Coming to Rosemont
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Coming to Rosemont
Barbara Hinske
Copyright © 2011 Barbara Hinske
All rights reserved.
Coming to Rosemont may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission of the author, with the exception of brief quotations within book reviews or articles. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or places or events is coincidental.
Also by Barbara Hinske:
Weaving the Strands, the first book in the Rosemont series
Uncovering Secrets, the third book in the Rosemont series
The Night Train
Available at Amazon and for Kindle.
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ISBN-13: 978-1481125277
ISBN-10: 1481125273
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
Dedication
To my remarkable parents, who instilled in me every high ideal and greater instinct I’ve ever had, to my incredible husband for his sage advice and unshakeable support, and to my legion of extraordinary friends whose examples inspire me.
Prologue
Frank Haynes spotted the forlorn-looking creature in the trees at the side of the road. He quickly pulled his Mercedes sedan off the highway and buttoned his cashmere sport coat against the icy fog as he stepped out onto the grassy berm. He walked gingerly in his slick-bottomed dress shoes as he approached the thin calico lurking in the underbrush. The wary animal rose up on her front legs, ready to take flight, and eyed him uneasily.
Haynes crooned softly to her. He pulled his collar up against the biting wind and wished he had grabbed his topcoat out of the backseat. But he dare not move now. The cat gradually relaxed and cautiously picked her way to him over the frost-stiffened grass. The cat rubbed against his legs in the familiar figure-eight pattern and began to purr—a tiny, tentative whisper that ripened into a deep, throaty rumble.
He reached a cautious hand down to her. She stretched into him, and he knew the bond had been made. He scooped her up and cradled the filthy creature against his chest, shielding her from the cold and stroking her gently, unconcerned about his expensive coat. When she was content, he returned to his car and placed her carefully in the blanket-lined crate that lived in his backseat for just such occasions. “You’re safe now,” he whispered the assurance. “You won’t have to worry about food or cold anymore.”
He shut the mesh grate of the cage and was surprised when the cat curled up and went to sleep. Most strays meowed and screamed all the way to the no-kill shelter that Haynes had founded and currently funded.
As he slipped behind the steering wheel, Haynes automatically checked the cell phone left behind in the console and was shocked to see he missed six calls during the short time he had been rescuing the cat. All from Westbury’s idiot mayor, William Wheeler. He punched the return call button as he swung back onto the highway. Wheeler picked up on the first ring.
“Frank—where have you been? All hell’s going to break loose around here,” Wheeler shouted into the phone.
“What’s up?” Haynes replied calmly.
“The town treasurer just called and told me the town can’t cover the December payments from the pension fund. We’re in trouble, Frank.”
Damn, Haynes thought. This was coming two months earlier than he predicted. They wouldn’t have time to get any of the condos sold by December. “Have you talked to either of the Delgados?”
“I called Chuck to tell him to move money from the reserve account you guys told me about. He said to talk to Ron about it. Ron thinks the reserve account has been ‘depleted.’ Some accountant and financial advisor he is! How did you guys let this happen? What have you been up to? If the town doesn’t make those payments, we’re sunk.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll call Chuck and we’ll get it straightened out. We always do, don’t we?” Haynes disconnected the call over Wheeler’s sputtering response.
Damn this faltering real estate market and those greedy, careless Delgado brothers. How had they drained the reserve fund so quickly? They must be siphoning money for their own use from the tidy sum that the three of them had “borrowed” from the town worker’s pension fund. Fleecing the faceless public was one thing. Double-crossing Frank Haynes was quite another. Wheeler was set up to take the fall, if it came to that. He could make the trail lead to the Delgados, too. Haynes vowed to find out where every nickel had gone. He executed a sharp U-turn and headed back to Town Hall.
Chapter 1
Maggie Martin settled herself in the back of the cab as the driver pulled away from the airport and into the thin sunshine of a late February afternoon. She nodded when he leaned back to tell her that Westbury was an hour’s drive, and turned her attention to the countryside streaming by her window. She was in no mood for idle chatter with a taxi driver. The dormant farmland lay still and expectant. Occasional clumps of leafless trees were silhouetted against the storm clouds that soon filled the sky. Maggie was glad she had carefully folded and packed those extra sweaters.
She shivered in spite of the heat blasting from the vents and wondered how anyone could live in a cold climate. Southern California might not have four seasons, but who in their right mind wanted winter? Maggie chastised herself once again for even making this trip. She was behind in her work—she needed the billings—and she probably wouldn’t find any answers, anyway.
As the monotonous scenery sped by, Maggie relived her final moments with Paul in the cardiac ICU. Wired and tubed, he was hooked up to the best equipment modern medicine had to offer. Their children, Mike and Susan, were both frantically making their way through traffic, but neither arrived in time. It had been Maggie and Paul at the very end. In his final moments, Paul rallied. He feebly squeezed Maggie’s hand and repeated breathlessly, “Sorry. So sorry. House is for you.” At least, that’s what she thought he said. She had been crying, and the beeping monitors and wheezing oxygen machine made it impossible to hear.
She had been over this a million times. It hadn’t made any sense because she knew their house was hers. Hadn’t they just paid it off and thrown a burn-the-mortgage party with the kids? She had tried to reassure Paul, to quiet him, but he had been desperate to make his point. Maggie now understood Paul’s deathbed confession. That’s why she had decided to come to Rosemont before she listed it for sale. She needed to get answers; to make some sense of her life.
Maggie planned to go straight to her hotel in Westbury to try to get a good night’s sleep before she and the realtor toured the house and signed the listing papers the next day. But her plane had arrived forty-five minutes early, the only advantage of the bumpy flight through strong tailwinds. God knows she was exhausted, having spent another sleepless night rehashing her sham of a marriage. But she was far too curious to get a glimpse of Rosemont to wait any longer. As they passed the highway sign announcing the Westbury exit fourteen miles ahead, Maggie retrieved her house key from the zippered compartment of her purse, leaned forward, and instructed the driver to take her directly to Rosemont.
The cabbie, as it turned out, didn’t need directions. “Everybody in these parts knows the pla
ce,” he assured her. “It’s been vacant for years,” he continued as he caught her eye in his rearview mirror. “Do you know the owner?”
“I am the owner,” Maggie replied with an assurance in her voice that surprised her. “Actually, I just inherited Rosemont. I’m going to put it on the market, but I’m awfully curious to see it. Since it’ll still be light when we get there, I thought I’d like to see it on my own, before the realtor and I get together tomorrow.”
The cabbie nodded slowly, digesting this news, as he flipped on his left-turn signal and turned into a long, tree-lined drive that wound its way up a steep hill. They rounded the final corner and Maggie gasped. At the end of a deep lawn was an elegant manor house of aristocratic proportions. Built of warm limestone, with regal multi-paned windows, a sharply pitched tile roof, and six chimneys, Rosemont had the kind of gracious good looks that never go out of style. Dazed, she handed him his fare, with a more-than-generous tip, and secured his promise to drop her luggage at her hotel and return for her in an hour.
Maggie dashed through the now falling sleet to the massive front door. The key fit smoothly into the lock but wouldn’t turn. She tugged and jiggled the handle, to no effect. It wasn’t moving. Maggie looked wistfully over her shoulder as the taxi took the last turn at the end of the drive and vanished beyond the trees. Why did she have to insist on coming here tonight? Impatience did her in every time.
She buttoned the top button of her coat, fished the cabbie’s card out of her pocket, and unzipped her purse to retrieve her phone. She’d have to call him to come back now. It was too cold and damp outside to even walk around and look in the windows. Maggie tugged off one of her gloves with her teeth and punched in his number on her phone. She brought it to her ear and idly tried the lock one more time. She felt something shift under her hand and the sturdy lock yielded. The door creaked open. Maggie abruptly ended the call and stepped over the threshold.
Even in the gloomy light of a stormy dusk, the beauty of the house overwhelmed Maggie, and she knew, for perhaps the first time in her life, that she was home. And that nothing would ever be the same again.
The mahogany front door opened to a foyer that gave way to a generous living room. A stone fireplace with an ornately carved mantel dominated one side of the room, and a graceful stairway swept up the opposite wall to the second floor. An archway led to a room lined with bookcases. An honest-to-goodness library, for Pete’s sake, Maggie thought.
She inched forward slowly, like a dog expecting to come to the end of its leash, and peered into the library. Although all of the furniture was draped in heavy muslin covers, the room was stunning with its six-foot-high fireplace, French doors to a patio, and a stained-glass window. “I’ve been transported to a movie set of an English manor house,” Maggie whispered. She set her purse on a round table in the middle of the foyer and unbuttoned her coat.
The fatigue and apathy that had been Maggie’s constant companions since Paul’s death began to dissipate as she examined this elegant old house she had inherited. Paul had never mentioned owning an estate on fifteen acres in Westbury. At least not until his final moments. Maggie had learned there were a lot of things that Paul had never mentioned. Unlike the others, this one was a pleasant surprise.
The remainder of the first floor was comprised of a large dining room, butler’s pantry, kitchen, breakfast room, laundry, maid’s quarters, and a large, sunny room whose function she couldn’t identify. It had a herringbone tile floor and was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall. A conservatory, maybe? Holy cow—did she actually own a home with a library and a conservatory? The perfect lines of the house were evident at every turn.
With mounting excitement, Maggie found the switch for the chandelier that lit the staircase and raced to the second floor. A spacious landing gave way to six separate bedroom suites. She opened the first door carefully and proceeded with increasing confidence. Each suite was lovely and distinct in its own way, with huge windows and a sitting room and bathroom for each bedroom. One had a balcony, two had fireplaces. “I actually own this place,” she murmured to herself in shock. She was considering which bedroom she liked best when she thought she heard a door close below. Was it already time for the taxi to return for her? Could she possibly have been here for an hour?
Maggie tore down the stairs as surely as if she had been running down them all of her life and came face to face with a solidly built man wearing tidy work clothes. With a pounding heart but steady voice, Maggie demanded to know who he was and how he got into her house.
He stepped back and held up his hands. “I’m sorry to startle you, ma’am. I’m Sam Torres. Your realtor expected you tomorrow, and he and asked me to come by today to air the house out a bit and make sure that everything was in working order. I’ve been in the basement for the past three hours fiddling with the furnace. I’ve got it going now. I’m surprised we didn’t hear each other. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
He paused a moment to wipe his hands on a rag. He was never very good at guessing ages; he figured she must be in her fifties, but couldn’t tell which end of that age range she leaned to. She was wrapped in a down-filled coat and wore those enormous Australian boots that were so popular. His wife lived in hers from October to May. She had a pair of glasses perched on her nose and was now regarding him imperiously through them.
“Welcome to Rosemont,” he continued. “I understand you plan to put it on the market right away?”
Something about his polite, calm manner soon put her at ease. Judging by his weathered skin and full head of gray hair, she guessed he must be a few years her senior. She extended her hand to introduce herself and told him that she was most definitely not going to sell this place. Sam looked at her sharply and started to reply but stopped himself. Then, to her own astonishment, she announced, “As soon as my taxi returns, I’m going to check out of my hotel and move in here. Tonight. Permanently.” She reached for the banister, as if to steady herself, and turned aside. What are you doing? she thought to herself. You can’t just up and move here. Are you nuts? What do you need with a six-bedroom house? Your family is in California, and so is your work.
Maggie glanced back; Sam Torres was regarding her carefully. She wondered if he could sense that her decision to move into the house that night had been made impetuously on the spot.
“In that case,” he said, “I’d better give you a complete tour. You’ll need to know where all the entrances, switches, and thermostats are located.” He gestured toward the library and began by showing her how to unlock and open the cantankerous old French doors. Sam nodded in the direction of the fireplace. “You won’t want to start a fire until all of these chimneys have been cleaned and checked. This house hasn’t been lived in for more than a decade.” Sam paused and turned to Maggie. “Are you sure you want to move in here tonight? Once the plumbing is in use again, you’ll find almost everything leaks. And the place hasn’t been cleaned in years. Wouldn’t you like to get it fixed up first?”
“No, I can live with all of that for a few days. As long as the furnace works and the electricity and water are turned on, I can cope.”
“This sleet is supposed to turn to snow. You might get stranded up here,” he cautioned as he produced a business card that read, “Sam the Handyman.” “Here’s my card. My cell phone number is on there. Why don’t you call me when you get back tonight, and I can stop by to make sure that the furnace is still running and you’re all set?” he offered.
“Thank you—very kind of you—but no need to drag out here later. I’ll be fine,” Maggie assured him with a confidence she didn’t feel. For some reason, she felt completely comfortable with this concerned stranger. “Truthfully, this is a rash decision on my part.”
Sam nodded.
“I can’t explain it. I’ve never done anything like this in my entire life. But every fiber of my being tells me this is the right thing to do. For once in my adult life, I’m going to follow my intuition.”
“Thank you, Sam. That makes me feel more comfortable.” As they resumed their tour, Maggie was secretly relieved that Sam was making sure all the windows and doors were locked and all the thermostats were set. His instructions were thorough and helpful. It was evident that he knew the house well. The first floor had warmed to room temperature by the time they returned to the front door.
“I appreciate all you’ve done,” Maggie said. “I’m not a dab hand at home repairs, so I’m sure I’ll need your help on a regular basis. What do I owe you for today?” she asked as she turned toward her purse.
“Don’t worry about that now,” Sam said as he reached for the door. “We can settle up later. Would you like me to have the driveway plowed tomorrow?” She gratefully accepted. They said goodnight, and he headed out the door.
***
Later, in the eerie brightness of the nighttime snowstorm, Maggie and the taxi driver wrestled her suitcases and three bags of groceries to her front door. The driver helped her get them all inside and cautiously inquired if she would be okay there. She assured him she would be just fine, but she knew he doubted it, and, frankly, so did she. He had glanced at her in his rearview mirror occasionally on the drive out there and must have seen the waves of emotion surging through her. She went from feeling confident, intuitive, courageous, and spontaneous one moment to terrified, impulsive, incompetent, and irrational the next. She was known for her levelheaded, depend-able (and ultimately predictable) nature. Paul said he never wondered what she was thinking, and her kids swore they knew what she would say before she said it—and they were usually right. At times Maggie felt proud of this—she was understood, knowable, transparent. At other times, she felt dull and unimaginative. Well—this decision would surely make jaws drop.