Lauren’s eyes widened in surprise when the house finally came into view. She hadn’t bothered to look it up online, preferring to see it for the first time in real life and form an impression. It was a lot grander than she’d expected, the type of house one saw in advertisements for a holiday on the seashore. It even had an actual name, rather than just an address—Holland House. She parked the car and got out, smiling at Susan McPherson, who’d been waiting in her car but was now coming to greet her.
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic out of the city was monstrous.”
“It always is,” Susan replied breezily. “No worries. I caught up on some calls while I was waiting for you. It was too cold to hang around outside anyhow.”
“Susan, are you sure this place is within my budget? It looks too—I don’t know—glamorous.”
Susan gave a dismissive shrug. “Glamorous is not a word I’d use to describe this house. The location is perfect for someone who wants to spend the summer in blissful isolation, but it’s not overly appealing to families who prefer to be close to the beach. There’s a private dock, but no boat,” she added as she led Lauren around the side of the house to show her the breathtaking view. Beyond Pleasant Bay, the Atlantic stretched like a blue-gray quilt toward the horizon, its surface decorated with foaming whitecaps whipped up by the wind. Several small islands were visible from their vantage point on the hill. According to Susan, they were uninhabited, being too small and steep to build a summer residence to rival the one she was looking at.
A wide patio hugged the back of the house, complete with wrought-iron furniture and a covered grill. A narrow wooden staircase led to the water’s edge, where a short dock extended into the bay. Both the stairs and the dock looked old and rickety, unlike the house, which appeared solid, if windswept, by comparison. It had the pleasing proportions often found in homes of colonial design, but Lauren didn’t think this house was a modern-day replica—it looked like the real thing.
“When was this place built?”
“The original house was constructed in the eighteenth century. It had two rooms downstairs and two bedrooms above. I believe the widow’s walk dates to the nineteenth century,” Susan said, glancing at the white-painted rooftop platform that was such a common feature of houses on Cape Cod. “Over time, the owners added indoor plumbing, several rooms, a patio, a sunroom, and, of course, the driveway and the garage. However,” Susan shook her head in dismay, “it’s not wired for cable or internet. Another nail in the coffin for the current owner. Families want TV and internet. Kids don’t spend their free time reading and playing board games as they did when I was a kid.”
“No, I don’t suppose they do. Why doesn’t the owner just bring in the cable company?”
“I think he just forgets about this place until it’s time to rent it out again, and then it seems like too much of an expense, or too big a hassle. I honestly don’t know. He lives in L.A., where he makes movies.”
“He’s a film producer?” Lauren asked, curious.
“No, he does special effects. One of those artistic types,” she added, as if that were the worst thing a person could be. “I think he’d happily sell the place if he could be bothered to deal with all the details of putting it on the market. As long as he gets a few tenants in each summer, he’s content to let the property sit empty for the remainder of the year.”
“So, the isolated location and the lack of internet are enough of a drawback to keep renters away?” Lauren asked, amazed that anyone would pass up such a wonderful place.
Susan looked furtive for a moment, then exhaled loudly, as if she had no choice but to tell the truth. “This house has a bit of a reputation.”
“A reputation for what?”
“Look, it’s an old house. It creaks, doors slam shut, probably because there’s a draft. Lights occasionally go on by themselves, but the wiring hasn’t been updated since it was put in, whenever that might have been. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Are you saying, in a very no-nonsense, dismissive kind of way, that the house is haunted?” Lauren asked, amused by Susan’s desire to explain away the ‘reputation.’
“I’m saying it’s old, and it gets buffeted by winds from the Atlantic. I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Neither do I,” Lauren replied. She wished she did because then maybe Zack would come to her. She needed closure, something she’d never have now. “Can we go inside?” she asked as she huddled deeper into her coat. The house’s location ensured it would be cool in the summer, but in the middle of March, it was arctic on that hill.
“Sure. Sorry. I always tend to pontificate about the view. I must emphasize the sellable points.”
“So, the house is a dump?” Lauren asked with a chuckle.
“No. It’s nice.” Passable, in real estate speak, Lauren thought as she followed Susan toward the front door.
The inside wasn’t too bad. The place could use a good airing out, but aside from the stagnant smell, it was more than passable. There was a sofa and comfortable-looking chairs arranged before the fireplace, several lamps, and a colorful rug that made the living room look cozy and inviting. The windows faced the bay, a major plus as far as Lauren was concerned. The kitchen was outdated, but she had no plans to do any serious cooking, so it would do.
“This is the office,” Susan said as she threw open the door of a room that faced the front of the house and held a desk, several bookshelves, and a swivel chair. The white walls were bare, and the window faced the side of the garage. “You could write in here.”
I doubt it, Lauren thought as she sized up the unappealing room. No inspiration would strike her within its utilitarian confines. Whoever had used this room in the past had left nothing of their personality behind, not even a picture on the wall or a tattered paperback they no longer wanted.
“Shall we go upstairs?” Susan chirped, clearly happier now that she thought Lauren was interested. “There are four bedrooms: two kids’ rooms, a guest room, and a master bedroom. The master bedroom is not exactly in keeping with the rest of the house, but it’s very quaint.”
“Sounds ominous,” Lauren joked.
“Not at all. See for yourself.”
The three smaller bedrooms were reminiscent of any B&B Lauren had stayed at. Flowery quilts thrown over twin beds with scratched wooden headboards, neutral carpeting, and colorful curtains to brighten the space. The master bedroom, however, was a surprise. A four-poster bed dominated the room, its massive mahogany posts intricately carved. The seafoam-colored quilt appeared to be made of thick damask and decorated with silver braid that matched the delicate pattern. A heavy wardrobe stood in the corner, the design matching that of the bedposts, but the item of furniture that really grabbed Lauren’s attention was the lovely secretary desk that faced the window, which opened onto the vista of tall pines and shimmering sea. The desk was mahogany, its surface smooth and satiny despite years of use. There were three drawers on each side, plus several small drawers in the top section. Each drawer had a polished brass knob and a fanciful pattern carved into the wood. The desk was reminiscent of something Charles Dickens or Jane Austen would own, but it had probably been crafted before their time.