by Tara Cowan
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Author’s Note
About the Author
Southern Rain
Copyright © 2019 by Tara Cowan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopying, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—or stored in a retrieval system without written permission by the author. Brief quotations in reviews or articles are the only exception.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or are used fictitiously.
ISBN-13: 978-1-7332922-0-7 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 978-1-7332922-1-4 (ebook)
Book cover and interior design by TeaBerryCreative.com
Charleston, South Carolina
Chapter One
Adeline crossed onto the bridge into the Holy City, changing lanes when the car in front of her seemed to be panicking. It was almost evening, and the wind was up. Waves lapped beneath her, and the bridge seemed to be swaying a little. Otherwise, she might have been a little freaked, but she was more concerned right now with finding Battery Street and arriving there by 5:00. Her new employer had been very firm on that point. And something told her she didn’t want to tick him off right from the start. His tone had been a bit terse.
Of course, that could have something to do with the fact that she had demanded in-house quarters. He had first said he wouldn’t be able to accommodate her, obviously not understanding that for a preservationist, housing was key. It was different for her crew: they could pile up in some sketchy rent house, because they were men, and split the minimal cost.
Still, it was the site of a lifetime, and she would’ve signed and broken a lease when she left if she had had to. But she had suspected he was playing hardball, and that he had really wanted her, too. So she had taken a risk and said that in that case, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to come. There had been a long silence on the phone. But he had called her the next day and said he thought they could make arrangements. And she had smelled victory.
She made a left down a tree-lined street full of houses she wanted to just stare at for hours. So much to restore, too. She mentally gave a mid-nineteenth century a fresh coat of protective paint, shored up the falling balcony, and painted a porch ceiling blue. But she had no time to tarry today.
It had been a long time since she had been to Charleston, and she was constantly in awe of the beauty. She was also a little lost. The drivers weren’t pushy like they were in Asheville, but the roads were narrow. And Siri was being a little twit, telling her to make a U-turn, apparently not recognizing roads that had been there for hundreds of years.
She tossed her phone into the passenger seat and merely drove toward the ocean. She knew of the street, of course: it was every historian’s dream. But she hadn’t been to it since she had toured Edmondston-Alston House with her parents about twelve years ago. She saw a seagull. “Okay, you’re a good sign—no, get away!” She swerved to avoid it and heard an oncoming car lay down on its horn. She jerked back into her lane and looked behind her. She bit her lip, seeing the other car right itself.
But she had found Battery Street, with three minutes to spare. She stepped on the gas a little, since there was an old truck riding her tail. Apparently not everyone was as mesmerized by the breath-taking houses as she.
In the few minutes she had to get there, she went over in her mind everything she knew about the man who owned the house. She glanced at her purse and dug out the card where she had written his name and cell number haphazardly. Adrian Ravenel. She hadn’t been able to find out his age, but he had sounded relatively young on the phone, or at least under forty. He was apparently a psychiatrist and had owned his home for a couple of years and was now wanting to restore it to its former glory and wanted to do it right.
Somehow, he had known one of her professors from North Carolina and had asked for names of preservationists. Dr. Hadley had given hers, giving her the opportunity of a lifetime, and she had finished the job in Raleigh and started making preparations to move to Charleston. Not that it was a huge move. Her Rav-4 was loaded down, but it held basically everything she owned.
“Which one are you?” she said, a little on edge. Then she saw it, recognized it from the pictures the owner had emailed her. It was a grand dame wedged between two slightly larger ladies, a butter yellow color with three sexy porches and balconies, one on top of the other. There was an observatory at the top from which the residents of the house had probably watched the Battle of Fort Sumter once upon a time. Her pulse accelerated. Then she looked at the clock, and excitement dissipated as nerves began. One minute.
She turned into the drive, which took her around the back of the house. She felt like she had invaded deeply private family areas which no one in the Victorian Era would’ve seen if they were just calling for a party. There were wonders all around her, but she reached for her purse and got out quickly. Her legs were a little weak from the drive, but at least her white Loft trousers weren’t too wrinkled, and her heels, turquoise blue, were pristine. She looked in her car mirror at her hair, short with springy blonde curls, and checked her make-up. Not exactly fab, but it would have to do.
Using her historical instinct, she went around to the front of the house, the wind whipping her hair, and used the big knocker. There was no answer, so she plied it again, louder this time. She looked up. The porch roof was clean, but in bad shape. She hoped no one used the balconies above it just now.
Finally, the door opened and a tall man with a graceful build opened the door. She would put him mid-thirties, but he looked younger, his black hair parted neatly on one side and swooping down a little on his forehead, straight and fine. His face was attractively chiseled, his eyes black and confident, but reserved.
“Dr. Ravenel, I hope,” she said.
“Yes, come in,” he answered, stepping back to allow her entrance. She crossed the threshold onto ancient battered wood floors that creaked, but held so much promise, and looked around her. There was a turned staircase which graced the end of the room, and it looked to be in good shape, though she would have her crew check it out. The impossibly high ceilin
gs were fabulous, but the crown molding was decayed from its once intricate glory, and the chandelier was too modern, as was the paint color.
“I hope you had a good trip,” he said, as though being polite.
She dragged her eyes away from the possibilities around her and nodded. “I did, thank you. My crew will arrive in three days, after I’ve been able to scope out what needs to be done.”
He nodded, seeming to study her, to take her measure. She felt like he was psychoanalyzing her and cut her eyes away, not wanting to reveal too much. He had a look about him that made her think, uncomfortably, that he knew what made you tick. “Come into the library,” he said. “There’s some tea.” She smiled, following him. It wouldn’t be the South without it.
She looked around, wanting to look around but knowing she needed to talk terms with him. Exploring could wait until tomorrow. Still, she couldn’t help but notice the stunning view of the harbor or the white built-ins which gave the room a light, cheerful feeling. He sat across from her in the chairs in front of the fireplace, though it wasn’t lit, and she would be surprised if it worked.
“You say the job will take about five months,” he said, apparently all business.
“Yes, though if we hit some snags, as many as seven.” She had found it was important to be honest about those things.
He nodded once. “This crew you speak of—have they had background checks?”
She lifted her brows, surprised by the question. “Of course. They deal with very valuable things. The foreman has been in this business for twenty years—he knows as much about preservation as I do, or at least about how it works in actual operation.”
“Do any of them have a criminal background?” he asked, apparently not impressed.
She was astounded. “Well, yes, Jose had a DUI seven years ago. Will that be a problem?”
“No,” he surprised her again by saying. He sat back, long fingers around his sweating glass. It seemed as though air conditioning had been installed in some of the rooms, but that was probably in the seventies, and it seemed to be struggling. “Your resume said your Ph.D. came from North Carolina?”
She nodded. “Yes, it did,” she said, suddenly wondering whether he was going to ask for her transcript.
“It must be a good school to have held onto Dr. Hadley this long,” he said.
She smiled. “The best, in my opinion. And Dr. Hadley is certainly one of the best, too. How do you know him?”
“He was my dad’s college roommate. They’ve been friends ever since,” he said. Apparently ready to move on, he lifted his eyes as though contemplating whether they had gone over everything. She couldn’t think there would be much more. She had signed his massive contract electronically, and they had discussed terms. He had driven a hard bargain, but he hadn’t skimped on the salary. She would give him that. “Jane’s not here, but I can show you to your room. She’ll want to show you how the house operates—I mean the parts we live in. I can answer any questions you have when I get home from work in the evenings.”
“Alright,” she said chipperly, standing with him.
“Jane was concerned about our living quarters,” he said, holding the door for her and letting her pass through. “Is there any chance that you can work on one room at a time?”
“Not if you want to keep to the five-month schedule, I’m afraid,” she said. “Often we have to let certain projects lie for a period before touching them again, and we’re generally working on something else during those times.”
He grunted, leading her up the splendid staircase.
She winced. “Will she be very upset?”
“It’ll just have to be.”
“I’ll be sure to leave areas for you to live as I go,” she said, following him into the upstairs hall.
“The family quarters are that way,” he said, nodding to the right. “We’ll move out when you get to those rooms—I assume we’ll be able to at least move into a different bedroom?”
“Oh, yes, of course. As I said, I’ll leave one open at all times,” she said, surprised when they started up another flight of stairs. He didn’t seem to be winded at all at the top of them, and she kept her lips shut, breathing quietly but quickly through her nose, pretending she wasn’t either.
This part of the house looked like it hadn’t been touched since 1862. He led her all the way to the end of the hall, where he opened a door which squeaked miserably, and led her into a room which was apparently in the eave of the house. Being tallish, she had to walk bent over in part of it. There was a narrow twin bed which at least looked to have fresh linens on it, but she bet it squeaked and was hard. The rest of the furniture was sparse: a battered chair here, a barren dresser there.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said. She studied him, eyes slightly narrowed. There was an almost imperceptible gleam in his eyes. This was payback, she would bet her life on it. Either that, or an attempt to get her to find her own lodgings. Well, she understood not wanting to take a stranger into your home, and not have the ability to watch TV at night without a bra on, or whatever the male equivalent of that was. But he had agreed to it, and dank lodgings were better than spending a third of her commission off this project on rent. And so she said, “Great. This will do nicely.”
He looked mildly disappointed.
She spent the whole next day going over the house, nerding out to her heart’s content, armed with her clipboard and the numbers for her usual suppliers. The absolute first thing would have to be stabilizing the balconies. It would cost an arm and a leg, but this house would be nothing without them. And apparently the Ravenels had gotten a historic grant for part of the project from the state of South Carolina, so she wouldn’t worry about it too much.
She needed to speak with Dr. Ravenel about a few matters, but he had been gone before she awoke. She jotted notes down (after risking her life on the upper balcony) that she would ask him when he got home from work.
It was really important for her to find the innate character of every house, to get down to its bones, to feel the lives it had led. She went into a large downstairs room that was now being used mostly for storage, she thought, and looked around, unsure what the room had even been used for originally. She bit her lip, looking around at the thick white molding, the battered floors, the green printed wallpaper that had probably been expensive and had a certain richness to it, but had probably been hung in the 1960s. Anything with a 19 in front of it simply wasn’t allowed in this house.
She turned, laying the clipboard aside, to one of the corners by the door and flecked the paper up with her nail. “Come on,” she gently coaxed, being very careful. She saw a very pale turquoise, a popular color from the Jacksonian Era, and her heart sped. She pulled a little more carefully, expecting a paint, which might be original, which might not, which they would have to reproduce with a good copy. But then she felt it and realized it was a fabric. “Are you silk?” she breathed, pulling up just a bit more and running her fingers over it.
Gasping, she released the wallpaper and backed away, rising with wonder. The family who had lived here, whoever they had been, had been extremely wealthy. And she wouldn’t dare touch that for fear of damaging it. She needed Joe and the crew and a thousand supplies. And a guillotine for whoever had papered over it. “Okay. I’ll leave you,” she said, backing away and hoping to heaven she could save it. She was already picturing a framed scrap of it on the wall and a tour guide saying, “This was what the original wallpaper looked like.” Please God, no.
She went on to other rooms, and when next she looked up, she realized it was late in the afternoon. She had heard the front door click open and closed, and she went out onto the second-floor landing and looked below. A thin woman in her early sixties, with clipped short silver hair, entered, holding the hand of a little boy in a posh school uniform. He was a precise miniature of Dr. Ravenel, and a voiceless,
“Oh!” left her lips rather in the way that happened when one saw a box of cute puppies. He didn’t look like he felt well, and the woman stroked his hair, letting him lay his head against her as they walked.
They disappeared beyond her sight, and the wheels in her mind turned. Dr. Ravenel hadn’t mentioned a child. He couldn’t be more than six years old. That would make everything more difficult. He would be bound to get into everything, so they would have to keep it secured, both for his safety and for the protection of the artifacts and supplies.
Deciding it was time to find out more about the familial situation which she would be working around, she brushed her hands off and went downstairs. She found her way to the kitchen, knocking and entering, surprised to find a fully modern, very expensive room with marble countertops, white cabinets, stone floors, and a sleek island. Oh, well. It would just have to be. She didn’t think it would hurt the character of the house, and they had to eat, after all. She didn’t see the Ravenels wanting to cook Nineteenth-Century style, however much she coaxed.
The woman was putting a snack in front of the little boy but looked up, surprised.
“Hi, I’m Adeline Miller,” she said, smiling, hands in her back pockets. “Dr. Ravenel probably mentioned the project.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, shoulders easing, smiling back. “He did. Nice to meet you. He says you’re from North Carolina.”
She nodded. “Are you his mother?”
“No, though I’ve known him since he was smaller than this one. I retired from my job as a legal secretary, and then my husband died, and I didn’t like the silence. The Ravenels needed a nanny, and I needed them,” she said, adding a sliced apple to the snack.
The little boy looked up at her with big black eyes, his hair falling this way and that on his forehead. Adeline smiled at him and then at the woman. “I’m glad you found what you needed,” she said. “I’ll let you get back to it,” she added, seeing the woman was pulling a thermometer from a drawer. “I just wanted to ask if you could fill me in on Dr. Ravenel’s schedule?”
