Authors: Maureen Child
“She’s one of us, huh?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Not a surprise. Marconi genes are hard to defeat.”
Sam nodded. “That’s something Jeff’s going to have to learn.”
It was too early in the morning to be dealing with this.
Sam took a deep breath and gripped the cardboard cup holding the last of her coffee a little tighter. What she wouldn’t give for a refill.
Grace Van Horn, tiny tyrant, smiled benignly, like some benevolent good fairy. But Sam wasn’t fooled. She’d been down this road before. Three summers ago, in fact, and the nightmares were
still
close enough to give her cold chills.
Short and trim, Grace was sixty and looked years younger. She was dressed in pale brown slacks and a lemon-colored silk shirt. Her snow-white hair was styled close to her head and her dark eyes sparkled with enough ideas to drive construction crews to strokes. The remodeling magazines Grace held clutched to her chest made Sam want to jump back into the truck and peel out of the driveway, leaving behind nothing but tread marks.
Under the best of circumstances, a summer of working for Grace was trying. Grace, a huge animal lover, gave her menagerie the run of the place and construction crews spent most of their time moving cats out of the way, chasing off dogs, shooing chickens, and trying
desperately to keep the goats and sheep from eating the equipment.
But now, Sam didn’t even have the luxury of a concentrated focus. Instead, her brain kept wandering far away from construction, to settle on Jeff and Emma.
She was
married
.
And having a hard time getting past that.
Plus, trying to think about work when all she wanted was another look at her daughter was nearly impossible.
“I’m so excited to be getting started,” Grace said, sweeping her gaze across the gathered Marconi sisters and their crew, waiting in trucks parked in the driveway. She practically vibrated in her eagerness. “It’s going to be a wonderfully creative summer.”
Someone groaned.
Sam was really afraid it had been
her
.
When Grace started throwing the word “creative” around, it was time to hide. Since her husband’s death ten years before, Grace had made it her mission in life to transform her home into a miniature version of the Winchester Mystery House.
Rumor had it that in 1881, a medium had convinced Sarah Winchester that she was being haunted by the spirits of those killed by the Winchester rifles her husband’s company produced. The medium had assured Sarah that if she built a grand house for the spirits to visit, she could appease them—and that as long as construction of the house never ceased, Sarah would be safe. And for the next thirty-eight years, it worked, as she kept construction crews working around the clock, seven days a week—weekends and holidays included.
That amazing house, in San Jose, was a rambling
mansion filled with doors that opened to nowhere and staircases that led to ceilings. One of the wealthy woman’s favorite pastimes was having her workmen tear rooms apart and redo them over and over again. The day she died, the work crews simply left . . . some of them abandoning half-driven nails in the walls.
Sam understood how they must have felt.
The Winchester house had begun as an eight-room farmhouse and by the time Mrs. Winchester died, there were 160 rooms, decorated with Tiffany stained-glass panes, solid silver doorknobs, and gold chandeliers. After her death, several storerooms filled with priceless treasures had been discovered—the contents never having been used. The house was now a historical monument, drawing thousands of tourists every year.
Grace’s place was on a smaller scale, but not for lack of trying.
Built over a century ago, the big Victorian had stood proudly, as a testament to its owner’s financial status as well as his taste for overblown gingerbread detailing. Then the bottom fell out of the cattle market and the house’s owner sold it to a woman intent on making a different sort of name for herself.
As a cathouse, the Victorian was, arguably, the best bordello north of Los Angeles. Tucked away in the trees, the Victorian had worn its scandalous mantle with pride. Far enough outside of town that the churchgoing ladies could pretend it didn’t exist, it was also close enough that the husbands of those ladies could find the house blindfolded.
Over the years, the house changed hands countless times, and every owner had been determined to leave
their own stamp on the place. More land was purchased, forests cleared, and vineyards planted.
The house itself remained pretty much in its original condition, until Grace crowned herself Amateur Architect. Now, new rooms tumbled off to each side of the original structure, giving the impression of a stately old woman spreading the skirt of a dress that didn’t suit her. And with its eye-searing, sunshine-yellow paint, dark green trim, and white accents, it looked as though the old woman in an ugly skirt had been forced to wear too-bright makeup on top of her other indignities.
“It’s so exciting that the work’s beginning,” Grace was saying, “and the summer people will be arriving on Saturday—”
Sam’s attention snapped back to where it had better stay, if she wanted to survive.
“—so we’ll need to keep the construction away from the west wing and—” Grace was still talking.
Oh God
. Sam gave herself a mental head slap. She’d forgotten about the summer people. How she could have managed that, she didn’t know. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe it was her brain being too full of Emma and Jeff. Maybe it was because she just didn’t need one more thing on her list.
Grace’s “summer people” arrived every year about the same time. A handful of women, friends for years, had grouped together to spend their retirement years driving around the country, following the good weather. Whenever they stopped, they did odd jobs or visited friends. Here at Grace’s funny farm, the women would spend their time shearing the sheep and the
cashmere and angora goats that had the run of the place, and carding their wool.
At least the summer people would help keep the goats and sheep out of the way. Though Emma would probably love it here with all the animals.
Emma.
Sam rubbed at the spot between her eyebrows and had the distinct impression she wasn’t getting rid of her headache, but massaging it to help it grow.
“—I’ve got some ideas about the back bath, too,” Grace said, then stopped and looked around. “Where’s your father?”
Sam, being the duly elected—if not completely happy about it—representative, spoke up. “Papa will be back tomorrow, Grace. He went to—”
“Las Vegas,” Grace interrupted, nodding, “of course.”
Jo frowned. “How’d you know that?”
Grace’s features went serenely blank. “Why, one of you girls must have told me.”
“When could we have told you that?” Mike asked. “We just got here and—”
Sam cut Mike off before she could finish. How Grace had picked up Papa’s vacation plans on the local gossip train wasn’t really important. “If you want to show me your notes, Grace, we can have the guys get started.”
“Of course. Just come right over here.” Grace walked past them to an iron bench and table set under the sweeping shade of an elm that had to have been at least a hundred years old. She spread the magazines on the table and flipped open the first one to the page she
had marked. “If you’ll look at this, dear, you’ll see that I want to go a different route in the back bedroom.”
“Yes, but—” Sam winced and took a long gulp of her too-cool coffee. Oh, she’d be needing gallons of the stuff to deal with Grace. They’d talked about this job just three days ago and everything had been settled. The wood had already been ordered. Scratch that, she thought, already dreading her phone call to the lumber company. Of course, the upside to that was
they
were used to dealing with Grace, too. The people at Wright Wood were probably expecting her call.
Shooting a desperat “help me” look at Jo, Sam frowned when her older sister deliberately glanced away and did everything but whistle and rock on her heels. Fine, Sam thought. So much for solidarity among sisters. Clearly, she was on her own.
Grace talked and Sam made notes even while her brain went off on a tangent all its own. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Emma. About Jeff. It was all so surreal. Nine long years and then suddenly they were both back in her life. She had to find a way to make this work. To reach the child she’d thought lost to her forever.
To survive Grace long enough to get to know her daughter.
“I think a parquet floor is the way to go in the new library.”
Oh boy. “Parquet, uh-huh.” Sam groaned and kept writing.
A cold wind blew up and rattled the leaves overhead. She tried not to think of it in “foreboding” terms. After all, once the disaster hit, it was just
boding
. . . nothing
fore
about it.
“I’ll get the boys to unload,” Jo said, still studiously avoiding Sam’s gaze as she stalked across the lawn toward the drive.
Sam sighed and called back, “Tell ’em it’s the east wing this summer.”
“Right.” Jo lifted one hand and kept going.
They’d have a talk later about this. But for now, Grace was still talking and it paid to listen up when she was on a roll.
“If you girls want to get started on the library, you could have some of the men start on the second kitchen. We’ll need new cabinets and I’m thinking a purple granite countertop.”
Purple
granite? “Sure, Grace. We can do that.”
Grace tapped one finger thoughtfully against her chin. “Or maybe marble. We’ll have to see.” Then she stopped and grinned conspiratorially. “It’s going to be a wonderful summer, Samantha.” Slowly, though, her grin faded as she took a closer look. “Honey, are you okay?”
“Fine.” Sam could lie when she had to. She’d just never been very convincing. Now Mike . . .
there
was a woman with a flair for lying. She’d invented more stories than Mark Twain on his best day.
“If you’ll excuse me for saying so, that’s a load of horse hockey.”
Sam blinked in surprise. This was the closest Grace had ever come to actually swearing. A memorable moment. Laughing, she said, “Grace, you never cease to amaze me.”
“That’s very nice, dear, but an evasion nicely said is still an evasion.”
How did Mike pull off the lying so well that no one
ever called her on it? Sam was going to have to take lessons. “Honest. I’m fine. A little tired, maybe.” Comes from lying wide awake in your bed all night, with visions of your ex-husband dancing in your head.
Sugarplums—whatever the hell they were—would have been much safer.
And to clear that picture from her mind she spoke up fast before Grace could work up a full head of steam. “You know what, Grace? Jo will be taking care of the paneling in the library, why don’t you go show her what you have in mind?”
Distracted, Grace snatched at the suggestion like a kid grabbing for the last piece of candy in a bowl. “Good idea.”
Sam watched her go and tried to feel guilty. She failed. She’d just tossed her older sister to the lions and all she felt was a small twist of satisfaction. That said something about her, didn’t it? But what did that matter when she could watch Jo face the determined little woman like a condemned man waiting for the first bullet to strike flesh?
Life was good.
“Does my mommy want me now?”
Jeff scraped one hand across his face, then looked at his little girl. This had been so much harder than he’d ever thought it would be. But then, that wasn’t really a fair statement, was it? Because he’d never imagined having to have this conversation.
The living room of their suite at the inn was filled with morning sunlight and the soft sigh of the ocean breeze, dancing across the balcony and into the room. The ocean’s heartbeat sounded loud and steady and
Jeff tried to match his to it. At least that would keep him breathing. “I told you, M&M,” he said, using the nickname he’d called her since the first time she was laid in his arms. “She
always
wanted you. She just couldn’t keep you when you were a baby.”
Now, that comforting statement he’d been giving his child since she was old enough to understand had new meaning for him. After hearing Sam’s story and
sensing
the truth in it, he was forced to reevaluate the anger he’d kept for her all these years. And with that reevaluation came a whole new fury, directed solely at his mother.
The great Eleanor Hendricks. The woman who’d ruled her family and her world like a dictator with all the bashful charm of Idi Amin. Jeff’s father had danced to her tune and hadn’t found freedom until he’d dropped dead of a stress-related heart attack at fifty-eight. Though Jeff had missed him, he’d also missed the buffer zone his father had provided. Without her husband to concentrate on, Eleanor had focused her abundant energies on whipping her only child into shape.
And dammit, he’d
allowed
it. It had been easier than fighting back. Easier to go along and not make the waves that would have eventually drowned him.
Now, he was paying the price. All last night, he’d paced the confines of the suite, wishing for a chance to confront his mother. Since Emma had come into his life, he’d pulled away from Eleanor, refusing to let his daughter be ruled by the same velvet fist he’d always known. But that pulling away hadn’t been enough. There should have been more. She should have been made to see just how much misery she’d caused.
Because that wasn’t going to happen, Jeff had to deal with his own frustrations. But that could wait. There was something—someone—much more important at the moment.
“Your mom always loved you, Emma. Just like I told you.” It cost him. Giving his daughter the mother she so desperately wanted and needed was costing him more than he’d ever thought it would. If that made him a selfish bastard, well, he’d just have to learn to live with it.
Emma nodded solemnly, as if she were considering his words carefully. Reaching up, she tugged at the end of one of her pigtails and twirled it around her fingertips. Her one front tooth worried her bottom lip and Jeff wished he didn’t have to do this. Didn’t have to face his baby and shake her world.