. “Make yourself at home, Meg.” And then he smiled. “While you’re here I promise to knock before coming in.”

  BEFORE MEG COULD utter an appropriate comeback, Wade had turned the corner with his Suwannee riverbank fertilizer. Consequently he probably didn’t hear when she slammed her car door after retrieving her suitcase and stomped along the old cement patio stones that led to the back door. Maybe Deputy Murdock didn’t appreciate the full effect of her frustration, but it made Meg feel better to release it.

  His attitude was unnerving. He almost acted as if this dilemma were a laughing matter and that his claim to Ashford House was real. Of course she supposed he believed it was. Meg lugged her bag up three porch steps and twisted the doorknob which was, indeed, unlocked. She’d set Deputy Murdock straight soon enough. Meg knew Ashford House had been deeded to her. She’d seen a copy of the Quit Claim document before it was filed with the attorney. Her name was on it.

  “This house guards our souls, Margaret,” Aunt Amelia had told her one warm, fragrant night many years ago. “We two are the only ones who feel its pulse and hear it breathe. Not even your Uncle Stewie understands these old walls like you and I do. We are the destiny of Ashford House.”

  Through the years Meg had explored every nook and cranny of the mansion. She’d daydreamed at the windows of all six bedrooms. She knew about the secret panels in the library, the removable top to the newel post at the base of the front stairway where Uncle Stewie always hid a bag of silver dollars which he passed out to Meg and Jerry when they visited.

  She stepped across the threshold into the kitchen and let out a breath. A sense of overwhelming relief washed over her. This was Hattie May’s kitchen, just as Meg remembered it with its six-burner stove, mammoth refrigerator, and ten-foot pine scrub table. She could almost picture Hattie May washing vegetables at one of the giant sinks as she spun tales about her ancestors who had been brought to America as slaves.

  Don’t be alarmed, the deputy had said. The place may not look as you remember it. What nonsense, Meg thought. As far as she could tell nothing had changed.

  Then she noticed that the pantry door was ajar. Several boxes protruded from the opening, making it impossible to close. Certainly the shelves were not stoc
ked with food as they once used to be. Hattie May passed away a few years after Uncle Stewie’s death, and Aunt Amelia, with hired help only a few hours a day, prepared most of her own simple meals herself.

  Meg crossed to the door, pulled it open the rest of the way and stood face-to-face with a solid wall of cardboard cartons. “What is all this?” she said to the empty room. The boxes she could see had been opened and resealed. She read a few of the shipping labels and discovered with a feeling of relief that each carton had been shipped to Amelia Ashford. At least the deputy hadn’t moved his personal possessions into her house! The postmarks were from the past two months. The return addresses were various companies located throughout the United States.

  If this collection of cartons was what the deputy meant by alarming, then perhaps he had a point. Determined to get to the bottom of this mystery, Meg went out the back door and stood on the service porch. “Deputy,” she shouted. “Deputy Murdock!”

  He came around the barn, pushing the wheelbarrow with ease since it had delivered its cargo. “What is it?” he called to her.

  “These boxes. What do you know about them?”

  Leaving the cart by the barn door, he came halfway to the house. “They’re all Mrs. Ashford’s,” he said.

  “I can see that, but what’s inside them?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Amelia’s been ordering things. I bring her mail up every day, and she gets stacks of catalogues. Since she’s been at Shady Grove I’ve left an accumulation on the wicker table on the front porch. If you look through the mail, I think you might get some answers.”

  Meg shook her head. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “She’s filled up the pantry.”