Windswept Way (Hope Harbor #9)(3)
Author: Irene Hannon
She ended the call, set the cell on the passenger seat, and pressed on the accelerator again.
Gravel crunching beneath her tires, she traversed the extended drive that ended in a loop in front of the house. From there, a long stone walkway led to five wide brick steps that ascended to a hydrangea-rimmed porch, where a lone fern hung between the posts supporting the roof. Like the ones in the old photo she’d found. Except back then, there’d been a fern between every post. There had also been a lush garden on either side of the walkway that had long since succumbed to weeds.
Still, while the grounds displayed little of their former glory, even at this closer range the structure showed no obvious signs of decay.
Ashley set the brake, picked up her purse and the notebook containing the multitude of questions she’d jotted, and slid from behind the wheel. Time to see whether her long trek was the beginning of a new journey or an expensive, waste-of-time detour.
Purse slung over her shoulder, she walked down the path toward the steps that were flanked by empty stone flower urns. Ascended to the porch and moved toward the impressive carved double door, which featured textured, opaque glass overlaid with filigreed ironwork on the top half and was crowned by an elliptical stained-glass transom.
Man.
They didn’t make entryways like this anymore.
As she leaned toward the bell, one of the doors opened a few inches. But the figure on the other side remained hidden.
Ashley’s hand froze.
Not the warmest welcome—but in keeping with a woman who had no social media presence, communicated by email rather than phone, and was known as a recluse.
“I thought perhaps you’d changed your mind and were going to turn around and drive away.”
The voice that came from the shadows sounded rusty.
Also consistent with a woman who kept to herself.
“My mother called as I pulled in. She, uh, wanted to be sure I’d arrived safely.”
“I expect she also offered a few words of advice. Mothers are like that. Come in. You must be tired after your long trip.”
The door opened wider, and Ashley got her first look at the mistress of Edgecliff.
Rose Fitzgerald Warner—or Rose Fitzgerald, as she now preferred to be called—was tall and slender, her silver hair secured in a soft French twist. She wore modest makeup on a face that had remarkably few wrinkles for an eighty-year-old. Nor did her keen blue eyes hint at eight decades of living.
Her attire, however? Different story. The long black skirt, white lace blouse with high neck and leg-of-mutton sleeves, and cinched waist were turn-of-the-century.
The last century.
A red alert began to beep in Ashley’s mind.
What rational person would wear hundred-year-old clothes?
The woman’s lips quirked, as if she’d heard the unspoken question. “I thought, with your background, you’d appreciate the vintage attire.”
“Oh, I do. The outfit is, uh, lovely.”
“In case you’re concerned, I don’t dress like this every day. I exhumed this ensemble from a trunk in the attic to add ambiance to our meeting. Please come in. The drawing room is on your left.” She moved aside and motioned that direction.
After a brief hesitation, Ashley crossed the threshold. The woman might be eccentric, but she was well-spoken and seemed lucid. Her emails had been articulate. She came with solid references.
There was no reason to be concerned.
None at all.
Reining in her overactive imagination, Ashley stopped in the middle of the foyer and gave it a slow perusal.
On one wall, a fireplace with an elaborate carved mantel dominated. A double stairway with ornate spindles hugged the walls on each side as it wound to a landing that was backed by another large stained-glass window overlooking the foyer. The light from the late-afternoon sun spilled through, creating a mosaic of colors on the parquet floor and brightening the space despite the dark wood wainscoting. All of the furnishings were period.
It was like stepping back in time.
Exactly what she’d hoped to find.
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
At Rose’s question, she angled sideways to find the older woman watching her.
“Very.”
“As a child, I loved to sit in here in the afternoon whenever we visited. Delicious aromas would waft from the kitchen, and I’d watch the kaleidoscope of colors on the floor. It always felt safe and peaceful . . . and permanent.” Her melancholy smile faded. “But of course, nothing is.” She swept a hand toward the drawing room through a broad opening that could no doubt be closed off with pocket doors. “Shall we have tea and a chat? Or are you having second thoughts?”
Third thoughts would be more accurate. But admitting that could kill this deal—assuming she decided to go through with it after additional due diligence. Rose wasn’t likely to sign on the dotted line with a stranger who was less than enthusiastic or committed about the plans they’d discussed.
“More like taking everything in and keeping an open mind.”
“Always wise in a new situation.” Rose closed the front door. “Have a seat. I’ll retrieve the tea and join you in a minute.” With that, she disappeared through the archway between the twin staircases.
For a full thirty seconds, Ashley remained where she was, breathing in air redolent of history and opportunity.
It was possible, of course, that this trip would end up being a waste of time and money.
But maybe . . . just maybe . . . it would be a once-in-a-lifetime chance to leave her own past behind and forge a new path in a town with the promising name of Hope Harbor.
2
Why was a drop-dead gorgeous woman visiting Edgecliff?
Jonathan Gray stowed the chain saw in his equipment shed as the question that had looped through his mind during the entire quarter mile walk back to his place echoed yet again.
A question that refused to be silenced, despite his concerted attempts to muzzle it.
Muttering a few choice words, he yanked off his mask.
Who cared if Rose Fitzgerald had a pretty visitor or why she was there? As long as he got paid for keeping the canopy of foliage at the entrance to Edgecliff clear and the lawn cut, the goings-on there were no concern of his.