Spring House

by Taylor, Mary Ellen

  “You’re not willing to negotiate at all?” Mr. Crawford flicked the edge of the card, looking a little stunned and annoyed. Megan said nothing.

  “Even the bald guy on Pawn Stars negotiates,” he said with a chuckle.

  She extended her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Crawford, for showing me the lovely pieces. And the picture was one of the best of Claire I’ve ever seen. You’ve made me curious about how the photograph and the desk came together, but I suppose I might not ever know that.”

  He shoved her card in his pocket. “You know I’m leaving town in the morning.”

  “I do. And I wish you safe travels,” Megan said.

  “I won’t be back for at least six months,” he warned.

  His tone suggested she would regret not closing the deal, but Megan did not budge. She disliked the thought of losing out on the pieces, but she refused to be a pushover. “We’ll have you over to Winter Cottage at Christmas.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Megan

  Monday, March 5, 2018

  Cape Hudson, Virginia

  5:00 p.m.

  The sun had dipped low in the sky as Megan walked straight to Rick’s truck. She massaged her fingers deep into the small of her back as Rick thanked Mr. Crawford. Rick reached the truck first and opened her door. She hoisted herself up into the cab.

  “Are you doing okay?” he asked.

  “When you’re the size of a barn, getting around ain’t easy, Sheriff.” When his expression remained worried, she smiled and added, “I’m fine.”

  “For the record, you’re doing great.” He leaned in, his arm resting on the top of the truck. His energy was warm and comforting, and she sat a little straighter and brushed her snub-nosed bangs away from her face. “You’re a cool customer, Ms. Buchanan. I saw the way your eyes lit up when you saw that table and the picture. You wanted it. But you still walked away.”

  “That is the advantage to living through so many moves. I learned not to get too attached.”

  “Does that extend to people as well?” Rick asked.

  “I suppose it does.”

  “There have to be places and people you miss.”

  She shrugged, shifting her gaze to the woods that ringed Mr. Crawford’s property. Absently, she rubbed her hand on her belly. Even this baby would grow up and one day go off and discover her own life. But for now Megan was in Cape Hudson and determined to dig her roots as deeply as the sandy soil would allow. “I accept that few things last forever.”

  “You’re too young to be so cynical.”

  “I’m not cynical. When I’m in a town or city, I make the most of what it has to offer. I really enjoy it, because I know I’ll likely not see it again.”

  “Are you going to budge on your price with Crawford?”

  His waist was lean and she suspected firm to the touch. Her libido was fully awake. “Nope. What I offered was fair, and he knows it.”

  “I’ll bet you one of your apple pies he walks away from the deal.”

  Megan was feeling oddly optimistic and excited, as she always did when she was dealing in the past. “I’ll bet you that apple pie and raise you a cherry. Mr. Crawford will call me before he leaves town. What are you offering up?”

  “A few days’ worth of labor at Spring House.”

  She held out her hand. “You have a deal, Sheriff.”

  He wrapped strong, calloused hands around hers and shook. “Mighty cocky, Ms. Megan.”

  She liked the way his deep voice curved around her name. She cleared her throat as she pulled her hand free. “Wear your tool belt when you come.”

  Smiling, he tapped the top of the truck with his hand and closed her door. As he walked around to the driver’s side, she opened the image on her phone. She stared at the two women and found herself drawn not to Claire but to the other one.

  When Rick slid behind the wheel, she turned to him. “Even if Mr. Crawford says no to the sale, I’m grateful for the chance to see this picture. Piecing together Claire Buchanan’s life has been a challenge. The woman was intensely private.”

  “Who do you think the other woman was?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure.” She thought back to the pictures she’d bought from Duncan. The photo that came to mind was the one of the little girl with dark hair. “She could have been a domestic in the Buchanans’ house.” She stared at the young woman’s dress, her shoes, and the scarf that did not quite match. Her eyes were bright, her skin clear, and she sat with an erect posture that suggested she’d been raised with standards. “She didn’t have money.”

  “Didn’t Claire have sisters?” he asked.

  “A sister?” she said, more to herself. She looked beyond the dark hair and bright eyes to the shape of her mouth, the tilt of her head, and the way she clasped her hands in her lap. She scrolled through her pictures and found the image of the four Hedrick sisters with their mother. The youngest had to be the other girl with Claire. “You might be right, Sheriff. Good detective work.”

  “I like to think I haven’t lost some of my best moves.”

  “Do you feel like you’ve lost some moves?” she asked.

  “Maybe a few. Small-town life takes some getting used to.”

  “You could be anywhere, Rick. You don’t have to stay in Cape Hudson. I picture you as a big-city detective.”

  “I’m not sure that’s for me.”

  “But are calls for people locked out of houses, missing dogs, and wandering elderly residents for you? This all has to feel tame compared to commanding an artillery platoon.”

  “Definitely quieter.” He tapped his finger on the steering wheel. “Out here I’ve gotten the chance to do more diving. There are wrecks along the bay and the Atlantic shore. I plan to hire help soon, and then I’ll have time to maybe do some salvage work.”

  She shifted in her seat. They had skirted so many topics since they’d both landed in Cape Hudson, and she was tired of avoiding choppy waters. “Are you here for Scott?”

  Rick adjusted his grip on the wheel and tossed her a sharp glance before looking back at the road. “He’s why I came here, but he’s not why I stayed. Like I said, this place is growing on me. After Winter Cottage is renovated, are you leaving?”

  “I’ll have to make a living somehow, and unless there’s another project, the baby and I might have to move on.”

  “Baby.” He spoke the word as if it still did not fit into the world he’d become accustomed to.

  “I know. Sounds weird to be saying it.”

  “Scott would have been excited about the baby,” he offered.

  “I know. But it never would have worked between us.”

  Rick remained silent, but as he drove, a muscle pulsed in the side of his jaw.

  Megan had not discussed with Rick or anyone else why she and Scott had broken up. By the time she could bring herself to talk about what had happened, Scott was dead, so she let the reasons behind their breakup die with him. She did not want the world, especially Helen or Rick, to know that Scott had been cheating on her. Even now, it was humiliating to think she’d misjudged him so badly.

  He stared ahead as they passed more fields of green corn, rows of pine, cedar trees, and kudzu. Neither spoke for several minutes, and she realized she had likely offended him. He had moved to Cape Hudson out of tribute to a fallen friend, and she had just confessed she would have left Scott regardless.

  “Do you mind if we swing by my house?” Rick asked. “I’m supposed to get a delivery of siding material. The company’s been promising it for days, and I’m going to have to raise holy hell if they haven’t come through this time.”

  Up ahead there was a small gas station and a convenience store. “I didn’t realize you bought a house here.”

  “About a month ago. Like I said, the place is growing on me. It also made sense to make the investment.”

  “What house did you buy?” she asked.

  “I bought it from Tom Brewster. He’s owned the house about thirty years.”
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  “The name’s not familiar. What about before?”

  “I didn’t get a detailed history of the house, so I can’t tell you much about it.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “It’s a Cape Cod located on a cove. Great view of the bay.”

  “Nice.”

  “We’ll see about that. I think I bought the original homestead, because the place is going to take years to fix up.” He took a right turn off the main road down a small side street that cut toward the ocean rather than the bay.

  Megan, despite herself, was curious about his purchase. “What did Tom Brewster do?”

  “He was a merchant marine. His son and two of his brothers were marines. Tom finally decided to move inland and be closer to his daughter.”

  “The name Brewster is starting to ring a bell.” She laughed. “My father always called them the Brewster boys. Jeff, Mark, David, and Tom.”

  “I served under Tom. He’s the youngest of the boys and just retired as a full-bird colonel.”

  “He didn’t want to take over the house?”

  “Said he’d seen a lifetime’s worth of the ocean and wanted to head inland toward the Shenandoah Valley. Most of the family have scattered over the years.”

  “This isn’t an easy place to live. Unless you’re in the tourist trade, a farmer, or a waterman, there’s not much to hold you here.”

  “And yet here we both are, making a living.”

  “The town will always need a sheriff. And I predict in a couple of years, you’ll be county sheriff or have a thriving dive business.”

  Rick rounded the final bend and pulled up to a small Cape Cod–style house covered in graying shingles and a cedar roof. The front door was painted a faded red, and the windows looked as if they dated back a half century. Mentally, she calculated the cost of the renovation and tried not to wince when she realized the final tally. “I hope you got a deal on this house.”

  He shut off the truck. “I did.”

  She searched around for supplies but did not see any. “What are you having delivered?”

  “Planks and siding. The spring project is to fix the back deck and replace the siding. Roof in the fall, and come winter, I’ll move the show inside and redo the bathrooms, kitchen, and floors.” He got out of the truck and opened her door. “You may give me your professional opinion.”

  A breeze blew off the water as she walked up to the front door. The garden beds had been stripped of both weeds and plants, leaving behind cracked oyster shells. “Who’s going to do the work?”

  “I am.”

  “In your spare time?”

  He jangled his keys, and they walked around the side of the house. “I like to keep busy.”

  “Good. Because you will be.” As the drive bent east and drew closer to the bay, the soil turned sandy, and the backyard opened onto a couple of white Adirondack chairs nestled on a small beach that overlooked the cove. The waters were calm and clear. In the distance two large tankers lumbered across the horizon toward northern ports.

  “What do you think of the property in general?” he asked.

  As inspiring as the view was, the house was not. “It’ll take time and maybe a few years, but the house can be fixed, and the view will always be stunning.” She studied a large bay window and imagined what the sunsets looked like over the water.

  “I’d give you a tour of the inside, but it’s a little depressing right now.”

  “I don’t mind a mess. I’d like to see it.”

  “If you’re sure. Okay. Watch your step.” He opened the back door and switched on a light that was surprisingly bright.

  She glanced up at new recessed lights. “I see you’ve already been busy with the ceiling. Good choice.”

  “Light had to be a priority.”

  She stepped into the kitchen and walked up to a white porcelain farmhouse sink with an original gooseneck faucet and porcelain cross knobs for the hot and cold water. She skimmed her fingers over the edge of the sink. Brewster had been a merchant marine, so he’d likely been gone for long stretches. It would have been a lonely life for Mrs. Brewster.

  “What’s that frown mean?” he asked.

  “Nothing really.” She shook her head, chagrined that he’d noticed her worry. “Just trying to picture Mrs. Brewster. Wives of the merchant marines were often alone nine to ten months out of the year.”

  “Scott told me you could deduce the history of just about anything.”

  “I have an encyclopedic knowledge of history. Touching items kind of jars my memory.” Scott had considered this anomaly of hers a funny parlor trick, and he’d gotten a kick out of her “reading” objects at parties. She had always laughed along and played up the drama, as if she were psychic. “And pregnant women are moody, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  “There had to be times when she was happy in this house.”

  “I’m sure that’s very true. They had four sons and were married for decades.”

  He studied her as if he didn’t buy whatever she was selling, but he let it pass. “Let me give you the grand tour.”

  As she moved through the house, she noticed he had upgraded the lighting in most of the rooms. Modern illumination didn’t quite chase away the dreariness.

  The architectural details of the house were amazing. Beadboard, crown molding, a stone fireplace topped with a broad beam mantel, and wide hardwood floors that would be stunning when they were sanded and polished.

  Many might have passed on the house because of the work required. But Scott had said Rick was always the kind of guy who liked a challenge. “The bones of the house are solid, and that view will ensure you never have a problem selling it.”

  He stood by the window, and the late afternoon light silhouetted his broad shoulders. “Good to know.”

  She turned from the fireplace. “Make sure you take lots of pictures. The ‘before’ pictures will highlight the transformation. I can think of a couple of bloggers who would happily cover it. Again, a bonus for resell.”

  “Who says I’m selling?”

  She laughed, deciding that he would have to learn the hard way how lonely it could be out here. She walked to the window. “I don’t see any building supplies.”

  “Neither do I.” He didn’t look too perturbed. “I’ll be making calls first thing in the morning.”

  “Speaking of calls, I have a few to make.”

  “It’s the end of the day.”

  “I persuaded the contractor to give me his personal cell number. It’s a big project, and I expect quick responses to my questions.”

  “I never pictured you as such a hard-driving boss.”

  “I have to be. My contractor and his crew have a lot to haul out of Spring House.”

  “Lead the way.”

  She made her way out of the house and across sandy soil that shifted under her feet. The more distance she gained from the house, the better she felt.

  Rick followed, clearly slowing his pace to match hers.

  “If I have a question about materials or historical detail, do you mind if I call you?” he asked. “I want to drag it into the modern world but hold on to as much charm as I can.”

  “Happy to lend my advice.” He opened the truck door for her, and she slid into the passenger seat. “I have a very particular skill set that doesn’t often come in handy unless you’re renovating.”

  He grinned. “That’s a lucky break for me.”

  Rick closed her door, and as he walked around the front of the truck, she found it hard not to admire the square set of his jaw or the span of his shoulders.

  For a moment, she wished away the last couple of years and wondered where she would be now if she had gone with Rick.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Diane

  Age 12

  Tuesday, September 15, 1903

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Diane was always hungry.

  Since Mr. LeBlanc had died almost eight months earlier, Madame LeBlanc rarel
y allowed Diane time for eating. When she did give her a moment, it was generally dried toast or broth. Pierre, free from Mr. LeBlanc’s scrutiny, also had begun to lurk around her.

  More and more often, Pierre would stand in the doorway and watch her while she ironed or polished a boot. Twice last week when she passed him in the hallway, he had stuck out his foot and tripped her. The first time had caught her so unaware that she had fallen hard, dropping her sewing kit. As buttons rolled over the tiled floor and she rubbed her bruised palms, he simply laughed.

  “Clumsy fool,” he had said.

  Another time she had been on the last step of the staircase when she felt his hand on her shoulder. He had shoved hard, and again she had fallen. That time her shoulder had struck the floor and been deeply bruised for weeks.

  Now each time he approached her, she flinched and drew away. This only seemed to please him.

  Madame LeBlanc also had announced that the three of them would be departing on a steamer leaving Baltimore and bound for Le Havre, France. The decision to leave came quickly, and when Diane asked why they were rushing to pack trunks, Madame LeBlanc explained that her husband’s dear cousin had finally answered her letter and agreed to meet them in Le Havre. Pierre, who was always so moody and withdrawn, actually looked happy.

  Women continued to visit Madame LeBlanc, and she sat with them in a candlelit room, held their hands, and whispered words that often made the women cry. More and more, Madame LeBlanc requested that Diane be listening in the nearby room, and when Madame LeBlanc asked certain questions, Diane was instructed to tap on the wall.

  Men also visited the house, but they were not looking for the same thing. Each one wanted money, and several threatened to call the police. Madame LeBlanc had a way of smiling, though, and after she took them into the study and closed the door behind her, she was able to convince them to give her a bit more time.

  The morning they departed, Madame LeBlanc produced a dress made of white lace and muslin. When Diane showed only a slight interest, Madame LeBlanc announced it was for her. It was time Diane dressed as a young lady, she said. Diane rose and touched the soft fabric. Never had she felt anything so lovely.