Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 35982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
“I have some work I need to–”
“Nonsense.” She waves a hand at me. “Go on. When Constance gets here, I’ll call for you. She’s bringing enough ingredients to cook for all three of us.”
I cock my head to the side. Now how in the hell did she manage to plan dinner ahead for all three of us when half the time, I’m not even sure she knows what time of day it is?
“Go, go.” She shoos Charlie toward me.
“You didn’t hire me to give tours, Edith.” I cross my arms over my chest.
Charlie halts. “No, that’s okay. I can just–”
“Oh, stop trying to act so tough,” Edith scolds. “What are you, scared of her?”
I narrow my eyes at the old woman. She narrows hers right back.
“He’s taking you. That’s final.” Edith stabs a gnarled finger at me. “I’d beat you with a wet noodle if I had one.”
I grit my teeth, then realize Edith isn’t going to give in. She has that look on her face–the same one when she told me there was a ghost in her wall making a ticking sound and refused to listen to reason. Her mind’s made up. And–like with the nonexistent ticking–either I give in to her wishes, or I listen to her nonstop harassment for hours on end.
“Yes, I’ll take you on a tour. Come on.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder.
“Um, okay.” Charlie shrugs. “It has been a while.”
“We’ll have plenty of time together. Don’t you worry. A whole week for spring break, that’s lots of time.” Edith drops the yarn, then drapes the still-soggy macrame on her craft table. “Going to be perfect.” She smiles down at it.
“You don’t have to do this.” Charlie keeps her voice low. “If you’re busy, I unders–”
“It’s fine,” I say, more swiftly than I intended.
She lowers her gaze. “Okay.”
Fuck, now I feel like an asshole. That’s never bothered me before, so I won’t let it start now. I shake it off and stride into the hallway. “The house was built in 1887 by your ancestors Grady and Virginia Devereaux. They’d amassed a small fortune from their textile plants, where they employed skilled laborers to weave fabrics that were then sold all over the world. Virginia took a liking to these woods when she and Grady were traveling through to deliver a load of goods to the nearby port. Grady bought the property as a surprise for her, and they began building later that year.”
“Wow, you know so much.” She stands beside me as I stare up at a painting of Grady and Virginia. He wears a slight half smile, his hand on the back of Virginia’s chair as he stares down at his wife. Virginia, though, she looks right at the painter, a hint of mischief in her gaze. “They look happy.” Charlie smiles up at them. “I remember seeing this when I was younger, and I always thought she seemed like she was hiding a secret. Like the Mona Lisa, but far more scandalous.”
I nod. She must have an eye for art. I’ve thought along similar lines, but I’ve never been able to put it into words the way she just did.
I clear my throat and continue, “The house was built in the Queen Anne Victorian style, which is why the exterior has interesting paint choices–all original colors–and the design is asymmetrical with a widow’s walk at the highest roof elevation.”
“Widow’s walk?” she asks.
“A term from when wives would climb to the highest peak of their house to look out at the sea and try to find their husband’s ship. Often, if it came to that, she was already a widow.”
“Yikes.” She hugs herself.
I edge closer to her, though I have no clue why. “Virginia liked the drama of it. That’s all. And she certainly had her quirks.” I lean down and push against the paneled wall beneath her portrait. A spring clicks, and the panel swings open, revealing a secret passage between the pantry and the back bedroom.
“Wow!” She leans down, giving me another view of her heart-shaped ass. “That’s so cool!”
“There are lots of places like this all over the house, and she included them in the outbuildings, as well.”
She stands and turns to me. “I had no idea. My mom never told me any of this stuff.” Her mouth pulls down a little, disappointment in her tone.
For some reason–fuck knows why–I want to comfort her. “She probably didn’t know. She was never a full Devereaux, was she? They didn’t actually marry.” I close the panel.
“Grams told you?” she asks.
No, but my research did. “Every family has a past.”
She seems to consider my words. “Yeah, I get that. Mine’s just …” She shrugs.
“My family wasn’t exactly perfect, either.” I lead her along the hallway, my hand at her elbow. A thrill pulses through me at the contact and at the fact that it feels comfortable, normal even, for me to be touching her casually. She doesn’t pull away.