The House on Blackberry Hill: Jewell Cove #1 (Jewel Cove) (2 page)

The last time Tom and Josh had been in the same room together, Tom had come out of it with a split lip and Josh had sported a few bruised ribs.

“Is Josh okay?” Despite the bad blood between them, his heart squeezed a little at the thought of anything happening to his cousin. They had too much history.

“He’s coming home, Tom. To stay.”

The air went out of Tom’s lungs. He’d known this day would eventually come. Jewell Cove was Josh’s home. His family was here. He’d never belonged in Hartford, going into practice with Erin’s father. Josh, like the rest of the Collins family, was a small-town boy who needed to be close to the water. Not a city dweller.

And yet knowing Josh was coming home made the dull ache of Tom’s grief threaten to swell up again and he swallowed thickly. Josh was a constant reminder of all the things Tom didn’t like about himself, and despite how much he loved his cousin he couldn’t stand to look at him.

Tom had been in love with his cousin’s—with his best friend’s—wife. And he still felt like shit about it.

“Tom?”

Aunt Meggie’s voice came gently over the line, cutting him with its understanding. He took a breath and closed his eyes. “I’m still here. Sorry, Aunt Meggie.”

“No need to apologize. I thought you should hear it from me. It’s not like Josh is going to call with the happy news, is he?”

Tom chuckled at the wry tone in Meggie’s voice. Despite being Josh’s mother and naturally biased, she’d always been fair. Meggie and the girls had never despised Tom the way Josh did.

“When’s he coming?”

“Soon. He’s going to take over Phil Nye’s practice. He’s sharing the space with Dr. Yang until Phil retires in July.”

It was a done deal, then. In a way Tom was relieved. Things had been unsettled too long. If Josh came home they could at least sort out how they meant to go on. Hopefully resolve it without fists. More likely it would be with stonewalling silence. Josh was really good at keeping his true feelings hidden.

“That’s good, Meggie. You must be real happy. He doesn’t belong in Hartford.”

“I’m glad you agree, Tom. And I’m calling for another reason, too.”

He should have known there would be a hitch.

“We’re having a barbecue on the long weekend. I expect you to be there. Your parents and Bryce and Mary have already said they’re coming. It’s time to let bygones be bygones. For both of you. There’s nothing left to fight over.”

Tom ran his free hand over his face. No one seemed to understand that there was more to the situation than two cousins fighting over the same woman.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. The last time…” He paused, unsure of how much to say. It wasn’t the fight he couldn’t let go of, it was the grief. She was his cousin’s wife, yet Josh wasn’t the only one mourning. He had been grieving too, only he had never been able to show it. He hadn’t felt entitled to his grief.

“The last time you both were stupid. You’re cousins. You have to start somewhere. And if either one of you starts any trouble, I’ll kick your asses. You know I can do it.”

Aunt Meggie had tanned his backside enough when he and Josh had been boys that he knew she meant it. The same way his mom would say the exact same thing to Josh. The two sisters had raised their boys with tough but loving hands.

He respected her far too much to let her down now. “I’ll be there. On my best behavior, promise.”

“You could always bring your hot wings as a peace offering.”

He laughed. “You’re pushing it, Aunt Meggie.”

“I know.” The line went quiet for a minute, as if she were deciding on her next words. “He needs you, Tom. He needs all of us right now.”

Tom’s heart thumped. He wanted to ask,
What about me? What about what I need
? But he had no right. Erin hadn’t been his wife. And through the bitterness was another tangle of emotion. He and Bryce and Josh—they’d all been like brothers. He’d missed his cousin, too. Yet he knew it would never be the same between them again.

“Hot wings it is.”

“Good. I’ll let you go now. Hope I didn’t keep you from anything important.”

“Another canceled job is all. Looks like Jess’s decking will be getting my full attention.”

“Oh! That reminds me. I was down at the grocery store this afternoon. Gloria told me that Bill at the service station said that the new owner’s finally showed up at the Foster place. Marian’s heir, and with Nova Scotia license plates.”

Tom sat up straighter in his chair. The Foster mansion. For as long as he could remember, he’d wanted to get inside and get another good look at the old monstrosity. It was well over a hundred and fifty years old, and he’d bet any money it was gorgeous. They just didn’t build them like that anymore. But it had been closed up since Marian had taken ill. Now that it was in new hands …

He recognized an opportunity when it hit him in the face. He enjoyed his work as a contractor, but the idea of restoring an old place like that … it wasn’t work. It was a privilege.

“Thanks for letting me know,” he said casually, trying to hide the excitement in his voice. “I’ll have to pop in one of these days.” One of these days, hell. He’d be up there within the hour.

“See you at the barbecue, Tom,” Meggie answered.

“Bye.”

He hung up the phone and stared at it for a minute. Josh, home. Family gathering. Recipe for disaster. But the house up on Blackberry Hill?

He pushed his chair back and grabbed his keys. This was his dream project. First thing he had to do was meet the new owner and get inside. Word would spread fast and he didn’t want another contractor swooping in and stealing the chance away from him. There was no one else in the area as qualified for the job as he was.

It was just the thing he needed to keep his mind occupied. Idle hands meant an idle mind.

And with Josh coming home, he needed to find a way to forget about Erin. For good. For all their sakes.

C
HAPTER
2

Whatever Abby had expected, it was not the massive Georgian-style home that greeted her at the end of the lane. White and imposing, it was both majestic and intimidating. With the unpruned shrubs around the yard and a tangle of ivy grown over several of the windows, Abby couldn’t shake the idea that the house looked a bit, well, eerie.

Slamming her car door behind her, Abby started up the uneven pathway to the front porch. As she got closer she could see the chipped paint on the trim and rungs missing in the railing that ran between the two scarred pillars of the veranda.

It really had been neglected. For a moment she felt almost sorry for the old home. It was a shame that something that had once been so grand and beautiful had fallen into such a state.

The boards of the stairs creaked wearily beneath her feet as she climbed the three steps to the covered porch and took a key from her purse. Walking carefully, Abby silently prayed that the floor was termite-free and structurally sound before fitting the key into the lock and pushing the solid wood door open with the groan of long-unused hinges. Hesitantly Abby stepped inside, searching along the wall for a switch in the dim light. She found it and flipped it on. Thank goodness the arrangements to have the power switched on before her arrival had been a success.

The place was strangely silent and her shoes made hollow sounds on the hardwood floors as she went farther inside. She shivered. With the house shut up and all the curtains closed, it reminded her of a tomb.

The first thing she needed to do was get some natural light into the dreary rooms. The dim glow of the wall sconces barely penetrated the dust and stale air. She entered the room on her right—what appeared to be a formal dining room—and went directly to the window, spreading the heavy brocade curtains wide and tying them back with silky tassels. Sunlight spilled in through the gap and she went to the next window, and the next, until the room was flooded with warmth even through the dusty windows.

Turning around to finally get a good look at the room, Abby gasped. The antique dining table and chairs, which she’d only seen in outline, were now clearly visible and utterly magnificent, ornately carved, and even under the layer of dust she could see they had to be real mahogany. The table could easily seat a dozen. A set like this would have cost a fortune. Worth even more now if it was as old as she suspected.

Who on earth were the Fosters? And why had this all been kept a secret from her side of the family? At times her grandmother had barely made ends meet.

A fireplace with a white mantel graced one end of the room, but the mantel was empty except for a single, framed portrait. Abby went closer, her fingers gliding over the silver frame as she examined the face behind the glass. The woman was beautiful, perhaps in her twenties, with long dark hair and full lips. Her dress appeared to be chiffon, cut in a vee at her throat, a necklace of oval stones at her neck. Even in the black-and-white photograph her skin seemed to glow as she sat in a wing chair with a baby dressed in unending ruffles cradled in her arms.

Abby turned the frame over and slid the old photo out, careful to keep her fingers on the edge of the paper. There was nothing written on the back, no indication of who the woman was or when it was taken. Disappointed, she put the picture back inside and placed it precisely in its spot on the mantel. Was this Marian? Perhaps Marian’s mother, Edith? Abby frowned, feeling a brief surge of anger at being left in the dark about her own family. She and her grandmother had been very, very close. How could Gram have failed to mention something as big as a family mansion to her only granddaughter?

Shaking off her melancholy, Abby turned her attention to the rest of the room. A gilt-edged mirror hung above the fireplace and it reflected an unlit chandelier over the table. For a brief moment she imagined the clinking sounds of silver on china and crystal. She’d figured out that the Fosters had been well off when she’d seen the value of the estate. But this … this was living on a grand scale.

Eager to explore now, she made her way back to the wide hall. There was another chandelier here, prettier than the last. It would be gorgeous all lit up, but on closer examination she saw that the lights within were oil and that it hadn’t been wired for electricity. It seemed a shame to waste its beauty simply because it was stuck in the past.

Across the wide hall she found what could only be called a drawing room. She opened the curtains in this room too, feeling an irrepressible need to let light into all the dark corners. There seemed to be an odd feeling about the house. Something heavy and dark, like a terrible secret.

It was just her overactive imagination, she chided herself. She turned her attention to the fireplace, identical to the one in the dining room, idly wondering if each room had one and if they still worked. It probably wouldn’t be safe to light a fire anyway. Birds or bats or something likely lived in the chimneys, she thought, shivering. She hated bats.

Abby returned her attention to the space around her. It was too formal for a parlor or mere sitting room, and the warm yellow walls were in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. The furniture was old and frayed around the edges but she could tell it had been opulent in its day. An upright piano was pushed against one wall and she went over and lifted the cover, her fingers pushing a few keys as she played an arpeggio. A tinny, twangy sound erupted from the instrument, in need of a good tuning. She shut the cover again with a shudder as the dissonant notes echoed uncomfortably through the air.

According to the records, Marian had put in central heating in the sixties, and the house had been completely rewired only twenty years ago. As Abby’s gaze took in the scarred floors and dingy rugs, not to mention the faded and chipped paint, she was at least thankful for that. Maybe the mansion had been grand in its day, but right now it looked as if it had been forgotten. Discarded. It would take a lot of work and a lot of Marian’s money, she thought with dismay, to get it into marketable shape. It was worse than she’d feared. It didn’t just need tidying up. It needed fixing.

Abby went back to the main hall. Past a small powder room was a kitchen with modern appliances—modern compared to the rest of the house, at least. There was a four-burner stove and a refrigerator that sat quietly. The fridge and stove were the only concessions to modernity. There was no microwave, no dishwasher. The tile floor was faded and the walls were painted a very dated—and dowdy—avocado green.

Uck. Aunt Marian had apparently been old-school.

Next to the kitchen was a door leading to what Abby could only surmise was the basement. Abby put her hand on the latch but then drew it back as a cold feeling skittered down her spine. She’d leave exploring for another time. She had visions of the basement in Gram’s old house—stone walls, damp and cold, and the dreaded spiders. She hated them with a passion, even more than she hated bats. When she was a child, going down in the basement for a simple jar of jelly had felt like a penance.

The uneasy feeling she’d had touching the door was even stronger as she crossed the hall, pausing to look up the grand staircase. She shivered, cold again, as her gaze settled on the upper landing. Abby knew she was being ridiculous, but something about the staircase unnerved her and made the little hairs on the back of her neck rise with apprehension. She shook her head and tried to laugh, the sound mocking in the silence. This was foolish. There was nothing there. Maybe the queer sensation was simply because the house was so huge and, well, quiet. Everything echoed, even the sound of her breathing. It wasn’t the sort of house meant for one person. It was meant for parties and socializing, with men in dashing suits and women in long dresses. For the popping of champagne bottles and maids in white aprons serving canapés off silver platters.

Shaking off the heavy feeling, she entered the room beside the stairs, her uneasiness evaporating as her mouth dropped open in wonderment and delight.

Tattered or not, the old room was gorgeous. There were solid mahogany cases on each wall crammed full of old books, their spines faded and dusty. Their dark width was broken only by the dirt-smudged windows looking out over the vast gardens and peeking into what had to be an added-on sun porch at the back of the house. The drapes were faded and dirty but had once been a marvelous wine-and-tan-striped brocade.