by Julia London
What was that?
Mia sat up with a jerk, cocking her head to one side, straining to hear. She could have sworn she heard someone talking. But when she looked around, she saw no one. It must have been voices from the house carried on the wind. Except the wind was blowing in the wrong direction for that. Maybe it was someone on the lake. She settled back in and closed her eyes—
There it was again.
This time, Mia stood up and turned around, just in time to see the jerk from the coffee shop come stalking up the path, a coffee in one hand, a cell phone in the other. He’d ditched the sunglasses and hat he’d worn earlier and looked completely disheveled. He was speaking into the phone, his speech low and rapid, as if he were arguing.
She eyed him as he marched toward the edge of the cliff. He clearly hadn’t noticed her, which came as no surprise. He struck Mia as entirely self-absorbed. She ought to know—she tended to date that type. Who was this guy, anyway? He seemed annoyed, judging by the way he stood gripping the coffee and squinting into the distance, his jaw clenched as he listened. He said something. And then, quite suddenly, he let out a roar and hurled the coffee. It sort of plopped over the edge of the bluff. And then, just as abruptly, he roared again and threw his phone toward the lake. It flew out of his hand, arced high, then plummeted into the water.
Mia gasped and surged forward a few feet with an unthinking instinct to save the phone. She stopped at the edge of the bluff and gaped at the glittering surface of the water below her. Who did something like that? She slowly turned her head and looked at the man.
He’d definitely noticed her now. He was staring hard at her, his expression almost accusatory. He was muscular, his hair wavy and unkempt. He had a scruffy beard she hadn’t noticed earlier, and he wore an expensive pair of jeans worn to a grimy sheen, and a battered, inside-out T-shirt with a long drip of a stain that looked like mustard.
“You . . . you just threw your phone into the lake!” she shouted, pointing at the lake.
“Really? I just threw my phone in the lake?”
“Yes!”
“I know!” he bellowed.
Mia suddenly had the thought that perhaps she should be less concerned about the phone and more concerned about her safety. Especially when the man began to saunter toward her, reminding her of a beast who was now overly curious about a puny bit of prey. Being that puny bit of prey, Mia shifted backward so that she could make a run for it if necessary. Unfortunately, her escape options were not good. One was to jump in the lake and swim to her grandmother’s house, which she could totally do. But not without a healthy dose of hesitation, she feared, because the water was still very cold. Not to mention, she hadn’t jumped in fifteen years. She’d been a lot more fearless as a teen.
The other option was to dive into the thicket and run. She winced imagining the nicks and scratches that was going to earn her, but it was the lesser of two evils.
The third option was to blow back at this guy and hope that he was easily intimidated. He didn’t look easily intimidated. He looked like he was always the one to do the intimidating.
He suddenly shifted his gaze to the lake as if just remembering that he’d chucked his phone into it. Then he turned to her. His gaze meandered down her body and back up to her eyes. “Is there anyone else with you?”
What? “Yes,” she said instantly. Why was he asking? What was he going to do? Jesus, what was someone like him capable of? Come on, this wasn’t Brooklyn, this was East Beach! Most of the people in these parts were fairly decent. Most.
“Who?”
“You don’t know him.”
He sighed. “I know I don’t know him. I don’t know you. Where is he?”
He was a little snippy, demanding answers. “At the Ross house.” She lifted her chin. “And it’s not just one guy. It’s like . . . four.”
He blinked. And then he snorted. “Four guys.”
“Yep.”
“All waiting for you?”
“Not waiting, exactly.”
“Not waiting at all,” he said. “Do you have a phone on you?”
“A phone?” If he thought she was going to produce a phone that he could hurl into the lake, he was wrong.
“Yeah, a phone. You call people on it? Text them? Download apps?”
Snippy, sarcastic, and a big fat crazy-driving jerk. But he did have a pair of stunningly dark blue eyes. How ironic that twin windows into crazytown would be so striking. One would think they’d be all googly and bloodshot.
“I need to make a phone call.” He stuck out his hand, palm up. When Mia didn’t instantly produce a phone, he impatiently gestured for it.
“You are unbelievable,” she said. “Do you really think I’m going to hand over a phone after you just threw one in the lake?”
He sighed. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have done that,” he said, and inexplicably sounded almost thoughtful as he ran a hand over his head. He studied her a moment. “What are you doing here?”
He was asking her? “I happen to work at the Ross house,” she said stiffly.
“More good news,” he said, and moved to the bench, sitting heavily, splaying his legs wide as men on benches were wont to do. Her bag was beside the bench with her phone tucked just inside.
“I’m going to go back to work,” she said. “I would suggest you go back down to the public area before the owners find out you’re here.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at her. His gaze was locked on the water and now he seemed lost in thought.
Your honor, the jury has reached a verdict: batshit crazy as charged.
Well, Mia wasn’t stupid. She was going to get out of here before he ramped up again. She moved cautiously toward her bag, intending to grab it and disappear before crazy noticed. But the moment she squatted down, her arm outstretched, his gaze jerked around to her again. He sighed and rolled his navy-blue eyes. “Jesus, are you still here? I thought you’d run off with your phone clutched to your breast.”
Mia gasped. “The better question is, why are you still here? Who are you, anyway?”
He snorted and shook his head. “Don’t play dumb. I hate that.”
Crazier and crazier. Mia snatched up her bag and backed away from him. “I’m not kidding. If you don’t want any trouble, you better get out of here. She has security.”
That seemed to interest him. “Who has security?”
“Mrs. Yates. She owns Ross house now, and she has security, pal,” she said, pointing at him for emphasis.
For whatever reason, the man laughed. He tipped his head back and laughed. “Yeah, she’s got such great security that you managed to get all the way up here without being seen.” He flicked his wrist at her. “Go back to your job.”
“Oh, I’m leaving,” she said. “I’m going back up there and alerting her security that a strange man is wandering around down here hurling phones into the lake.”
“You do that.” He wiggled his fingers as if he were dismissing her.
He was unbelievably infuriating. “I am going to do that right now,” she said, and whirled about, meaning to march up the path. But her canvas bag caught a nail on the bench and snagged. She tugged. Her bag did not come free.
“Just yank it free,” he said irritably.
“I don’t want to tear it!”
“For God’s sake,” he said, and stood up, crowding in beside her, his arm brushing against her side as he leaned over and worked the bag off the nail. “There. Now go on and leave me alone.”
Mia tucked her bag under her arm and backed away from him. “I mean it, I’m going to report you, so if you don’t want to be arrested for trespassing, you better go back to the hot dog stand you came from.”
“Great,” he said, nodding. “Thanks for the advice.”
She strode toward the path, her bag bouncing against her leg.
“Hey!” he shouted at her.
Mia reluctantly turned around.
“Let me use your phone bef
ore you go.”
“No!” she shouted, and marched on.
Crazy-ass summer people.
Three
Drago was making his rounds when Mia made her way back to the house, breathless with rage and practically sprinting. She pointed toward the bluff. “There is an insane person down there, a bum who doesn’t belong on this property,” she said. “He came up from the beach.”
“Oh yeah?” Drago said and squinted toward the lake. “I’ll take care of him. You scratched yourself.”
“What?” Mia glanced down to where he pointed. There was a thin red scratch across her bare abdomen. “Oh.”
“Mrs. Yates is home now. But she’s leaving again, so hurry if you want in. That terrace guy’s truck broke down. I’m going to take him into town to get a part.”
“Yeah, well, don’t go before you run the bum off. He threw his cell phone into the lake!”
“That’s littering,” Drago said gravely.
Mia hesitated. “Yep. It’s littering all right.”
“I’ll handle it,” Drago said, and began walking toward the bluffs. He was so big Mia had no doubt that the man at Lookout Point would scramble down the path to the lake and his death-star car and get the hell out of here. What was it about summer people that made them think they owned the world around them?
Mia moved on to the house, but just as she reached the front door, it suddenly swung open, and two white balls of fluff that could easily be mistaken for house shoes rushed out, yapping and trying to bite her feet. Behind them came Nancy Yates wearing turquoise-blue silk palazzo pants with big, showy white flowers printed on them. Her voluminous white silk top hung to her thighs and was trimmed in fringe. She wore her graying blonde hair in a ponytail down her back, and a gold chain from which a Tao symbol dangled around her neck.
Behind Nancy were two women, but Mia scarcely had a moment to register them because Nancy suddenly grabbed her in a big bear hug. “Hello!” she said cheerfully.
The gesture startled Mia—they were not on a hugging basis, seeing as how they scarcely knew each other—and she stood stiff armed, uncertain if she ought to hug her back or not. “Ah . . . hello,” Mia said into her shoulder.
Nancy suddenly let her go and stutter-stepped backward to have a look at Mia.
Mia self-consciously adjusted her bag on her shoulder.
“Now that’s an interesting look,” Nancy said, not unkindly. “I can always count on you to be creatively attired. Oh! Where are my manners?” she asked, apparently unconcerned that the dogs were still growling at Mia and she was pushing the one with the blue bow off her leg. “Do you know Tess McDaniel?” she asked, and waved grandly at the two women behind her.
One of them, who Mia had to assume was Tess McDaniel, smiled thinly as her gaze flicked dismissively over Mia’s clothes. “Hi,” Mia said.
“Tess owns Diva Interiors in Black Springs,” Nancy said, and to the two women, she added, “Mia is Beverly McCauley’s niece. She’s an artist.”
“Oh no,” Mia said quickly. Heat flooded her cheeks—she could only claim to be a failed artist. “No, I’m . . . I mean, not really. I’m working for Aunt Bev right now.”
“Well,” Tess said, presenting her hand in a manner one could possibly interpret to mean she wanted it kissed. “How nice to meet you.”
Mia took her tiny hand and, uncertain what to do with the delicate thing, gave it a bit of a shake.
“We’re off, sweetie! We’re going to have tea at a delicious little place in Black Springs,” Nancy said. She leaned over, picked up each dog, one by one, kissed its nose, tossed it inside, and did the same to the other dog. “Magda’s already left for the day, so be sure and lock up when you go. There’s just so much to fix up around this old place, isn’t there?” She didn’t wait for Mia’s answer, but hurried off with Tess and the other woman, who apparently didn’t merit an introduction.
Mia watched them go. Nancy Yates was the antithesis of the person Mia would have expected to buy this house. This house was steeped in American history. Nancy Yates looked as if she were steeped in Malibu.
The thing about the Ross house was that it was the oldest and grandest historic estate around Lake Haven. Every day Mia came to work, she noticed another interesting architectural detail, like the forward-facing peacocks carved into the gables above. The central part of the house was fairly plain and flat, but the wings that stretched out from either side had balustrades on the roofs, verandas along the front, and each ended in big round rooms, sort of like castle turrets.
Lake Haven hadn’t become a fashionable summer getaway for the East Coast elite until somewhere around the fifties, about the time Grandma and Grandpa had opened the East Beach Lake Cottages. The houses built on the lake since then had big windows and rooms set at angles designed to capture the best views. But Ross house had its own unique charm. Once you entered through the stone gate, you knew you were entering an area of wealth and refined taste. You’d expect to find the woman of the house in Ralph Lauren, perhaps on her way to a golf game. You would not expect to find Nancy Yates.
Not until you walked inside.
Mia opened the front door a small crack. As she expected, the two little fluffy white dogs with coordinated fashion collars burst into frantic yapping, apparently having forgotten meeting her only moments ago. “Okay, all right,” she said, sticking her boot through the door first. “Come on, guys, you know me now,” she said, and inched her way in, nudging the little beasts away.
When she’d squeezed herself inside, the dogs backed up, still yapping, but then suddenly, as if they’d assured themselves she was who she said she was, they turned and trotted like a pair of soldiers off to the big farmer’s kitchen and their bed.
“Little beasts,” she murmured. She glanced around her. It always took her a moment to adjust to the interior—inside is where the early American style turned completely and utterly deranged.
Quite honestly, the interior of this grand house looked as if a merry band of clowns with disparate tastes had come through and partied. Mia had never seen a more curious mix of styles and colors, and she’d gone to art school.
The house had the soaring ceilings and elaborate crown moldings one would expect, as well as tall windows with views of the woods and the lake. The floors were marble and, in many rooms, the original wood. One would assume a house of this stature had been properly put together, that some historical buff or East Coast designer would have made it a showpiece.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
The conflict of styles and colors exploded in your brain after one walk through. In the dining room, bright blue wallpaper with enormous black palm leaves in velvet relief clashed with a small faux-oak table and massive crystal chandelier overhead. In the living area, oriental accents stood beside art deco and antique finishings. Vintage wallpapers competed with clear plastic shelving and modern mirrors. Rooms that hadn’t been papered had jarring color palettes.
“This house needs a lot of work, but the bones are good,” Nancy Yates had said the first day they’d met. “I learned that on HGTV—you have to have good bones. Then you renovate. But if you don’t have good bones, renovations will get very expensive.”
“This renovation is going to be expensive no matter how good the bones,” Aunt Bev had whispered into Mia’s ear as Nancy had shown them around.
“It was built by an industrialist, you know,” Nancy airily continued like a museum docent, gesturing to the ceiling in the dining room, the wainscoting, the window casings.
“Malcolm Ross,” Aunt Bev had said. She took pride in her knowledge of local history. She’d pulled her standard Chico’s-issue jacket around her generous frame. “He built it for his wife, who wanted their ten kids to have plenty of places to run and play. The village of East Beach grew up around this house, did you know that? There are Rosses everywhere now—Ross Hardware, Ross Elementary, Ross Insurance, Ross Medical Group—”
“Well, anyway,” Nancy had said, inter
rupting Aunt Bev, “this place needs a complete overhaul. Just look at this kitchen!” she’d complained as they’d moved into that room. “It’s so old. I had a state-of-the-art kitchen in the house where I lived before this. It practically cooked for you.”
Another weird thing about the house was that it was sparsely furnished. Mia’s boots echoed on the marble tiles as she walked through a foyer devoid of any furnishing or accessory except a single mirror in a gilded frame that looked permanently attached to the wall. Not even a rug to warm up the cold floor.
The kitchen had the most furnishings of any rooms, but not the sort one would expect. The kitchen table and cane-back chairs looked as if Nancy had purchased them off Craigslist. The surface of the table was strewn with papers and envelopes, and a laptop stood open, a coffee mug next to it.
Mia put her bag down on one of the chairs and looked around at the dated kitchen with the faint smell of fish lingering in the wallpaper and the drapes. For two days now, she’d been rattling around this enormous and strangely decorated house like a nurse on night watch, poking her head in this room and that. It was hard to imagine that only two months ago, she’d had visions of being New York’s celebrated new artist.
Boy, when some dreams died, it was like letting the dogs go in for the kill.
She was still shaky from her encounter with the crazy ass, and decided she’d have a cup of coffee and calm down a little before working. She walked to the Keurig coffeemaker and powered it up as Nancy had invited her to do on her first day.
She wanted cream with her coffee. She glanced around, bending backward to see down the hallway to the front door. No one here but her, so Mia opened the fridge.
Whoa.
The fridge was stuffed completely full. There wasn’t even a tiny bit of space left. Leaves of raw vegetables stuck out between dishes. Fruit was piled up in a drawer. Beer, wine, milk, and coconut water were crammed into the door caddies. In the event of a major catastrophe, Nancy could feed half of East Beach.
It was a wonder Mia was able to spot the cream at all, given the competition for her focus. She made her coffee, added the cream, then returned it to the fridge. Wedging it back in the door took a bit of effort, and in the course of doing so, Mia spotted a plate of cookies.
