Authors: Mariah Stewart
“That you purchased the house from Lynley Sebastian’s estate and you’re fixing it up to sell it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re the client.” Jesse pulled a thick folder to
the center of the desk. “Now, I suppose you want to get on with the business at hand.”
He pulled a sheaf of documents from the folder, explained each, and showed her where to sign. Twenty-two minutes later, he handed her a small envelope with the address, 1 Bay View Road, written on the front in blue ink. She could feel the shape of keys inside, and her heart took an unexpected leap.
“The keys to your house,” he said. “I drove over this morning and turned up the thermostat, so it should be nice and cozy for you. There’s wood stacked outside if you feel like building a fire. The chimneys were all cleaned out four years ago, and to the best of my knowledge, none of the fireplaces have been used since. The bank accounts your mother set up years ago have paid the taxes and utilities and periodic repairs, and from time to time we’ve had the place checked inside to make sure that all was well, that the faucets weren’t leaking, that sort of thing. It’s been vacant for quite some time, you know. The house is fully furnished, everything just as it was the last time your mother saw it, I suppose. She had an alarm system installed but it kept shorting out, so I think it’s been deactivated.”
“I can’t thank you enough for looking out for the place all this time. I’m sure my mother appreciated it.”
“She was the one who made it possible. She set up the accounts a long time ago, with money she made during her modeling career. Once it was verified that she’d earned that money before she was married and that she’d set it aside before your father even started
up his business, the feds weren’t able to touch the account. Because your father’s fingerprints weren’t on any of it, you still have that money to work with. I never personally met your mother, but Violet spoke very highly of her.”
“Violet knew my mother?” It had taken a second or two for it to sink in that there were people in this town who had actually
known
Lynley. Ellis had been under the impression that the time her mother had spent in St. Dennis had been brief, and that she’d been very young.
“Sure. I imagine there are more than a few of the old-timers who knew her.”
“But she left so long ago, I didn’t think about people having known her.”
“I didn’t grow up here, so I can’t attest to how much time she spent here, but I assure you, I remember Lynley Sebastian. After all, she was one of the first supermodels. Back in the day, every boy on the planet had one of her posters in his room.” He smiled. “I know I did.”
“Let me guess. The one where she’s leaning on a fence and she’s wearing a very thin pale pink dress.”
“And the wind is whipping that long blond hair around her.” Jesse grinned. “The very one.”
“If I had a dime for every time someone brought that up to me …” She rolled her eyes.
“Speaking of money …” Jesse pulled another stack of papers front and center on the desk. “Here are the bank accounts I told you about. One savings, a separate account for checking. There’s not a fortune left at this point, but if you’re careful, I think you
can easily manage until the house is sold, and barring disaster, should have something left over.” He looked up at her. “You are still planning on selling the house?”
“Yes. The sooner the better. That’s why I’m here.”
“Well, keep in mind that it can’t be any sooner than six months. I probably don’t need to remind you that your mother’s will specified that you had to live in the house for a minimum of six months before you could sell it or any of the contents; otherwise, you forfeit everything and all the proceeds from the sale of the property will go to the charities she listed in her will.”
“I’ve read the will”—Ellie nodded—“and the lawyers in New York made that very clear.”
“I can put you in touch with a Realtor when you’re ready. Now, there might be some minor repairs that need to be done or perhaps some upgrades you might want to think about before you put it on the market. There’s been no real updating in maybe thirty years, so I’m sure it all looks very dated. I can send Cameron O’Connor over to talk to you about all that. He’s actually the one who’s been taking care of the place.”
“He’s the handyman?”
“You could call him that.” Jesse appeared to be suppressing a smile. “Now, here are the papers you need to take to the bank in order to have the accounts moved into your name.”
“But if I put my real name on the accounts, then the people at the bank will know …” She frowned. So much for her desire for anonymity.
Jesse tapped a pen on the desktop and appeared to be considering other options.
“We can do this: we can maintain the accounts as they are now, in the name of your mother’s estate. As executor, I’ve been signing the checks on behalf of the firm. I can continue to do so until the house is sold. You can submit any bills you have for repairs or whatever to me, and I’ll pay them. If you need cash, we can arrange that as well. We can work under the pretext that the estate has agreed to pay for any repairs to the property as part of your agreement of sale.”
“Perfect.” She sighed with relief.
Jesse gathered all of the papers, slid them into a brown legal envelope, and tied the strings to secure it.
“Here you go, Ms. Ryder.” He handed it over to her.
“It’s Ellie,” she told him.
“Ellie, I wish you all the best.” He paused, then added, “I hope you’ll think about what I said, and that you’ll give the folks around here a chance. Everyone isn’t out to hurt you.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind.” She rose, the large envelope under her arm. “Hopefully, I won’t be here long enough to find out. Well, no longer than six months, anyway.”
Jesse opened the door for her and led her into the foyer.
“If you need anything, anything at all, let us know and we’ll do whatever we can to help,” he told her.
“Thank you, Jesse. I can’t even put into words how much I appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“You’re welcome. Maybe we’ll run into you at Cuppachino for coffee one of these days. It’s the place where all the locals gather every morning.”
“I don’t know that I could handle one of those cupcakes every day.”
“They are lethal, but I’ll be sure to tell Brooke—she’s my fiancée—that you enjoyed it.”
“Please do.” Ellis craned her neck to see if Violet was at her desk so she could say good-bye, but the room was empty.
Jesse held the front door open and stepped outside with her. “Glad to see the sun came out. It’s been a little on the gloomy side the past couple of days.”
“It’s still chilly,” Ellis noted.
“November moving headfirst into winter,” he said. “Hope you brought some warm clothes.”
“I did, thanks.”
Jesse accompanied her to the end of the brick walk, his hands in his pocket. “Check in from time to time and let me know how things are going.”
“Will do. Thanks again for everything, Jesse.”
He nodded and waited at the sidewalk while she walked to her car, then waved before turning and going back into the building.
Nice guy, she told herself, and said a prayer of thanks that her mother’s family had selected such a firm to represent them. She was well aware that another attorney might have been willing to sell her out. She could see the headlines now:
Daughter of Clifford Chapman Found Living Under Assumed Name in Small Maryland Town!
King of Fraud’s daughter dumps his name, hides out on Eastern Shore!
Sad but true.
She slid behind the wheel and started the car. Following the directions Jesse had printed out for her, she drove around the square and made a left to head back to Charles Street. Once on Charles, she made another left and drove back through the center of town. Two blocks past the light, she took a right onto Bay View Road and drove all the way to its unpaved end. The number
1
was painted in dark green on a white mailbox that looked surprisingly new. She stopped in the middle of the street and stared at her inheritance.
The house seemed to have nothing in common with the others she’d passed on her travels through town, those imposing Colonial and Federal and Queen Anne styles that appeared on every block. This house was set at an odd angle to the road as if to gaze out upon the Bay and looked like an overgrown cottage, with misplaced gables here and there. The front porch didn’t look original but it was impossible to tell when it had been added. It stretched across the entire front of the house and sagged a little on one side. The white clapboard siding could use a new coat of paint and the shutters were faded. Three brick chimneys—one of which listed slightly to the side—protruded from the roof. At the end of the driveway—which was covered in what appeared to be crushed shells—stood an outbuilding, a garage or a carriage house, the windows of which had been painted black. The shades in every window of the house had been pulled down, making it look as if it had something to hide. Two sides of the property were bordered by some of the
tallest trees she’d ever seen. All in all, the impression was far from inviting, and yet something about the scene felt oddly familiar.
Like it or not, this was home.
She eased the sedan into the driveway and sat for several long moments before bursting into tears.
E
ventually, Ellie told herself, she was going to have to get out of the car.
“Why delay the pain any longer …?”
She opened the car door and walked across the crushed shells to a path that wound its way leisurely from the driveway to the front steps. Her fingers traced the shape of the key inside the envelope Jesse had given her as she approached the porch. She ripped open the envelope, took out the key, and stuck the paper into her pocket.
“Here goes.”
She fitted the key into the lock and turned it, pushed open the door, and stepped into a square foyer. The house was dark, as much because of the approaching dusk as because all the shades were pulled down to the windowsills. In spite of the chill outside, the house was warm—
Thank you, Jesse
—and very still, as if it had been holding its breath, waiting for her.
Ellie stood for a very long moment in the hushed foyer, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. The stairs to the second floor stood directly in front of her. Straight ahead to the left of the stairs was a long hall that led
clear through to the back door, which also had a shade tightly pulled. There was a room to her right and another to her left. The furniture in both was covered with white sheets, giving what she could see of the downstairs the appearance of a ghostly landscape.
“Well.” She spoke aloud to break the silence. What to do first, now that she was here?
After some deliberation, she walked into the room to her left and lifted the shades from the four windows—two facing front, one on either side of a fireplace. Paintings on the walls were draped with fabric and it took Ellie a moment to realize that the only things in the room that weren’t covered were the carpets and the andirons on the hearth. She backed out of the room as if afraid of disturbing it, and went across the hall, where she found more of the same. There was no way to disguise that this was the dining room. A crystal chandelier, its ovoid drops covered with dust, hung over a long flat surface that lay beneath the expected white sheet. Against one wall, furniture lay hidden beneath more sheeting, and a peek under the draping on two smaller shapes revealed a sideboard and a tea cart. Peeling back the thin quilt from the side of the tallest piece of furniture, she found an empty china cupboard, the former contents having left round marks in the dust on the shelves. The placement of the windows and the fireplace exactly mirrored the room across the hall. The architect, she thought, clearly appreciated symmetry.
A feeling of déjà vu swept over her, and was promptly dismissed. Her mother must have described
it all to her, she reasoned, and somehow she’d retained the images.
A door on the back wall swung open with a push and led to a butler’s pantry that had glass-doored cabinets on one wall, and an expanse of counter with a small soapstone sink on the other. The cabinets were crammed with dishes, plates and bowls, and cups and saucers, all stacked haphazardly on top of one other.
The kitchen, a large square room, lay behind the pantry. Ellie pulled up the shades and looked for a switch for the clumsy overhead light fixture. Near the back door were the controls for a security system that obviously wasn’t on, and the black push-button switch that served to turn on the light.
She wasn’t sure the room hadn’t looked better in the dark.
Chipped Formica in a truly terrible shade of yellow covered the counters. On the floor, there was dark linoleum of indeterminable age and a dreadful mustardy color. Wooden cabinets were built in along one long wall.
“I’ll bet there isn’t a thing in this room that isn’t older than I am.” She paused to consider the refrigerator, which looked much newer than everything else. “Well, maybe
that
. But not much else.”
She walked to the stove. It, too, appeared newer than she’d expected. Not brand-new, but not 1950s, either. Curious, she thought.
A table with four chairs stood against the side wall under the windows. When she raised the shade, the last bit of afternoon sun spilled across the floor, high-lighting
the cracks in the old linoleum and the faded paper and paint on the walls.
Ellie stood in the center of the room, her hands on her hips, feeling more than a little bewildered, and stared at the wallpaper, blue-and-white-patterned teacups on a background that was probably once white but was now yellowed with age. She’d seen that same paper—those same teacups—somewhere, but couldn’t remember where.
She went to the back door and unlocked the dead bolt, which looked relatively new compared to just about everything else she’d seen so far, then stepped outside onto a small porch where she found nothing but a stack of wood. Like the shutters and the downstairs rooms, the porch needed a fresh coat of paint.