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Chapter One
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March
“I think I’m in love,” I whispered with quiet reverence. It was a mistake. I knew that immediately. A mistake and irresponsible to fall in love at first glance. After all, what did I know about the inside if all I could see were the beautiful luscious lines on the outside? Besides, I knew better. When you fall in love with a house on the spot, you lose perspective. Heaven forbid the seller realized you loved the home because then you’d lost your bargaining power, especially if you were willing to pay anything to get it. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of paying anything to get it.
The house was built in the style of an old Victorian, but I knew from the price sheet it was only sixteen years old and thus wouldn’t provide me with the headaches of a turn-of-the- century home. It was located in a small town called Denton, South Carolina, about an hour northwest of Charleston. The house had quaint gingerbread molding with a wrap-around front porch, a style usually seen more often in the New England area, and it was probably one of the reasons I loved it so much. It felt like a bit of home to me amidst the southern belle-flavored houses normally seen throughout South Carolina. The street appealed to me too. It was quiet and shady with rows of Bradford Pear trees lining the sides like soldiers at attention. In early spring, the trees would bloom with their fluffy white blossoms announcing the end of winter. I could easily envision strolling down the tree-lined sidewalk on my way to work.
A recent transplant to Denton, I had become the newest librarian at the Denton Regional Library. South Carolina was my new home. Or maybe a better description would be the place I had run to, away from a former life—a life I was doing my best to put distance and the memory of far away. I was looking for a place to reinvest the money I’d received from the sale of my downtown loft. The market was up when I left the steel town of Pittsburgh and the Denton housing market was slightly depressed. Money would go a long way toward buying a house down here. Although, it did seem slightly ridiculous for one person to be thinking of living in a 3,000 square foot home...alone. Dismissively, I shook my head; I wouldn’t allow thoughts like that to distract me from this gorgeous dwelling.
To me, the house represented salvation, a new beginning in small-town America. I wished to shed the memories of my old life as a snake shed its skin when it grew. Perhaps I, too, would grow a new skin in Denton. Looking over the front porch, I pictured myself sitting on a rocker watching the neighborhood kids ride their bikes up and down the street.
Perhaps I’ll get a cat to keep me company. Great, I’ll become the crazy cat lady living alone in the big house. What was I thinking? Shading my eyes with a hand, I turned to look at the upper stories and thought I caught a faint movement in the third-story window on the far right—possibly a curtain fluttering from a draft. Perhaps the owner was inside watching me.
My daydreams came to an abrupt halt as my realtor parked on the street behind my car. Jackie Barnes stepped out of her cream Cadillac with a wave and peachy southern smile aimed my way. As usual, she was dressed to the nines in a deep blue dress and drool-worthy pink stilettos. Her hair was shellacked into a blonde helmet that would take hurricane force winds to displace. The classic style suited her age, I guessed at mid-forties, and her looks. I felt a bit frumpy next to her wearing khaki shorts and a red polo. My realtor was a striking woman and compared to her I blended into the realm of average. Thick chestnut brown hair fell to my shoulders and blew gently in the breeze. I inherited the hair from my mom and loved its natural body and reddish highlights. On the other hand, my eyes were your average brown. Romantics might call them luscious chocolate, but to me they were just boring brown eyes. My figure could best be described as an hourglass.
Jackie arrived at my side, chattering away. “Isn’t it fabulous?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s only sixteen-years-old, but the architect did such a wonderful job with the wrap- around porch and gingerbread accents you’d never know it wasn’t designed at the turn of the century.” She let out a rush of air. “So, what do you think?”
I liked Jackie for her perkiness and southern accent, which exuded hospitality and charm. She became my realtor when I literally walked off the street into her office with no appointment and very little idea exactly what I was looking for—much like the rest of my life lately. Jackie, with unflappable good humor and what seemed to be inexhaustible patience, showed me home after home for about three weeks. I supposed that was the difference between realtors in the big city versus my new small town. I thanked my lucky stars for it. In Pittsburgh, I have no doubt a realtor would have dropped me like a hot potato or pawned me off on her most junior recruit. Jackie seemed to feel something motherly toward me and kept plugging away trying to find just the right “thang” for me.
I smiled at Jackie. “It looks perfect.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you like it.” She had a look of relief. “It just came on the market yesterday. I believe it’s vacant. The former owner passed away a few months ago and the heirs are just now gettin’ around to sellin’. Let’s go ahead to see if it looks as good on the inside, shall we? The selling agent said she is going to meet us here and explain some sort of condition to the sale.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not sure what that means. I hope it doesn’t mean the interior is a wreck or the foundation is falling apart.” Jackie looked back at me as she trotted up to the front door, her heels tapping against the brick walkway, gesturing madly with her hands. “If it’s the foundation, let me tell you, honey, it’s just not worth it. I have all sorts of horror stories about poorly laid foundations that crack and every time it rains the water pours into the cellah.”
All I needed to do was nod and make nondescript sounds of agreement and Jackie would carry on her chattering.
“Now it says in the MLS it has three finished levels and a cellah. Let’s see, they list three bedrooms and two and a half baths.” With a brief pause, Jackie glanced around. “Isn’t this porch just as cute as can be? What you need here are some rockers and a swing right over there and, of course, some sweet tea for sippin’ in the evenin’. I just have a good feeling about this one.
Honey, I think it might be you.” Jackie stopped speaking for a moment as she punched in the code to the keypad of the lock box hanging on the front door. She slipped the key into the lock, took a deep breath and gave a great swoop of her arm. “Here we go ...”
The clacking of Jackie’s shoes echoed through the house as we stepped into the foyer. I was surprised by the emptiness; I had assumed the former owner’s furniture would still be in place for showings. Shiny hardwood floors seemed to run throughout the first floor and up the stairs directly to my left. A bright lemony scent of cleaning products pervaded my senses as I entered the front parlor on my right. The rooms felt open and airy due to the nine-foot ceilings. Three windows spanned the front of the house showing off a good view of the porch and large cherry blossom tree in the front yard. The rounded portion of house, well known to the Victorian style, was set up as an octagonal office off the parlor, and the front porch wrapped all the way around the circular portion, ending about ten feet beyond the side of the house. I fell in love with the office-study instantly for its odd shape. More windows spanned the front and sides of the octagon, and built-in bookshelves lined the other wall.
I followed Jackie back through the parlor and into the kitchen. It was a modern marvel with quartz countertops, cherry cabinets, a hefty center island and appliances that looked large and brand new. I wandered over to the stove and read Viking along the front. There was a breakfast nook expansive enough to accommodate a table for six. The kitchen was beautiful, but what stopped me cold was the view from the French doors leading out into the backyard. Yard was an understatement. What met my eyes was a beautiful English-style garden with oriental accents thrown in. Jackie’s phone rang and she stepped into the other room to answer.
Unlocking the back door, I strolled into the Garden of Eden surrounded by a six-foot brick fence. The garden snaked its way through blooming larkspur and lilies of various sorts. A lilac bush bloomed to my left along with hollyhocks and dozens of other flowers that would open in the summer heat. Laying my handbag on a green cafe table, I stepped off the brick patio onto a gravel walkway. I’d seen gardens like this at European castles and English manors when I backpacked through Europe during a college summer. I walked under an arbor of honeysuckle vines that had spread enough to close out the light from the sun above. On my left a concrete bench sat tucked against the arbor wall, waiting for two lovers. Following the path as it branched to my left, I was instantly charmed by the fountain. A plump cupid stood atop his cement pedestal and waited for water to come flowing out of the arrow he pointed directly at me. Pulling my eyes away from the cupid, I followed the path on my right and walked deeper into the garden, shadowed by an old tree I determined must be an elm, its new leaves bright green in early development. In the far back corner stood a gazebo surrounded by nodding columbines and brightly colored azaleas in pinks, purples and whites. My fingertips dragged lightly along one of the two padded teak chairs inside the gazebo. Leaves rustled in the breeze and a feeling of serenity enveloped me as I pictured myself drinking a morning cup of coffee out here. Something clicked into place and, at that moment, I knew I’d buy this house even if I had to replace the entire foundation.
Once again Jackie pulled me from my reverie. She’d probably been calling for quite some time. I looked back. She balanced unsteadily as she teetered along the pebbly pathway in her stilettos. “Cara ... honey, are you out here?”
I reluctantly walked away from my gazebo oasis and hailed Jackie.
“Oh, there you are.” She appeared relieved. “Aren’t these gardens just so purty?”
Pretty was the understatement of the year—stunning, spectacular, extraordinary seemed to fit the bill. I nodded. “Yes, they’re quite beautiful. I’ll buy the house. Let’s write up a contract.”
“Oh, sweetie, you haven’t even seen the rest of the house yet.” Jackie laughed. “Let’s keep lookin’. The main floor seems fine to me. I took a peep in the cellah and it didn’t look like it was crumbling or cracked. We’d better just wait and see what’s what. I don’t want to put a single, young thang like you in a house with problems. I just couldn’t forgive myself. Let’s look around a bit more, and don’t say a thing to Anne, the selling agent. We wouldn’t want to give her the upper hand, would we?” Jackie gave a conspiratorial wink.
In keeping with Jackie’s recommendation, we wandered through the downstairs dining and family rooms admiring the crown molding throughout the first floor and the wainscoting in the dining room. After opening every kitchen appliance and closet door, Jackie led the way to the second floor.
The master bedroom faced the front of the house above the parlor, with tall windows that had stained glass transoms along the top. A sitting area was located above the study. The scent of lemons grew stronger as I entered an en suite bath with all the amenities, including a whirlpool tub. Next to the master bedroom sat the guest bath, and two guest rooms took up the back of the house. Both had windows overlooking the beautiful gardens. Gazing out the window, I had a bird’s-eye view of the layout; the pathways leading to the left of the house were filled with more leafy trees and an area of roses. I envied an imaginary guest this view.
We left the second guest bedroom, turned right and walked to the end of a short hallway where a heavy exterior door with a dead bolt on it was shut tight.
Jackie flipped the lock. “This must lead to the third floor, which I believe is finished. This dead bolt is kind of ... peculiar.”
She swung the door into the hall, and I looked over her shoulder at a small square landing. A generic white exterior door lay straight ahead and on our right stood the same style door. Each had a dead bolt. Jackie crossed to the door straight ahead. The lock snapped with a sharp click and the door swung into the alcove. Muted sunshine lit the small nook highlighting a brown indoor-outdoor rug that had seen better days. Jackie stuck her head out of the opening.
“Well, look at this. I didn’t even notice this from the outside.” Jackie turned back to me. “The architect cleverly hid a set of outdoor stairs above the carport. They lead down to the back of the house. Maybe it was a fire code or something.”
“Mm,” I murmured, stepping forward and tilting my head to look over her shoulder.
Sure enough, I could see the top of a set of white wooden stairs hidden by a partial wall. “The other door must lead to the finished attic.”
There was minimal space on the little landing with the door open, and I didn’t want to crowd Jackie, so I stepped back into the upper hallway. Jackie shut the door to the outside, turned back to the landing, and grasped the doorknob of the third door. It didn’t budge. The dead bolt needed a key. Jackie tried the house key to no avail.
That’s odd. I was about to say something when we were interrupted by a clattering of high heels and a melodic yoo-hooing.
“Anne, is that you?” Jackie called, “We’re up here trying to get in the attic, but it’s locked.”
“No, no. You can’t get into the attic, Jackie. Why don’t you come downstairs so I can explain?” Anne sounded a bit panicky.
Seeing the consternation on Jackie’s face at being told we couldn’t see the attic, I said, “We’ll be right down.”
We crossed the hall and headed downstairs. Indeed, something must be wrong in the attic.
Perhaps it was full of furniture from the rest of the house. I let my imagination run wild and conjured up the ghost of the former owner who roamed the attic groaning with chains clanking in the night. Could I live with that?
We met up with the selling agent in the front parlor. Jackie introduced me to Anne, a pert redhead with hazel eyes and a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her nose. I guessed Anne to be somewhere in her early thirties, just a few years older than me.
She smiled, showing her perfectly bleached, porcelain-white teeth as she held out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.” Her arm jingled with gold bangle bracelets as she shook my hand.
I responded with a similarly inane remark.
Finished with the pleasantries, Jackie got right down to business. “So, what’s going on with the attic? Why can’t we see it? Is there something wrong with it?”
“Oh no. There’s nothing wrong with it. A tenant lives in it.” “That explains the dead bolt.”
Jackie and I released a sigh of relief.
“Yes, well, if that’s all, maybe we can arrange a time to see the apartment when the tenant can make it available,” said Jackie.
“Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. You see ...” Anne looked apprehensive, “The provisions of the sale of the house state the tenant stays. You can’t go into the attic.”
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