by Melissa Tagg
“You can’t tell me you’ll miss that wallpaper, Mara. It was horrible.”
It was horrible. A complete eyesore. “Why does the lobby smell like vinegar?”
“Homemade wallpaper removal solvent. Water and white vinegar. Vinegar can do all kinds of things.”
A man who knew the hidden talents of vinegar. Had her heart just fluttered? “I know. Cleaning is my hobby. I make homemade cleaning products all the time.”
“Cleaning isn’t a hobby.”
“Anything can be a hobby. Some people read. Some people run. I like to make things pretty and shiny. What’s wrong with that?”
He nabbed the cereal box and reached inside. “This stuff will rot your teeth, you know.”
“That’s what Lenora always says.” Said. Lenora, who wasn’t here. Who hadn’t paid her bills and had left Mara to face the impending foreclosure.
Who’d asked her to take care of the Everwood.
“Tell me this,” Marshall said. “Why does this kitchen look like it belongs in an entirely different house?”
“That was Lenora’s top priority. Guests may not see much of it, but Lenora said the kitchen is the most important room in any home and especially at a B&B. We worked on it all through the fall.”
“You did good. It looks fantastic.” Marshall leaned forward. “You made it pretty and shiny.”
Smooth, using her own words to compliment her.
“How about this?” he said. “I haven’t seen the whole place yet. Why don’t you give me a tour? Then we can sit down and do what you said—make a list and a plan and a budget. While we’re at it, we’ll figure out how you’re going to get that emergency grant from the city too.”
Right, the grant. Money. The only way this crazy undertaking would even be possible. “Cereal.”
He handed her the box. Grinned. Folded his arms and tipped his chair back until it leaned against the wall behind him. “Cereal. Coffee. Tour.”
“You’re humoring me, aren’t you?”
“It’s working, isn’t it?” His chair plunked to the floor and he stood. “But if you’re going to eat straight sugar in the form of dehydrated marshmallows for breakfast, at least do it the right way—with a bowl, a spoon, and some milk.”
“I’ll eat my cereal the way I want, Marshall Adam Hawkins.”
And there was that low, rich laugh again.
It was the fireplace in the den that took Marshall’s breath away.
He stopped two strides into the room, captured by the hum of the wind in the chimney and the sight of the rugged, uneven stone fixture that reached to the ceiling. Never mind the soot stains or the nicks in the wood mantel, the fireplace—big enough for a grown man to hunch inside—made the room.
And then there were the exposed wooden beams overhead, the built-in bookshelves, the picture window overlooking the rambling yard, and the tangle of trees at the edge of the grove.
He turned back to Mara. She stood in the doorway, her face alight with anticipation.
“So this is why you saved the den for last.”
She broke into a smile that spoke of relief and delight. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? The original house was built in the late eighteen hundreds, but we’re pretty sure this back part of it—the den and the attached bedroom and en suite I’m using now—was added on sometime in the forties or fifties. Lenora could never quite decide whether she wanted the den to be open to guests or kept as a private living space.”
Gone was the panicked Mara of an hour ago. Throughout their tour of the massive bed and breakfast—including the eight bedrooms and four bathrooms upstairs—her tension had unwound so palpably that Marshall could feel it. It had given way to an enthusiasm that added a bounce to her steps.
Mara loved this house. She loved this room.
From what he could tell, she’d loved the Everwood’s owner too. Curious, that whole situation.
Though truthfully, as Mara had led him around the house, he’d begun to understand why the owner might’ve given up on the place. Creaky floors, leaky attic roof, bathroom fixtures stained with lime and rust. It was entirely possible that in offering to stay and help fix up the house, Marshall had bitten off far more than he could chew.
Yet he couldn’t bring himself to freak out the way Mara had earlier. He simply felt too . . . good. Purposeful, even. Yesterday as he’d chopped up that tree—the physical labor, the distraction—it’d been a gift, a reprieve. He’d slept like a baby again last night, dreamless and content.
The amount of work to be done here was staggering, but it was so much better than aimlessly roaming the country. He hadn’t had a plan when he’d set out from Wisconsin. Hadn’t cared about anything other than going.
But everything had changed when he’d seen this house. When he’d stood out in the rain that first night and traced the lines of its windows and shutters and eaves. When he’d found Laney’s magazine ad in the grass yesterday morning.
When he’d settled into his guestroom last night, almost forgetting his years-long standoff with God and nearly uttering a silent prayer of thanks. That he’d stumbled onto this house. That Mara had agreed to let him stay.
That he wanted to stay. How long had it been since he’d been able to name a single desire other than to rewind time and return to a day when he could still look in the mirror and see a father? A husband?
Mara stood in front of him now. Her coppery hair had dried into soft waves. Did she ever wear socks? “I’m glad you like this room. It’s my favorite one in the house.”
“I do like it. It may even make up for that terrifying doll room.” Marshall pulled one arm across his body, stretching muscle that ached along with everything else in his body. A good kind of ache, the remnant of yesterday’s hard, satisfying work.
Mara rolled her eyes even as she laughed. “Terrifying? Aren’t you being a little dramatic? I mean, they’re peculiar, yes, but—”
“Peculiar? No. The outdated pastel tile in every bathroom—that’s peculiar. The guestroom with all the clocks? Weird and unsettling. The one with three wooden rocking horses—why?” He stretched his other arm. “But the dolls? Mara, their eyes follow you around the room. I’m pretty sure I got goose bumps.”
She arranged the throw pillows on a faded blue sofa. “I’ll have you know that room almost had a tenant the other day. Some author was looking for a place to stay and that doll room was her favorite in the whole place. If not for that silly cat, she’d be occupying it right now.”
“I can’t believe it. I don’t believe it.”
She laughed again, folding a blanket over the edge of a chair before turning back to him and tucking her hair behind her ears. They stuck out just a little, her ears, just enough to be both noticeable and . . . well, cute. That is, if he were still the kind of man who noticed that kind of thing.
Instead of a man who hadn’t noticed a pretty woman in, hmm, he didn’t know how long.
He hadn’t even been all that aware of Penny in what had turned out to be the sunset years of their marriage. In those eleven wretched months of Laney’s sickness, he’d spent every spare moment researching treatments and calling specialists and gathering second, third, twentieth opinions. Investigating like the cop he was.
Not realizing his marriage was withering away as horribly and entirely as . . .
As a neglected house, he supposed.
But unlike his marriage, this house wasn’t beyond saving. Crazy as it sounded, just being here felt like a second chance. A last-minute lifeboat when he’d been all but ready to let the stormy ocean have him.
Save the Everwood, save himself.
Maybe Mara was right—maybe he was being dramatic. But then, today was his second day without a headache. If that wasn’t a sign, he didn’t know what was.
He clapped his hands and nodded. “All right. Let’s make that list of yours. I’d say this room doesn’t really need much work at all.” Although the furniture could use an upgrade and if a person were going for perfectio
n, an electric sander and some varnish might work wonders on the floor. But there were definitely more important repairs to focus on.
“There is one thing.” Mara pointed at the fireplace. “The damper’s stuck. A couple of weeks ago I pulled on the chain and it wouldn’t open. I decided I’d rather not smoke myself out, so I haven’t lit a fire since.”
“That should be an easy fix. I’ll take a look.”
The sooty odor of the chimney clouded around him as he crouched under the opening. He fiddled with the damper chain and reached one hand into the darkness.
He sensed Mara bending near him. “I didn’t mean you had to deal with this right now, Marsh.”
Did she realize she’d used a shortened version of his name? Penny used to call him Marsh.
“You’re Marsh when I’m distracted. Marshall when I’m serious. And when I’m feeling flirty . . . Marshmallow.”
He shook his head against the memory, flecks of ash floating all around. He coughed as his fingers connected with a metal closure. Bingo. A little more fiddling, another tug on the chain and—
Metal scraped against stone and a shower of ash fell over his head. Dust swelled and filled his lungs. He hit his head on the stone interior trying to escape the falling debris.
“Marshall!”
He swiped the back of one arm over his eyelids. Turned his sleeve black.
“Well, the damper’s open.”
The man had spent an entire day hauling a tree from her porch. He’d slept on a mattress Mara knew was lumpy. He’d started working this morning before she’d even woken up. And now he’d injured himself fixing the fireplace at her request.
And here she was laughing at him. “You look like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins.”
“I think what you mean is, ‘Thank you, Marshall, for fixing the fireplace to the detriment of your own safety.’” He wiped his face again, this time with the other sleeve.
“Yes, of course, thank you.” Still laughing.
He straightened, narrowing his eyes despite the upward tilt of his lips. “Remember two nights ago when you were the one with a head injury. I was so nice and helpful. You could learn something from me, Mara.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll get you an ice pack.”
“I don’t need an ice pack.”
Another stray giggle. “A chimney sweep brush then?”
His pretend grimace turned into a full grin behind his ash-flecked beard.
“Seriously, though, are you okay?”
“Now she asks.”
“I said I was sorry.” If he started glaring again, she’d start laughing again. “For real, thank you for fixing the damper.”
“For real, you’re welcome.” He shook the soot from his shirt then used his foot to scoot the black debris from the hearth into the fireplace.
“Marshall?”
“Yep?”
“This is going to work.” She needed to say the words out loud. She’d felt it as they’d walked through the house—the exhilarating and heady sense that this was all going to work out. As if these old walls were whispering a promise and offering a purpose. She felt it again now.
Marshall cast her a glance over his shoulder, understanding in his expression. “It’s going to work.” He went back to cleaning up the mess around the hearth.
“Are you sure you don’t need an ice pack?”
He didn’t answer, his shoulders stiffening as he stared into the fireplace.
“Marsh?”
He waved her toward him. “What do you think that is?” He pointed toward a glint of metal. It was hidden down low against one of the fireplace’s side walls, only visible from a certain angle, and even then barely noticeable under layers of soot and ash.
“Looks like a handle.”
Before the words were out of her mouth, he was already stepping over the pile of logs, grasping the handle. He pulled then pushed . . .
And disappeared through a sudden opening.
Shock propelled Mara after him. She hunched under the mantel, avoided the pilot light, and tumbled through the hatch into the dark, the scent of burnt wood sending her into a fit of coughing even as she rose to her feet.
What in the world?
A sharp light cut into the hollow blackness—Marshall’s cell phone.
“It’s a room. A whole other room.”
That was pure delight in Marshall’s voice. He cast his phone’s flashlight around the space—plain walls, no windows or furniture—before shining it toward Mara. “Did you know this was here?”
“No.” And did it really count as a room? Though long and narrow, if she lifted her arms, she could likely touch two walls at once. It wasn’t much bigger than a closet. Why build a closet onto the side of a fireplace? One apparently only accessible through the fireplace. It was the stuff of mystery books. And claustrophobia. Her breathing tightened.
“Do you think Lenora knew about this?” Marshall brushed past Mara and it wasn’t only the odor of the fireplace she smelled anymore. Clinging hints of coffee, along with something musky and masculine and subtle . . .
Definitely close quarters. She took a deep breath, backing up until she felt a wall behind her. “If she did know about it, she never mentioned it. But then again, she did grow up here and she’d say things sometimes . . . ”
“This old house and its secrets . . . the stories these walls could tell . . .”
Marshall’s light shone in her eyes again. “She grew up here?”
Mara nodded. “Her parents ran the Everwood for a while when she was a kid. After her husband died, she decided to come visit and lo and behold, the place was up for sale.” She slipped her phone from her pocket and tapped on its flashlight. “I’d hear her sometimes at night, padding around the attic. Like she was looking for something.”
“You never asked what?”
“We aren’t all detectives, Marshall.” Except here she was, mimicking a detective’s movements as she moved her light from corner to corner—looking for what, she didn’t know. But there had to be a reason for this space. “I guess I assumed if she ever wanted to tell me what she was searching for—or anything more about her past—she would. In her own time.”
Or perhaps, more truthfully, Mara had been so wrapped up in her own turmoil, she hadn’t been able to look past Lenora’s kind and welcoming exterior.
Guilt bullied her at the thought. How many times through her teenage years had she wished Mom could see through her anger and grief to the hurting daughter in front of her? Had Mara turned her own blind eye to Lenora?
Marshall must have heard her piercing inhale. He studied her now instead of the room’s blank walls. “What? You remember something?”
“No. I . . . I just . . .” She pointed her light to his face. Despite his obvious exhilaration at finding this room, she could still see just enough of the faint circles under his eyes to remember the way he’d looked that first night—physically exhausted, but even more so, heart weary.
Finally, one corner of his mouth quirked. “You know, it strikes me that you know a lot more about me than I do you. You’re almost a little mysterious, you know that?”
“It’s the house that’s mysterious, Marshall.” More than she’d realized. “Not me.”
“Yes, well, I don’t even know your last name.”
“Mara Bristol. Thirty. Born in Arizona, raised all over.”
“Army brat?”
“No, just restless parents.” A father searching for a dream his family couldn’t fulfill. And later, a mom never content for long in one place.
“And before you wound up here?”
“I was a nanny. Four families in nine years. Anything else you want to know?”
“A detective always has questions, Mara.”
Even in the dark, she could see the gleam in his eyes—teasing but also curious. The skittish Mara who’d shown up on the Everwood’s doorstep months ago would’ve shrunk back.
But now, in the dim and the mystery of this space, all
she felt was the first hint of a thrill.
Because of the hidden room, of course.
Because of the thought of bringing the Everwood back to life.
Because . . .
“Hello?”
At the muffled voice, Mara jumped. At once, Marshall’s hands were on her arms, steadying her. Had he been standing this close to her all along or did the tight quarters of the little room suddenly feel even smaller? Could he hear the deafening thud of her heartbeat?
And who was in the house?
She pulled away and crawled through the hatch, feeling the ash under her hands and knees. Marshall was still squeezing through behind her when she rose just in time to see a familiar face entering the den.
That woman from the bakery the other day—the newspaper reporter. Jess, Jen—Jenessa. Right. Every inch of her sleek and stylish, from her tall boots to her all-black ensemble to her high ponytail. Only the shock on her face—her wide eyes, her open mouth—looked out of place. Her focus darted from Mara to Marshall to the fireplace and back again.
Until her bright red lips broke into a smile. “Well, I have about a thousand and one questions. But first, if he’ll ever stop lollygagging, I brought you a surprise.”
Another set of footsteps. Another familiar face.
Too familiar.
Not Garrett.
But the man who appeared around the corner—the same one who’d sent her scrambling from the bakery two days ago—could’ve walked straight out of this morning’s nightmare.
“Lucas Danby,” Jenessa declared. “A guest. So that tonight when you stand up during the town meeting and ask for a grant—Sam told you about the grant fund, right?—well, you can say you have at least one B&B room filled.” She cast a curious glance to Marshall. “Or maybe two, as it were.”
Mara couldn’t take her eyes off the man—Lucas—as he came to stand beside Jenessa. Up close, the resemblance to Garrett wasn’t nearly as strong. He was older, certainly, and where Garrett’s cheeks still held a youthful fullness, this man’s face was leaner, cheekbones higher and more pronounced.
Still, they could’ve been relatives. His lanky height, his hawkish nose, the dusty brown hair that almost reached the man’s shoulders—all of it similar enough to Garrett that it sent another chill quaking through her, jumbling her thoughts . . .
