On the Market (The Ballard Brothers of Darling Bay Book 1)

by Rachael Herron

  “Do you ever help your brothers with construction?”

  Liam snorted. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Maybe they’re threatened by me?” He waved at yet another person he appeared to know.

  “Really?” That would play well on screen.

  He shot her a sideways look. “I was joking. Sadly, I’m better with the wood in a pencil than a two by four. Look, this is the last place on my list.” Liam pulled down a long dirt driveway, rutted but wide. “This probably won’t be the right one. A lot of people would call this eccentric, but it was the last one I had in your price range.”

  The network’s lowball range, that was. Felicia knew they could go higher, but that wasn’t the point of this show. They weren’t looking for a mansion to redecorate. They wanted a moderate house in a nice neighborhood, somewhere around half a million—something upwardly middle income viewers could aspire to, if not actually afford. Something a bit shabby perhaps that could be refreshed and modernized. Open planned. Felicia hated that phrase already, and the show hadn’t even gone into production yet. Knocking out walls and making great rooms out of small ones—that was all anyone talked about. When she’d bought her condo three years before, it had been hard to find anything that wasn’t work/live loft space. Light and air, she got it. And sure, for the network, it was all about the footage. A small room looked even tinier when it was on television. But for real living, what about smaller rooms? Cozy ones, full of loved furniture and books and paintings? What was wrong with those?

  Liam took the final potholed turn. “But even eccentric, it’s kind of a beaut, you have to admit.”

  Felicia leaned forward, her mouth falling open. This was a house? That was for sale? “I can’t—what is going on here?”

  The house was a faded gray two-storied ramshackle place, with a wraparound porch, but that wasn’t what made her heart race.

  There was an enormous tree. Growing right up through the middle of the house.

  Felicia’s mouth felt dry. This was impossible.

  She knew this house.

  She’d dreamed about it when she was small. She’d been dreaming about this house for most of her life.

  This house.

  CHAPTER SIX

  She must have seen a picture of it. That was the answer. Maybe the house had been on the cover of Sunset Magazine when she was a kid or something. And she’d dreamed about it, and she’d told her mother, and they’d spun whole stories about it. “Oh, my god.”

  “I know. It’s something.”

  Felicia was halfway out of her seat belt even before Liam came to a full stop. “Is that real? The tree?”

  “Yep. Redwood.”

  It was her favorite tree, and this one was huge. It must be two hundred years old, at least. “It’s inside. The tree is inside the house.” She walked quickly toward the house. This can’t be.

  Liam caught up to her, his steps quick in the dirt. “Don’t get too excited until you see the inside. It’s been vacant a long time.”

  “I know this house.”

  “Sorry?”

  Felicia was being ridiculous. “It looks like the house grew up around the tree.” She stopped in her tracks in order to gaze at it longer, before she got too close and discovered its flaws, before she discovered nothing could possibly be as perfect as this magical dwelling that she’d never known was real.

  “Well, you could argue it did.”

  “Who built it?”

  “A man named Henry Maupin, back in the thirties.”

  Felicia resisted stretching out her hands—she wanted to pluck the house from the air in front of her before it disappeared. “So long ago? But the tree’s been growing that whole time, right?”

  “It was big then. It’s gotten a few feet bigger in diameter, but he allowed for that.”

  “I can’t believe it’s for sale.” How did a dream go on the market? How did someone list a fantasy?

  Liam pointed. “Check out the view. I’ll go unlock.”

  Felicia turned.

  The ocean.

  She gave a sigh that felt as if it scraped the bottom of her soul. They were far enough up the steep driveway that she could see over the low cypress trees that lined that path. And there it was. The sea.

  Water was often said to sparkle like diamonds, but that was so prosaic and inaccurate—this water was lit with a rainbow of sparks. Emerald, amethyst, and even hints of ruby glinted as the ocean swells rolled in the sun a mile away. The air smelled of sun and dirt and clean, fresh wind.

  A hawk cried from his perch on a power line and two swallows danced past him in the breeze.

  This was all real?

  Felicia turned back to see if the apparition of the perfect house had vanished yet.

  Liam stood on the doorstep. He held out a key. “Want to go in?”

  “Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes. Yes, I do.” She was glad Natasha wasn’t there to see her—the unflappable Felicia felt very flapped, indeed.

  Yes. She wanted to go in.

  The door was short, rounded at the top, as if they were entering a hobbit home. Both of them had to duck to enter. Inside, the room opened into a kitchen with tall, dark wood ceilings. Built-in cabinets lined two of the walls and still held dusty glassware. The air smelled faintly of toast, as if someone had just walked out of the room, plate in hand.

  “You said it’s vacant?”

  “Hasn’t been occupied for years.”

  “Why?”

  “The builder’s daughter went into a care home a while back. She wouldn’t sell it while she was alive, just in case she could ever get back. She died before she could.”

  Felicia ran her hand along the counter top made of old brown tile. Serviceable. And in this house, magical. “How terrible.” To have had to leave this place behind, to know it was there and not be able to be inside it.

  The stove stood a foot away from the wall, as if someone had pulled it out to work on it and never got around to finishing. There was just a hole where the refrigerator used to be.

  “It needs a lot of work. But wait till you see upstairs.”

  Felicia let out a whoosh of breath. “Yes, yes, let’s go see. Before it all vaporizes into the mist or something.”

  “It’s a three-one fully-furnished farm house priced undervalue because nothing’s been retrofitted. It’s not Brigadoon.”

  One of her very favorite movies. But she didn’t say it—she just followed him farther into the house.

  The parlor—because Felicia couldn’t call it a living room—was perfect, its furniture worn and dusty. Chairs and tiny tables stood in clumps, as if a party of people playing cards had just stepped outside for a moment. The windows were small, and the red velvet curtains were heavy, giving the room a quiet, still feeling. “It needs light.”

  “Could knock out that back—”

  “Don’t you dare say knock out that wall. It just needs sheer curtains.” Felicia undid the latch on one of the casement windows and banged on it with her palm until it screeched open. “And air. There, isn’t that better? Oh, my god, look at the rug.” It was as deep red as the old curtains, and as she looked at it through chair and table legs, she could just make out a stag hunting scene. A woven dog panted on the floor at her feet, and she wanted to step sideways, to preserve the weft. “That’s incredible.”

  Liam’s expression was unreadable—were his eyebrows drawn together because he was trying to see what she did or because he was trying not laugh at her? “It’s worn through in about seventy-two places.”

  “It can be fixed. Rugs can be fixed, right?” Felicia had no idea, but it was suddenly imperative that it be true.

  “I’m sure they can.”

  “More.” She clasped her hands in front of her, scared that she would try to scoop up the whole room and fit everything into her bag. “I want to see more.”

  “This way, then.” Liam gestured to the far door.

  They went through the small hallway and into a b
edroom that was decorated the same way the parlor had been, with strong, dark furniture that looked sturdy enough to make it into the next century or two. A green coverlet embroidered with darker green French knots was rumpled at the edge, as if someone had sat on it shortly after making it. A hand mirror rested upside down on a vanity, and Felicia barely resisted the urge to turn it over, to look into it, to see if she looked different. “If this has been vacant, how has it not been vandalized? How is it in such good shape?”

  “You think this is good shape? Where are you from again?”

  She swept her arm toward the walls, where deep red floral wallpaper peeled away from the plaster. “No graffiti. Furniture still in place. No one’s stolen that mirror.”

  “This is a small town.”

  “What about teens?” She’d been to small towns. Kids were kids everywhere. They smoked in dark corners and had unprotected sex on unprotected beds, like the one in this room.

  “Well, the kids I know wouldn’t do that to a house the whole town loves. And I know all of them, you might have noticed.”

  Felicia raised an eyebrow.

  “Okay.” He held up his hands. “Also, there’s an alarm.”

  “I knew it. Okay. This won’t make sense, and I don’t expect you to believe me. But I feel like I know this place.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “I’m pretty sure I haven’t.” She’d never been this far north in California in her life. “But I recognize it. Somehow…”

  “Some kind of weird déjà vu? Come take a look at the only bathroom and see if you recognize it. It could use some work, but maybe you already knew that?” His face had relaxed, and his voice held the trace of a laugh.

  This feeling was silly. So unlike her. She felt like laughing at herself, too.

  She left the bedroom. The hall was narrow, and Liam’s shoulders were broad. Her hip brushed his as she entered the bathroom, and she felt a touch of dizziness. The house was getting to her. What else would explain the sudden and completely irrational urge to rest against Liam’s chest for a moment while she got her bearings?

  The house was playing with her.

  And damn, he was right about the bathroom. The clawfoot tub had rusted all the way through. It wouldn’t be salvageable. The pedestal sink was cracked. The floor’s broken tiles slanted to one side, and the one small window hung crookedly, a broken tooth in the wall. “Oh.”

  “Nothing’s perfect, right?”

  “No.” He was wrong. “This house is everything. Even with this.”

  He laughed. “You’re delightful.”

  Felicia blinked. She’d been called many things at the network: speedy, ballsy, thorough, driven. But never delightful. She wasn’t even sure if she should take it as a compliment. “Hmm.”

  “Now, what next?” The smile lingered at the creases at the corners of his eyes.

  Felicia’s heart race increased. “The tree?” There was a redwood inside this house, and she couldn’t wait any longer.

  “Stairs.” He pointed to the far end of the hallway.

  The staircase was odd. The steps themselves were normal—average height and depth, covered with a threadbare runner that was tacked to the wood. But instead of just one handrail, it had two, one on either side. The right side dropped into a dining room occupied by a table and ornately carved wooden chairs. The left side of the stair rail, though—it stood four inches away from a rough wooden wall.

  She reached out to touch it. “Oh. It’s the tree.”

  It was incredible. The trunk was an inner wall of the house. Felicia’s throat constricted and again she felt that strange urge to laugh out loud.

  Liam followed her up, moving slower than she did, which was good. She wanted to be upstairs by herself for just a moment.

  The tree stood right smack in the middle of the building.

  The room—because it was really only one long room that ran in a wide square around the porch— was bright from inset skylights and surrounded by windows. The whole top floor was one open space. If this was what people were going for when they said they wanted open plan construction, well, Felicia could understand that. It was like an enormous cupola, perhaps eight-hundred square feet. The place where the tree pushed out the top of the roof was covered by a dirty canvas tarp.

  Liam came up behind her. “That leaks.”

  “Of course it does. I bet the old girl loves that, when the water drips down to her roots.”

  “Are you sure you’ve never been here before?”

  “Never.” Felicia held up her hand, palm out. “I swear. Why?”

  “Mrs. Maupin called the tree the old girl. You’re kind of freaking me out.” Liam pushed his hand through his carefully combed hair. Dark locks fell over his forehead—the darkness accentuated his light blue eyes.

  Felicia felt a hitch in her chest. “I’m sorry. I must have seen it on TV or a magazine or something when I was a kid. But I feel like I know this place better than anyplace else. My mom and I—” Oh, it was so stupid. She couldn’t possibly say it out loud.

  But Liam was listening. He nodded and his face was open and friendly, his light blue eyes trained on hers.

  As if he really cared what she said next.

  “My mom and I had this kind of storytelling game. We lived in a small apartment in Reseda—the best she could afford, but that wasn’t much. She worked long hours at an appliance store. She was the night manager.” Felicia suddenly remembered how proud she’d been, at ten, when her mother had been promoted, and then at sixteen, how that same job title had embarrassed her so much. A night manager. Her friends’ parents had been show runners and directors and even some actors. Her mother sold refurbished vacuum cleaners and washing machines. “So she usually wouldn’t get home till after midnight. But I’ve always been a night owl, and when she’d catch me still awake, she’d have me tell her the stories I made up about our tree house.”

  “This house.”

  “Oh, god, it’s too weird, I know. Just some gigantic coincidence.” Felicia looked up the tree to the canvas tarp. “But if that comes off—if you can climb up there—”

  Liam walked to the far side of the truck, his footfall echoing on the wooden boards. “Like this?” He pointed to something she couldn’t see.

  She came around to him.

  A crude ladder of nailed two-by-fours ran up the trunk.

  She looked up again. Her stomach fluttered frantically. “How does the tarp come off?” He reached to help, but she was faster. She tugged at a frayed rope that was wrapped around a thick hook. With three pulls, the tarp-covered hole was open so that she could look up through the hole and see the tree climbing into the blue sky.

  And above, built into the wide branches that had to be more than fifteen feet in diameter, stood a platform.

  “The treehouse that’s above the treehouse.” The one she’d known would be there.

  This was literally the house she and her mother had built in their minds.

  Liam spoke from behind her. “Go on up.”

  “I haven’t climbed a tree since…it must have been third grade.” Her mother had had a brief stint of believing that Felicia being a latch-key kid wasn’t good for her, and she’d gone to play with friends after school rather than reading and watching TV all afternoon, every afternoon. Jennifer Wasatch’s dad had built a tree house in the backyard, but it had been rickety and poorly built. The one time they’d gone up intending to start a secret club, Felicia had lost her balance on a wobbly board and torn her foot open on an exposed nail.

  “It’s safe.”

  “Really?”

  He smiled and tiny creases formed at the corners of his eyes. “It’s held a lot more than just little old you.”

  Little old her. She was almost six feet tall. She hadn’t felt little since her seventh-grade growth spurt. She grinned back at him. “Okay.”

  “You might want to—”

  “I know.” She kicked off her heels and put her foot on the
lowest rung. Grateful she wasn’t in a skirt, she climbed up and through the hole at the top and onto the platform.

  If she’d tried to tell to someone how it felt to be on top of the entire world, this would be what she described. She could see Liam when she peered over the edge. He stood, looking easy in his skin, his back pressed to the wall. He gave her a lazy thumb’s up.

  Carefully, she stood. She planted her feet firmly on the wood and felt something grown inside her, as if she herself were growing roots, invisible ones.

  The platform was maybe eight feet wide in diameter, with a slight lip all around. When Felicia imagined a tree house, she pictured a box with walls, which—really—was the dumbest thing ever. If you were in a tree, you wanted to be in a tree.

  Which she was. Firmly. Totally. Up a tree.

  Through the branches, she could see over the rooftop down to the marina. The boats looked like toys. An inch of fog had slid up the very edge of the horizon. She caught the scent of dusty leaves, and something greener, more riparian.

  Above her, something scrabbled. She jumped. A squirrel—a big, fat, fluffy one—looked down at her and chattered in surprise. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’m just here for a minute.”

  Felicia wanted the words to be untrue.

  She crossed her legs and sat. She wanted to meditate. Or do yoga, using the trunk for stability. Or have a picnic. Anything, not to leave this place. She took a deep breath in and held it as long as she could, trying to memorize the way the sharp leaves sounded as they scraped against each other in the breeze.

  “Stay up there as long as you want,” Liam called.

  “That would be forever.”

  “That’s fine. Should I call your boss and tell her you quit?”

  Natasha.

  Lord. She’d love something like this for the show. A true challenge.