Happily Never After (10 page)

The last thing I remember was the feel of a
hand brushing the hair from my cheek.

Chapter Thirteen

Surprisingly, I woke up the next morning
feeling great. Marietta and the twins would be gone the entire day
and I’d be able to do anything I wanted. I got up once they were
gone and sped through the list of chores left for me.

It had been such a long time since I had
something to look forward to that I didn’t even mind cleaning the
disgusting bathroom I shared with the twins. I knew they were
filthy on purpose and no matter how much I tried to keep it clean,
it didn’t work. Normally, the globs of hair and spilled lotion and
used tampons would send me into fits of rage where I imagined
delivering all kinds of bodily harm to them.

Not today. Today I tried to ignore it, along
with the crippling doubt that Jason would even be in touch.

Stepping out of the shower, I heard my phone
chime with a new text message. The message was from Dr. Sherman and
read, “U free or locked in the basement?”

I smirked and typed, “It’s usually the attic
but I’m free. Step monsters gone all day. Come over.” Before I
changed my mind, I hit ‘send’.

He mentioned wanting to see the house. Logic
told me that since Marietta wasn’t home, it would be safe. The last
thing I wanted was for something here to cause him harm. He had
found a way to work himself into my life, something I still wasn’t
sure I wanted. I did enjoy talking to him, once I got past the
jangled nerves. No, that wasn’t even true anymore. I liked him,
which annoyed the heck out of me, but I figured I might as well let
it play out. He’d be bored soon enough and on to more challenging
pursuits.

“On my way,” he replied.

I dried my hair and dressed in khaki shorts
and a black tank top. I ran around straightening up an already
pristine house and realized I really was nervous. Not even Abby had
been in the house recently and now, Jason Preston would be here.
What was I thinking? He couldn’t come here.

Before I could text him back to change where
we met, the doorbell rang.

“Here we go,” I muttered.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the door. He
stood there grinning at me. I saw a car pull away from the house
and a large man across the street, near the square, trying to blend
in. He must have been one of Jason’s bodyguards.

“Morning, Quinn.”

“Hi.” I stood there with the door open for
what felt like forever. “Oh, come in. I’ll give you a tour then we
can leave. I need to go to the library.”

“Okay.” He entered the house and scanned the
room. “I wasn’t sure if we’d be going anywhere so I brought my
disguise.”

Jason pulled a baseball cap out of his back
shorts pocket and pulled it on. Then he slipped on a pair of wire
rimmed glasses. I laughed. It didn’t do much to take away from the
fact that he was incredibly attractive but someone glancing at him
might not be able to tell it was Jason Preston.

“What’re you laughing at? It’s a good
disguise and it works, most of the time.”

“Okay, if you say so. I see you also brought
your muscle, Mr. Important.” I jerked my chin in the direction of
the street.

He grinned again and pulled off the glasses.
“It’s hard to sneak away from them. The studio thinks it’s
necessary for some reason. Most of the time, I don’t even notice
them. This place is much bigger than I thought last night. How old
is it?”

I felt self conscious as he entered the large
foyer with the enormous sweeping staircase. The focal point was the
giant antique brass chandelier hanging from the two-story entry.
Portraits of my ancestors graced the walls although not as many as
there used to be. Marietta claimed they frightened her. Following
Jason, I ran my hand lovingly over the banister.

When I was a little girl I loved playing
dress up and walking as elegantly as I could down the stairs,
pretending to be Scarlett O’Hara. Or I’d dream of descending them
to meet a boy who stood nervously in the foyer with Daddy. They
reminded me of another girl; a girl who still had her place among
the oldest families in town, a girl on the verge of becoming a
woman whose dreams come true, a girl who would raise her own
children in this house. Maybe now those dreams could come true
after learning the truth about the will.

It was a dangerous road to go down so instead
I told Jason about the house.

“Old. It was built in 1831 and has survived
the years pretty much intact. At one point, it was supposedly the
finest house in all of Savannah. The grounds took up the entire
block. There are sixteen rooms, not including the attic. No one’s
really done any major remodeling apart from updating the kitchen
and bathrooms and the electricity. Air conditioning was added, of
course. Every generation did its part in keeping the house in
pristine condition.”

I led him into the front parlor, ignoring the
couch Marietta sat on last night. It still gave me the creeps
thinking about the foreign voice coming from her mouth.

“This is the front parlor, or I guess it’s
more of a living room now. All the floors are the original
hardwood. Marietta hates the upkeep on this place. She’s always
complaining but I look at it as a labor of love. That door leads
into the formal dining room. This way,” I led him back through
another door, “is the kitchen.”

“Wow, awesome kitchen.”

I smiled. Marietta updated it not long after
moving in and I agreed it was a great room. The large windows let
in plenty of light and the dark cabinets and granite countertops
gleamed. It was the kind of room that shouldn’t work in an old
house, but it did. There was also another large fireplace original
to the home.

“I wasn’t expecting to see stainless steel
appliances. Don’t old houses like this have to be historically
correct?”

“You’ve done your homework,” I said and ran
my hand over the counter, “but no. This house is listed on the
National Historic Register but most of the rules only apply to the
outside. They make allowances for updated interiors as long as the
exterior is maintained in the original condition and as close to
the original handwork as possible.”

“Did you memorize that?”

I felt myself blush. “Well, I love this house
and up until the last couple years, it has been in the Historic
Homes Tour. I used to love dressing up in period gowns and showing
people the house. It’s one of our silly traditions. This house is
all that’s left of my family. I can’t explain it.”

“People down here are real sentimental about
their houses,” Jason said. “It reminds me of the one we’re using
for the movie. It might even be a bit older. I can’t remember the
name of the house now. They all have names here, I’ve discovered.
Anyway, the owner follows the crew around like a man possessed.
They can’t set the equipment there or they can’t move that piece of
antique furniture. I think the director’s ready to strangle
him.”

“Luckily, Daddy was never that obsessed. He
let me be a child in here, running from room to room, sliding down
the banister, even climbing on things I shouldn’t have. I knew
other kids who also lived in historic homes who weren’t allowed to
do anything. Their bedrooms were full of centuries old furniture
and they were only allowed to play in the servant’s quarters, which
weren’t as well refurbished. You have to let kids be kids.”

“My parents were that way, too.” A sad shadow
crossed over his eyes. “They were the kind who totally overdid the
holidays. Our house always looked like Santa threw up on it.”

“I know what you mean. This place turned into
a winter wonderland only without the snow.” I sighed and stared out
the window. “It’s been five years since Daddy died and I haven’t
had a Christmas since. Marietta and the girls put up a tree but
they go to Atlanta so I’m left alone. Abby and her mama invite me
over but I hate imposing. I think I miss holidays the most, and
birthdays. It might sound selfish but my best memories are of us as
a family at Christmas. It’s such a magical time.”

Jason didn’t say anything but I could feel
his heavy, pitying stare. I hoped he would forget what I said. I
hated sounding so ‘poor me’ all the time. I pointed out the rounded
window overlooking the backyard and hoped the house would distract
him.

“I told you the house originally took up the
entire trust lot. A trust lot is the four smaller lots surrounding
one of the town squares. They were once considered places of
privilege. Now we only have the carriage house, or basically the
garage, a shed and another small outbuilding at the back of the
property that I think was used for either storage or slave
quarters.”

“The carriage house is huge.”

I studied the building that captured his
attention. The carriage house was almost as big as the main house.
The brick was not in as good a shape as the main house and I
noticed one of the rounded doorways had begun to sag. I couldn’t
remember the last time I had gone up to the second floor but when I
had, it was huge, empty and dusty.

“Well, when you consider it used to house the
carriages and the horses that pulled them, it needed to be big. The
carriage driver or stable hand would have lived in the rooms above.
I read that it once housed close to a dozen horses for the Roberts’
many different carriages. The people who built the house on the
other side fought to get it torn down because it sits too close to
them. We won that, thankfully. The second floor has great light and
I’ve already started dreaming about putting my photography studio
and darkroom up there.”

I felt him watching me for a while before I
turned to him. “What?”

“You come alive when you talk about this
house. Now that I see you here, I can’t picture you anywhere else.
I don’t blame you for fighting to keep this place. Any other
plans?”

“Maybe a pool.” I grinned and gazed back at
the window. “A lot of historic homes have added them so I don’t
think it would be a problem. Other than that, I’ll concentrate on
making it the home I remember. It has been neglected too much.
Let’s go upstairs, I’ll show you the bedrooms.”

After I showed him the three bedrooms and
office on the second floor he looked at me questioningly.

“You’re staring again.” I eyed him close.

“So, where’s your room? Call me crazy, but I
assumed it wasn’t one of those cotton candy pink disasters. You
don’t strike me as a frilly bedroom kind of girl.”

“That’s because I’m not.” I wrinkled my nose
at him. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in a pink bedroom. It would make
me physically ill. What’s your bedroom like? Mirrors on the
ceiling, oversized pictures of yourself on the walls?”

Leaning close, Jason asked, “You’ve thought
about my bedroom?”

My breath caught in my throat at his
proximity. He was close enough that I saw specks of brown in his
eyes. Nothing could stop the blush I felt working its way across my
face. All my strength went into playing it cool.

“You wish. You want to see my room? Fine.
Follow me.”

Even with my back to him, I sensed the big
smile on his face and became aware of how my own lips wanted to
curl up traitorously. I stopped at the door to the attic, opened it
and pointed upward.

Chapter Fourteen

“No.” He peered up and then back at me.
“You’re kidding.”

“I wish, but now that I’ve worked on it a
little bit, I kind of like it up here.” I led him upward.

The stairs opened up in the middle of the
huge space. To the left was everything I had yet to get to, boxes,
trunks and armoires full of hundreds of years of junk. My living
area was to the right and the only outside light came from the two
tiny windows at either end. A ceiling fan circled lazily up in the
rafters, moving the heavy air. My portable air conditioner barely
made a dent in the heat, even on good days, and most of the time I
didn’t even mind the bugs.

“Originally, the entire space was one large
pile of junk. All you see to the left is stuff I haven’t had a
chance to go through yet. It’s not as bad as it looks. Sure, I have
to share a downstairs bathroom with the disgusting twins but I
savor my privacy. And it’s been awesome going through all this
history.” I directed him over to my antique desk. “Here’s a good
example.”

Jason studied the letters. “Roberts? These
are about your ancestors?”

“Yeah, and look at this one.” I pulled the
one about Catherine to the top. “It’s from Catherine Roberts to a
William Jennings. She mentions their upcoming marriage and thanks
him for helping her family out. Ten months after their wedding, she
died of mysterious circumstances. In fact, they never found her
body. I think Jennings helped out the family and she was the
payment.”

“Ouch, I can’t imagine that went over very
well but people were used to arranged marriages back then. Did you
find anything more about her disappearance?”

I sat on the bed as I sighed and explained.
“No, not really. Catherine went from being a prominent member of
Savannah society to never attending functions. She no longer served
on committees and only appeared with her husband a handful of
times. A couple of these letters mention Jennings, who was a Yankee
and not very well respected. He was a suspect in her disappearance
and harassed her family after she disappeared. He wanted the house
desperately from what I understood of the other letters.

“There’s a newspaper clipping below those.
Yeah, that one. It says Jennings disappeared not too long after the
letters were written. No one ever saw him again. Then, at the end,
in a related note it says Margaret Roberts had a breakdown. I’m
sure I’m not the only one who thought it was a pretty convenient
coincidence.”

He read the article and didn’t say anything
for a minute. “Even if what you’re saying is true, if the Roberts
family had something to do with Jennings’ disappearance, what does
it matter now? It sounds like a great mystery and, I don’t mean to
sound rude here, but why spend your time on this? So what?”