Windswept Way (Hope Harbor #9)(2)
Author: Irene Hannon

 

Or so she’d read while researching the location.

 

If this trip panned out, however, she’d find out firsthand what—

 

Her phone began to vibrate, and she picked it up off the seat beside her. Skimmed the screen. Grimaced.

 

She did not need any more negativity undermining her confidence. Especially on the heels of her unsettling encounter at the gate.

 

However, if she didn’t answer, her mother would keep calling until she picked up.

 

Bracing, she pressed talk and put the cell to her ear. “Hi, Mom.”

 

“Have you arrived?”

 

“You know I did. I called you from the airport in North Bend, after I picked up my rental car.” Ashley squinted into the distance as one side of the house’s double front door opened partway.

 

“I mean are you at the house? Have you seen it yet?”

 

“I just pulled through the gates.”

 

“And?”

 

“It’s amazing. From a distance, anyway.”

 

“Oh, Ashley. It’s too soon to make that call.” Dismay, along with more than a hint of exasperation, flattened her mother’s inflection. “You’re so like your father. You know how he got carried away whenever a new project lit a fire in him—and how he often ended up getting burned. You’ll find a structural engineer to go over the place before you commit to anything, right?”

 

“Yes. That’s the plan. But the house is brick.”

 

“It’s also more than a hundred years old.”

 

“I know. That’s part of the charm.”

 

“Charm can be a money suck. For all you know, the foundation is crumbling and termites have turned the support beams into Swiss cheese.”

 

Now those were cheery thoughts.

 

“I promise not to leap without doing my homework, Mom.”

 

“You’ve already leapt. Traveling 2,500 miles tells me you’re serious about this. What if it’s a scam?”

 

“How can it be a scam? I’m the one who initiated contact, remember? And I already told you I talked to the references the owner provided. If you can’t trust a minister, a police chief, and the director of a reputable charitable organization, who can you trust?”

 

“Are you certain no red flags came up in those conversations?”

 

“Not a one.” Unless you counted the fact that while all the references had said the reclusive owner was generous and law-abiding, they’d admitted they didn’t personally know her very well.

 

A sigh came over the line. “The background check I ordered didn’t find anything negative either—other than a scandal in which she apparently played no role . . . and which you neglected to mention.”

 

Ashley blinked. “You ran a background check on her?”

 

“SOP in the business world. Please tell me you knew about the scandal.”

 

“Yes, I did. But that was eight years ago, and all my research indicated she was an innocent party.” And an injured party.

 

Bad as her own experience with Jason had been, having a husband indicted and sent to prison for a Madoff-like con would be far worse.

 

“I’m relieved you were at least aware of it. Listen, are you certain you don’t want me to fly up there? You’re only a few hundred miles north of San Francisco, and two heads are better than one if big money is at stake. I could block a day out of my schedule.”

 

The door of the house opened a few more inches, but whoever was behind it remained inside. “I appreciate the offer, Mom, but I’m thirty-two. I can handle this. Listen, I think the owner’s spotted me. She’s probably wondering why I stopped halfway down the drive. I should go.”

 

A beat ticked by.

 

“You think I’m meddling, don’t you?”

 

“I don’t know if I’d call it meddling.” But it was clear her mother wasn’t confident in her daughter’s business acumen or common sense. “And I appreciate your concern.”

 

“You know I want what’s best for you, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah. I know.”

 

And she did. Even if their ideas on that score seldom overlapped.

 

If Mom had had her druthers, her sole offspring would have followed her into a high-profile career in Silicon Valley or become an attorney or engineer or doctor.

 

She certainly wouldn’t have followed her heart, as her anthropology professor father had done, and picked a major as impractical as historic preservation and architectural history. Nor would she have considered a low-paying position as an assistant curator and events director at an antebellum mansion in Tennessee a dream job.

 

One that had, alas, gone up in smoke.

 

Literally.

 

But the experience? Priceless.

 

And if she had it to do all over again, she wouldn’t change a—

 

“. . . what I say, you always go your own way. Like your father did.”

 

Whoops. Better tune back in to the conversation.

 

“Dad did okay.”

 

“Depends how you define okay.”

 

That was true. And her parents’ definitions had been miles apart. No wonder they’d split when she was ten. Yet while it was true that Dad had never had a high-end condo or traveled first class to Europe or become a corporate executive like Mom had, he’d loved what he’d done. And the tidy sum she’d inherited after he’d died last year proved he’d had more money sense than Mom had ever given him credit for.

 

However, debating philosophy and priorities wasn’t on her agenda today.

 

“I agree that okay has different meanings for different people.” The door to the house closed. “I have to go, Mom. I’ll give you a full report later.”

 

“I’ll be waiting to hear. Remember to be businesslike and sensible. Put away your rose-colored glasses and don’t let romantic fantasies about historic seaside estates muddle your thinking.”

 

Ashley stifled a snort.

 

No problem on the romantic fantasies score. Not after Jason, thank you very much. Going forward, her head, not her heart, would prevail—with houses and with men.

 

“Got it. Talk to you soon.”