“Sounds like we both immerse ourselves in our work.”
“I don’t work when I have Derek.” Tell the truth. “Not while he’s awake, anyway.”
“What else occupies those long Minnesota winters?”
Feeling defensive and not wanting to sound too dull, he added, “I do things like cycling, hiking, reading.”
“Let me guess—Architectural Digest.” Her lips twitched as she had some fun at his expense, but he appreciated her lightening the conversation.
So what if he liked to stay abreast of matters concerning his career? “That, but I also read novels by Ildefonso Falcones, Ken Follett, Dan Brown, and John Berendt.” He fired off the names in a clipped tone. Honestly, though, he hadn’t taken time for pleasure reading in years, but didn’t want her thinking he did nothing but work in between visits with his son. How pathetic did she think he was?
“I loved Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil,” she said, apparently satisfied with his reading choices. “Have you been to Savannah?”
“Quite a while ago. It’s an architectural treasure.”
“So you don’t focus solely on northern architecture.”
“Not at all. I consult with several firms throughout the south, but tend to gravitate toward Federal and Georgian-style homes.”
Tillie took a sudden interest in the floor. “I’ll admit, I have no business calling you out for being a workaholic. I hide away here rather than date or go out socially.”
“We make some pair.” The words took a different meaning as soon as they left his mouth. He quickly added, “I suppose being proprietors of our own businesses has an effect on our somewhat solitary lifestyles, too.”
“Indeed.” Tillie moved through the pocket doorway without making eye contact again. “Next let me show you the birthing room.”
He’d been waiting for this after reading Gram’s journals, but chose to play ignorant. “The what?”
“That’s the response I usually receive whenever I tell visitors the name,” Tillie said with a grin. “This is where Dr. Foster’s pregnant patients came and stayed until they had their babies. I’m sure it was used for other critically ill patients, too. The nearest hospital back then was eight miles away on the old roads. Around here, it wasn’t uncommon for babies to be born at home well into the 1940s, before hospital births became a trend.”
“If only these walls could talk,” he said. She’d kept many of Gram’s furnishings in here—overstuffed chairs in front of a primitive chest with reading lamps for each chair. The olive green chair rail and fireplace mantel gave the room a calming effect. He tried to imagine a woman on a bed in here giving birth like the one described in Gram’s journal.
“Thanks to Mrs. Foster, I’m able to pass on a number of its stories. I’m even working on a new book that combines recipes along with more history of the house.” She paused. “That will be one of my winter projects this year.”
The woman had a lot of ambition. “I’d like to buy a copy when it’s published.”
“I appreciate that since it’s primarily of local interest, but I’ll be marketing it to my prior guests, so watch for an e-mail.” She smiled, sweeping her arm to encompass the room. “And this concludes our tour.”
“Thanks so much.” While he wasn’t the least bit sleepy and would give anything to do a little snooping here, especially around the fireplaces, he didn’t want to raise her suspicions. “Well, I’d best be getting to bed. Thanks for the tour.”
In the foyer, they stood near one another, seemingly reluctant to go their separate ways. Greg broke the stalemate.
“Good night, Tillie. See you in the morning.”
“Night, Greg.” She made no move to leave, so he made his way to the stairs, locking gazes with her as he ascended to his room. When she finally was out of sight, a sense of emptiness came over him.
Tillie Hamilton, I don’t think your house is haunted. I think you’re a witch.
She certainly had bewitched him.
* * *
“Wake up, Daddy. Let’s go to the graveyard.”
Greg opened his eyes to find daylight streaming in the window and Derek crawling up into his bed using the stepstool. He didn’t remember sleeping a wink, and the lethargy muddying his thoughts told him he hadn’t slept restfully.
“What time is it?” he asked, his voice gravelly.
“Time to wake up.”
Of course Derek didn’t have a watch and couldn’t read one anyway. With a one-eyed peep at the clock on the nightstand, he saw it was seven thirty-eight. More like six thirty-eight at home. He wasn’t normally one to sleep in late, but didn’t usually arrive at work until eight, and it was only a ten-minute drive.
Coffee. He needed some strong, black coffee. Trying not to sound too grouchy, he said, “Remember, we told Tillie we’d have breakfast at nine.”
“Maybe we’ll see some zombies if we go now.”
At least he wasn’t insisting on spending the morning in the cellar treasure hunting. That would come soon enough, but Greg wanted to be more clearheaded than he was now.
“Derek, there are no zombies in real cemeteries. That’s make-believe.”
“Yes, there are! I’ll show you.” Derek tugged Greg’s t-shirt sleeve. “Come on, Daddy. Get up!”
“Whoa, slow down!” He managed to open his other eye and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress. “Besides, the cemetery comes later. I need to stop at the florist to get some flowers first.”
Derek cocked his head. “Flowers? Zombies don’t like flowers.”
Greg couldn’t keep himself from grinning. “We aren’t going there to visit the zombies.” Okay, now he was playing into his son’s fantasy. “Not that there will be zombies anyway.” Greg stood, the rug warm on his bare feet. “Why don’t you color on my bed while I’m in the shower?”
Derek’s lower lip protruded half an inch from his face now. Tough. His mother shouldn’t fill his mind with such fanciful notions. He’d have a talk with Nancy when they returned to Minneapolis.
Not ready to go to Gram’s grave this early, he stalled. “If you behave today—no pouting—we’re going to hunt for hidden treasure with Tillie this afternoon.”
“Oh yeah!” Derek bounced up and down on his knees. “And ghosts!”
Greg shook his head. Tillie needed to stop filling his head with those stories, too, although he’d been equally fascinated by the telling of them, even if he didn’t believe a single word.
“Not until we have breakfast, pick up some flowers, and stop by the cemetery. We have a busy day planned.”
Derek’s chin dropped to his chest, and he crossed his arms. “But the zombies will be gone by then.”
“That’s the chance we’ll have to take.”
“You’re mean.” The boy slid from the mattress onto the stool and went to his room. Minutes later, he returned with his coloring book and a box of crayons with practically every hue available at the Crayola Store at the Mall of America. Well, not quite, but more than Greg had ever seen. Apparently, he would get over his disappointment.
After Greg showered and gave Derek his bath, they headed downstairs to breakfast. The aromas wafting from the kitchen set his stomach to growling. In the dining room, he poured himself a mug of coffee on the sideboard and Derek a glass of milk. Rather than wait to be served, they walked into the kitchen hoping Tillie wouldn’t feel it an invasion of her domain. But after dinner last night, he doubted she would stand on formality.
A fire burned on the massive hearth, filling the room with cheer and coziness. During his last visit here, Gram had shown him how early residents cooked in the fireplace. He doubted Tillie did any cooking there.
Tillie’s hair was pulled into a topknot, with loose tendrils curling around her ears and neck.
“Good morning,” he said to her.
She smiled up from her cast-iron skillet where she beat what his grandmother called sawmill gravy—flour, grease, and bits of sausage. He’d tr
ied to find some like it over the years when feeling particularly nostalgic, but none ever compared.
No doubt Tillie would have Gram’s original recipe. He was in for a treat.
“Have a seat at the table, and I’ll bring everything right in.”
He insisted on carrying in one of the platters, and she brought a plate with his biscuits and gravy.
He added sausage patties and fresh fruit. To top it all off, she poured more black coffee in his mug before serving Derek.
Tillie outdid herself with the boy’s pancakes, surpassing anything Gram had ever served Greg.
“Mickey Mouse! How’d you do that?”
“It’s magic. I can’t reveal my secrets.”
No doubt the woman hid a lot of secrets.
But this morning, Greg wasn’t interested in being her adversary. “Everything tastes great. Not that I expected anything less. Sit down and join us.”
“Glad you like it. This was Mrs. Foster’s favorite breakfast.”
I know.
Tillie eyed the empty chair a moment then filled a plate and a mug of coffee before joining them.
“Are all these recipes in your original cookbook?” he asked. While he’d seen it online, they sold out before he could obtain a copy.
“Oh yes! There’s one in the parlor if you’d like to look at it sometime.” She smiled impishly. “I might have a few dozen more lying around here for guests who are interested, if you’d like one to take home.”
“Would I ever.”
“I didn’t think you were into cooking or baking.”
Busted. “I’m not, but from what I read on your website, you included the history of the house and some vintage photos, so it would make for the perfect souvenir of our visit.”
“That’s what I thought when I wrote it. So much rich history here I didn’t want it to be lost. I’m not sure yet what I’ll include in the second volume, though. I pretty much tapped myself out on history.”
“Well, I’d be happy to help with architectural information if you want to go in that direction. Or you might spotlight some of the residents of the house up to Mrs. Foster or even you.”
“Believe me, there’s nothing to tell about me.”
“Well, with the renovations you’ve done and your keen eye for preservation, like it or not, you’ve put your stamp on the place, too.”
“I never thought about it that way. In fact, as best I can, I could research and discuss the changes made from one owner to the next. There have only been about four over the past one-hundred seventy or eighty years, although the land itself was part of a land grant, so I could even mention the Revolutionary War soldier who earned it for his service.”
The sparkle in her eyes lit up her entire face. She truly loved this house and its history, which didn’t quite mesh with his initial assessment of her.
After everyone finished eating, the adults cleared the dishes.
“We’re going to head to Bardstown,” Greg announced. “Could you recommend a florist? I’d like to pay my respects to someone at the cemetery down the road.”
“I didn’t know you knew anyone around here.”
He’d blundered into that one. “Yeah, she made a big impression on me when I was young.”
Tillie seemed to be waiting for him to elaborate, but when he didn’t, she grabbed a pad and paper and jotted down the name and address of a flower shop in town. After a pit stop, Greg and Derek headed toward the side door.
“Lock the doors while we’re gone.” He didn’t like the thought of Tillie being alone in case the intruder returned.
“Oh, let me get you a key for the front door then, in case I need to run out.” She went to the sideboard and opened a drawer to retrieve one on a Kentucky keychain.
Perhaps he needed to rethink his initial impression of Tillie, since nothing he’d expected had come true. But he and Derek ought to head to town now if they were going to accomplish everything he wanted to do today.
All the way to the county seat, Greg mulled over thoughts of the intriguing innkeeper.
Chapter Six
The house seemed sad and lonely after the Buchanans left, until a knock at the dining-room door a few hours later brought a smile to her face. It had to be the Chinese five-spice powder she’d had overnighted—and it was. She spent the early afternoon mixing batter and dropping the precious gems onto baking sheets.
Tillie felt the way she did at Christmas when she’d found the perfect gift for someone. She couldn’t wait for Greg and Derek to return to try them. Heck, she couldn’t wait to try one of these special oatmeal-raisin cookies, too. It had been too long.
While the first tray baked, she began putting away the ingredients. She picked up the bottle of homemade vanilla. The tops of the vanilla beans were exposed above the liquid, so she needed to add more vodka. But first, on a whim, she poured a bit of vanilla into a spoon and dipped her finger into it before dabbing a little behind each ear. She giggled, remembering how Mrs. Foster told her once the scent of vanilla drove men wild, much more so than expensive perfumes. Not that she usually indulged in either.
Soon the house smelled incredible, cocooning her in warmth as if she’d just been hugged by the dear woman again. These cookies, steeped in so many memories of her, made Tillie’s eyes well with tears.
“I miss you so much, Mrs. Foster.” She’d been mother, grandmother, and friend all rolled into one, even though Tillie had never been comfortable addressing her as anything other than her formal name.
Her mother had taught her that, much like Greg was teaching his son to respect his elders. She appreciated that Mrs. Foster had never said a disparaging word about Tillie’s mother, even though she’d known what life in Tillie’s home had been like. Instead, the sweet old woman had done her best to make up for her mother’s shortcomings when Tillie came to visit.
And Tillie couldn’t imagine what she’d have done the night she had found her mother cold and unresponsive in that bed if her benefactor hadn’t been an absolute angel. Visions of that night bombarded her even now, but Tillie tamped those dark thoughts back down. Instead, she chose to recall the feel of Mrs. Foster’s arms hugging her so tightly Tillie thought she’d suffocate. But she hadn’t wanted to escape those loving and supportive arms for many days to come. She’d let Tillie sleep in her room those first few nights, because every time she closed her eyes…
If the dear, sweet woman hadn’t come to her rescue that night by telling authorities she was her grandmother, Tillie would have become a ward of the state. No formal adoption had taken place, perhaps because she was thirteen and they assumed she would have spoken up if she wanted to be somewhere else. Or because Mrs. Foster had pulled strings behind the scenes. Tillie did a mental shrug. No matter.
Mrs. Foster promised to make everything better somehow, and she had. It wasn’t until after her death that Tillie learned she’d left her house and a large stock portfolio to Tillie to pay for its upkeep and for her own education, allowing her to remain in the only place that had ever felt like home.
To this day, Tillie missed the sparkle in Mrs. Foster’s eyes whenever Tillie arrived home from school. She would invariably find the dear woman preparing another of the delicious meals Mrs. Foster pressed on Tillie until the girl could hardly move. So much love had come from her hands in this kitchen.
No wonder this was Tillie’s happy place. She could never leave here…
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d been catapulted twenty-five years back in time.” She turned to find Greg standing in the doorway, a confusing mixture of annoyance and ecstasy on his face.
She blinked, reentering reality slowly. “I beg your pardon?” She hadn’t even heard him drive into the parking area outside her window. Where had her mind gone? Good thing the cookies hadn’t been left in the oven.
She peered behind him. “Where’s Derek?”
“I think he woke up too early this morning. He’s taking a nap upstairs.”
Tillie’
d been so lost in baking she hadn’t heard them come in. Of course, their key was to the front door, and she was at the opposite end of the house.
He didn’t meet her gaze as he entered the kitchen, but homed in on the tray of cookies. “Mind if I try one?”
“Please do! They’re still warm.” She removed one from the spatula and extended it to him. As he took a bite, the expression on his face came close to being orgasmic.
“Mmm.” He devoured the rest of it and looked at her with such longing, her heart fluttered.
“Um, here. Have another.” He didn’t argue with her, and their fingers brushed as he accepted this one, setting off sparks.
“We’ll have to try and leave a couple of these for Derek,” she said as she scraped the remainder off the parchment paper and moved them to a cooling rack. Picking up another, she took a bite. “This is the closest thing to Heaven I’ll ever experience on Earth.”
Greg cocked his head. “I’m not sure I’d go that far, but they’re awfully damned close.”
The two of them didn’t see eye to eye on much, but they’d found common ground on Mrs. Foster’s oatmeal-raisin cookies.
“I can taste that Chinese spice, I think. And the scent of vanilla is strong.”
Tillie tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear, having forgotten all about the makeshift perfume she’d applied earlier. She smiled.
“Milk?”
“Coffee, if you have it. Black. I need a little pick-me-up this afternoon, too.”
“No problem. I keep a pot going all day long.” After pouring each of them a mug, she carried them over to the breakfast nook, preferring to stay near the fire rather than go to the dining room. Greg brought over a plate with two more cookies each and several napkins.
“Some lunch we’re having.”
“Oats and raisins are good for you,” he gave as an excuse.
“I like the way you think.” She wanted to find out how his day had gone without prying about his visit to the cemetery and asked, “Did you find the florist okay?”
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