Gilt Hollow

by Lorie Langdon

  A block and a half later, Ashton pushed against the front gate, which opened with a screech, and stared up at the familiar—or not so familiar—face of his ancestral home. The once beautiful Victorian looked like a faded old woman, barely holding herself together. The facade, once a blend of soft green, deep blue, and eggshell had faded and chipped, exposing the gray boards beneath. Shutters hung off their hinges, boards covered a window on the third floor, and the broken porch stairs made the entire house appear crooked. What had happened here? He knew his parents had moved out of town, but it appeared as if they’d abandoned the house along with him. Grandpa Keller would bust out of his grave if he knew his pride and joy had fallen into such disrepair.

  Keller House had been built in the 1800s by his great-great grandfather, one of the original founders of Gilt Hollow. Ashton’s dad used to tell the story at dinner parties, school events, the grocery line—any chance he got to brag that their family had been part of the abolitionist movement, and had migrated from the East Coast with the aim of creating a utopian society. But the idealistic community plan dissolved, due in no small part to Ashton’s ancestor marrying a Filipino woman. Apparently incorporating other races into their Shangri-La didn’t include procreating with them. Run out of town, Grandpa Keller bided his time and returned a decade later, instituting the Little Miami Railroad, becoming mayor, and building Keller House.

  As a kid, Ashton had been proud that his home was one of the oldest in Gilt Hollow. He loved that everyone knew he lived in the big Victorian on Walnut.

  Not anymore.

  Suppressing a shudder, he walked up the weed-infested path. The closer he got, the worse the place looked. He bent down to inspect a hole in the lattice beneath the porch where an animal had gnawed through the wood, and no doubt still resided. At the juvie agricultural center, he’d learned everything from barn repair to tractor maintenance. Ashton straightened and gazed up at the old mansion again. Maybe he could use what he’d learned to fix up the place.

  Clearly his parents had given up on it, but they couldn’t legally sell it. As part of the trust from his grandfather, this house, along with a sizable fortune, would rightfully be Ashton’s when he turned twenty-one. So whoever lived inside had to be renting. He would just explain to the current tenants that there’d been a mistake and give them two weeks to vacate. The house had eight bedrooms, not including the old servants’ quarters in the attic, so staying on the premises until they’d found another rental shouldn’t be a problem.

  Anticipating a soft place to sleep and a hot shower, he loped up the crooked stairs and lifted a finger to the doorbell. A screech and pounding footsteps from inside made him step back. Squeals of laughter sounded, and Ashton leaned in to peer through a panel of wavering glass next to the door. A little boy with a mop of blond hair raced by, holding something small and black above his head.

  Dark hair flying behind her, a girl raced after him. “Rainn! I swear, if you don’t give that back …”

  Ashton’s breath caught as a woman with salt-and-pepper dreads and a weary frown marched into the entryway. “Rainn, that’s enough. Give Willow her phone.”

  Oh no.

  He stumbled back from the door.

  Turning on his heel, he leaped off the porch and ran into the tree line. Really? Of all the people in Gilt Hollow, why did it have to be them? He’d once considered the Lamotts more family than his own. Until they’d ditched him too.

  Blood boiling, he crashed through the trees, branches scraping, damp leaves smacking his skin. Soon the lights of a neighboring house cut through the gloom of the forest. He pulled back into a circle of spruce and squatted, lowering his head into his hands. No way was he spending another night hiding in that godforsaken tree house.

  He could find shelter at the lone seedy motel in town or one of the multiple bed-and-breakfasts, if they’d take cash—doubtful. But that wasn’t the point.

  He clenched his fists against his thighs. If it had been anyone else, he would have rung that doorbell and asked them to start packing. But the Lamotts had been the one solid he thought he could count on. He’d waited for months, hoping every visiting day, every holiday, every mail run would prove they still cared. Until one particular day, six months after his incarceration …

  “Dude, you’re like a caged animal today. What’s your deal?” Toryn demands.

  Ashton turns from the cell door and flops down on his cot, staring at the random bumps in the popcorn ceiling. “What time does the mail run again?”

  “Same time as every other day, man.” From the opposite bunk, his cell mate releases a long sigh. “Four o’clock.”

  Ashton sits up and swings over the edge of the bed, legs jumping, feet tapping a silent melody.

  “Seriously, what are you expecting? An Xbox? A flatscreen TV? A bikini-clad girl jumping out of a giant cake? ’Cause if you are, I’ll blow off arts and crafts time to see that.”

  “No, I …”Ashton trails off as the mail cart enters their hallway.

  “Mallory!” Rumble. Rumble. Squeak. “Hudson!” Rumble. Rumble. Squeak. “Rozelle!”

  Toryn rolls off his cot, takes the letter, and tosses it onto the desk. He turns to face Ashton. “See, no big. Just my mom ranting about my grades and what I’m planning to do with my life after this. Blah, blah, blah … You should be glad you don’t get that bull from your parents.”

  I don’t get anything from my parents, bull or otherwise, Ashton thought. “I just hoped”—Ashton shrugs, swallows the baseball in his throat, and lies back on the cot, hands behind his head—“that somebody remembered my birthday.”

  In that moment, it hadn’t been his real family he’d wanted to hear from. They’d made their disassociation clear. But a tiny part of him had hoped for something from the Lamotts. Some acknowledgment that he was alive. That he mattered. But mostly, that his best friend hadn’t forgotten him.

  And now she lived in his house with no thought as to where he might be staying. Well, he didn’t owe her a damn thing. She could sleep on the street for all he cared. Shooting to his feet, he took several strides toward the house and stopped. He couldn’t do it. With a growl, he slapped a pine bough, needles and cones falling at his feet. Their rich, clean scent calmed him as he drew in a ragged breath.

  If nothing else, he owed Adam Lamott that much. The man had been more of a father to him than his own. Ashton knew in his gut that if Adam were still alive, he never would have abandoned him. For his sake alone, Ashton wouldn’t try to force his family out on the street.

  But he wouldn’t spend another night out in the cold either. Shuffling through the crisp carpet of fallen leaves, he found a relatively comfortable trunk to lean against, pulled a sandwich out of his bag, and settled in to wait. If he knew the Lamotts, they’d be snug in their beds by ten o’clock, and then he’d make his move.

  CHAPTER Eight

  Willow closed her locker and leaned against it with a sigh. For the third day in a row, she felt like the walking dead. The night before, Keller House had hit a new level of creeptastic. Sometime after midnight, she’d been startled awake by a noise that faded before she’d fully awoken. Her heart beating in her throat, she’d lain stiff as a board under the coverlet. Just as she’d begun to relax, a creak echoed through the hall, followed by a soft thud, and another, and another—footsteps. She’d pulled the covers over her head like a frightened child and slept fitfully the rest of the night.

  In the light of day, she began to suspect the noises had less to do with ghosts and goblins and more to do with a certain individual whose house she now occupied. At one point during the night, she’d heard running water, followed by the metallic bang of pipes. Unless her mom had started sleep-showering, they had an uninvited houseguest.

  “Nice outfit, Lamott.” Lisa approached, eyeballing Willow from her red Converse to her oversized sweater and ripped jeans, to her sloppy ponytail and glasses. Then Lisa hooked her arm through Willow’s and tugged her into the flow of traffic. “I’d hope
d my fashion tips might’ve begun to rub off on you, but this is even a step back from your usual preppy Gap-girl look.”

  “I’m not even sure my socks match.” They turned into the arts hallway and then into the choir room, their only class together besides Study Hall.

  “Another sleepless night in the haunted mansion?”

  Willow dropped her books on the floor and rotated her stiff neck as she climbed the risers, Lisa on her heels. “Or were you having evocative dreams about Mr. Dark and Brooding?”

  Willow frowned and narrowed her eyes at her new friend before plopping down on the top bleacher.

  Lisa sat beside her and raised her hands in a pleading gesture. “Whoa, sorry, didn’t mean to offend.”

  Students streamed into the room, bringing with them an almost deafening chatter.

  “No, I’m sorry.” Willow sighed and met Lisa’s concerned gaze. “He’s just a sensitive topic right now. And a big part of the reason why I’m so exhausted today.”

  “Wait.” Lisa gripped her upper arm, blue eyes flaring wide. “What?”

  As Willow opened her mouth to share her theory, Yolanda and Ona climbed the alto risers, bringing with them a choking wave of incense and musk. Yolanda tossed the blue-black sheet of her asymmetrical bob out of her face, dropped her binder with a loud smack, and then crossed her arms, pulling her crochet knit top tight across her braless chest. “Only the strongest voices get top row.”

  Ona flipped her wheat-colored cornrows over her shoulder and gripped her bohemian-print-clad hips, giving a tight nod. “Yeah.” She’d gone to Jamaica with her family in July, where she claimed to have met her spirit mate, who told her never to unbraid her hair. She hadn’t washed it since. It was September.

  Secretly, Willow had always thought of the hippie-emo twins as Yoko and Ono, but since they pretty much ruled the school, she’d kept it to herself. Besides, knowing them, they’d take it as a compliment. It wasn’t. The two of them had been relentless in their quest to break Willow down in the weeks after Ashton’s arrest. And when they finally taunted her until she ran to the bathroom in tears, they’d christened her Weeping Willow—which was shorted to Weepy and adopted by their entire crowd.

  In no mood for their usual sass, Willow shot to her feet.

  Before she could open her mouth, Lisa rose beside her and jabbed a french-manicured nail toward the bottom row. “Well, good thing there’s still room for you two down in front.” She might look like a delicate fashion plate, but she was also a New Yorker.

  Mrs. Adders, the instructor, clapped her hands three times. “Students! Find your seats. We have a lot to cover before our concert next month.”

  Yolanda narrowed her black-lined eyes. “I’d rather be in the front row than near you two tone-deaf crows. Come on, O.” Grabbing their things, she shoved her way into the front row, Ona on her tail.

  “At least I don’t smell like I use skunk oil for deodorant!” Lisa tossed after them. “Take a bath once in a while!”

  Willow lifted her sheet music folder to hide her idiotic grin.

  “What is that stench, anyway?” Lisa hissed out of the side of her mouth as they began to sing scales.

  “You know, Patchouli—mi mi mi mi mi—everyone wears it.”

  “Do … re … mi … fa … so … la … ti—”

  “Oh, is that the reek I smell every time I walk into this building? I thought it was just clove cigarettes,” Lisa muttered.

  “Open your folders to page sixteen of your song books,” Mrs. Adders directed.

  “That too,” Willow replied.

  “I’m just glad you don’t wear it. Might’ve been a deal breaker.” Lisa read the title of their new piece and smirked, one perfectly made-up eye flashing in a wink before she waved her copy of Send in the Clowns above her head. “Oh look, Yo, it’s a song just for you!”

  Willow doubled over laughing.

  ■ ■ ■

  After giggling their way through several more songs and earning a stern talking to by Mrs. Adders, Willow and Lisa headed to their lockers. Imitating the look on Yolanda’s face when Lisa shouted they were singing her song and the entire room burst into laughter, Willow didn’t at first notice the hush in the air. Groups of students clustered together, whispering behind their hands, others ducking into their lockers like turtles.

  As Willow reached into her own locker, she felt a shift in the atmosphere and the hairs rise on the back of her neck. She turned in slow motion, and all the air whooshed out of her lungs. Waves of dark-tousled hair falling over midnight-blue eyes, broad shoulders thrown back, cargo pants carelessly tucked into combat boots, Ashton Keller sauntered down the senior hallway confident yet alert, as if an attack could come from any side—and he was ready for it.

  A gasp sounded from nearby. “Is that who I think it is?”

  His name ricocheted like an out-of-control Ping-Pong ball, as more and more students flocked to the scene.

  Coolly indifferent, Ashton didn’t seem aware of the disturbance around him. His eyes shifted in Willow’s direction, pinning her to the spot, then without a change of expression slid away to a cute redhead walking toward him. His lips tilted in a slow grin. After a startled blink, she returned his smile with a tentative one of her own.

  “Holy hotness, what is he doing here?” Lisa hissed in her ear.

  Willow had forgotten her friend still stood beside her. Pain pierced her consciousness, and she peeled herself away from the metal shelves digging into her back. She was practically inside her stupid locker. With growing disgust, she spun around and threw her songbook onto the shelf and then grabbed the text and notebook for her next class. She slammed the metal door with so much force it bounced back and smacked her knee.

  “Ugh!” She kicked it, this time making sure it closed.

  “Lamott, talk to me.” Lisa adjusted the string bag on her shoulder and followed Willow to the stairs, whispering, “Can’t have you going into overload mode.”

  “Too late,” Willow spat. “What the heck is he doing? Does he think people will welcome him with open arms? That they’ve forgotten? Did you see the way he looked at me? Like I don’t even exist?”

  “Yes, I get it. He’s an idiot.” Lisa tugged on Willow’s sweater. “Slow down, Speed Racer.”

  Realizing her legs had sped up with every word out of her mouth, and that she’d practically run to Advanced Lit class, she paused and faced her friend. “I think he snuck into the house last night.”

  “What?” Lisa squawked, her mouth dropping open in a cartoonish mask of shock.

  “Technically, it’s his house, right? But—” The warning bell rang. Willow sighed. “You better go.” Lisa had gym second period, which was on the other side of the building.

  “Right.” She glanced at the clock and began to jog, throwing over her shoulder, “See you at lunch!”

  The morning passed as if in reverse. Every class Willow waited, tense and watchful, for Ashton to walk through the door. In second period Bio, Brayden had tried teasing her, but when all his jokes fell flat, he turned silent. She could see in the tense set of his mouth that Ashton’s return took its toll on him as well.

  In Historical Music Appreciation, the classroom door clicked shut, and Willow sank back into her seat. Maybe they wouldn’t share any classes. He might even have to take some lower-level courses to catch up. Despite Gilt Hollow’s graduating class having fewer than two hundred students, their academic standards were above average. And, Willow imagined, well above that of a state-run juvenile detention facility.

  Mr. Rush tapped his baton on his desk, calling the class to order before he began to conduct—with wide sweeping gestures—a lecture on the influence of Greek theory on medieval music. But at the moment, Willow couldn’t care less what the class was about, as long as Ashton wasn’t in it.

  Just as Willow settled in to listen to a reproduction of “A Troubadour Love Song”—which sounded more like a dying cow accompanied by a toddler playing the lute than the “prodig
ious classic” Mr. Rush touted it to be—the door swung open. Willow jerked upright. Mr. Rush stopped the song and glared. “Yes?”

  Ashton strode into the room and handed the teacher a slip of paper. Her pulse creeping into her throat, Willow watched Mr. Rush scan the note and gesture with his baton to the only empty desk. Right next to hers. “Take a seat, Mr. Keller.”

  At the sound of the name, whispers and giggles broke the unnatural silence in the classroom. Gripping her pencil, Willow focused on breathing normally as Ashton sat, leaned back, and extended his long legs into the aisle, his booted feet resting inches from hers.

  “Now, let’s get back to it, shall we?” Mr. Rush started the torturous song from the beginning and closed his eyes, waving his arms in ecstasy.

  Willow ran through her schedule, trying to figure out the earliest opportunity to meet the guidance counselor. She was so dropping this class.

  “So …”

  The deep voice, so close to her ear, made Willow jump. Livid that she’d shown a reaction, she turned, shooting daggers.

  Ashton stared straight at her, his strong features mere inches away.

  She swallowed. Hard.

  “Sleep well last night?”

  They were the first words she’d heard from him in four years. His voice, smooth and low, was almost unrecognizable. But the cadence, the slight mocking, hadn’t changed.

  Careful to keep her tone flat, she answered, “What do you think?”

  One side of his mouth quirked and something undefinable sparked in his eyes before he leaned back. His posture languid, he shrugged. “How would I know?”

  Jerk.

  Willow fixed her gaze on the squiggly lines moving to the music on the Smartboard, but her thoughts were far from the screeching love song. Ashton knew exactly why she looked like a zombie with sleep apnea, and his goading confirmed it. He’d broken into her house last night, taken a shower, slept in one of the beds, and probably ate their porridge. Except she was no bear and he definitely was not a cute little blonde girl.