Chapter 2
Dried soil crunched under John’s work boots as he stepped out of his truck. The grass stood as high as his knees. Watching for snakes, he trotted toward the front porch of the Rosalyn Manor. An incessant buzzing whirled around in his ear as he swatted something on the back of his neck. He pulled his hand back to his face; a streak of blood covered his fingers.
He slid his palm down the side of his jeans then placed his hands on his hips, assessing the mess before him. Racking his gaze from rooftop to basement, he cringed. The Rosalyn Manor wasn’t a home, but the crumbling skeleton of where a home used to be. How was he ever going to make this place look good again?
Assuming he got the job.
In reality, the place wasn’t that old. Maybe a hundred years. He’d seen older, but what he hadn’t seen was a person like Myrtle Smith, a woman who had such disregard for her home that basic repair was ignored.
The roof still possessed the same interlocking asphalt shingles from when it was built. Several of them were missing, and in their place were hodgepodge pieces of newer roofing materials in all different colors, giving the appearance of a sloped checkerboard. The paint was mostly chipped away, exposing rotted siding, and every board would have to be replaced.
Unsalvageable. All of it.
How this place hadn’t been condemned already was beyond him, and how ol’ Myrtle could’ve lived in such a residence was unfathomable. The best option—tear the whole thing down and rebuild from the ground up.
The thought of walking inside made him jittery. He imagined falling through the floor as soon as he applied his weight to the rotten boards, but if Myrtle could live here all those years then maybe there were some safe spots still left to stand.
He glanced at his watch. Three-thirty.
John kicked the grass away from his feet. When is this lady going to show up?
His uncle hadn’t given him a specific time, just said midafternoon. He didn’t want to sit around and wait all afternoon for the new owner, but truth was, he needed the job.
He needed employment so bad he resorted to standing in the blazing sun, getting eaten alive by every mosquito in Georgia, and probably getting infected with malaria, bad. His uncle had coaxed him into helping the heiress get acquainted with her newly inherited property. Some northern yuppie that had decided to give the country life a try.
Hell, if he were being honest, his uncle didn’t have to do that much wheedling. The mountain of bills sitting on his desk did most of the convincing. Still, John was willing to bet his last dollar the minute Yuppie took a look at the place she’d turn hightail and run back to wherever it was she came from.
And if, by some miracle, she did decide to stay, with his luck, she’d probably use some big city Atlanta construction company for the repairs.
The smack of the screen door against the rotted frame made him turn his head around. Ms. Myrtle’s yard man, Leo, walked out of the front door and stood on the porch. His dark skin stood out, leathered and wrinkled from all the years spent in the sun, and his hair was now sprinkled with more salt than pepper. He placed an old, knotted hand on one of the porch columns for support. John took another glance around. From the looks of things, the man hadn’t been able to maintain the yard in quite some time.
He waved. “Afternoon, Mr. Leo.”
“Mr. John.” The grounds keeper raised a hand back to him.
A sweat ring harbored under the man’s arm. No doubt there wasn’t an air conditioner in the house.
Beatrice, or Ms. Bea, as she was known, stepped out on the porch beside her husband, holding a dilapidated broom.
Is everything inside the house as neglected and sad as the building itself?
“Hello, Mr. John.” Ms. Bea raised the broom. “How are the children?”
He walked closer, checking his watch again. “They’re good. Thanks for asking. Have you heard from the new owner yet?”
“No, sir. We sure haven’t,” Leo answered.
The sound of crunching gravel had him turning his head toward the long driveway. A cloud of dust swarmed the air above the old oak trees before a vehicle came into view.
As the small blue sports car approached, his stomach sank to his knees.
So, this is the new owner?
He might as well load himself back up in his truck and leave. The last time he worked with people who drove such fancy vehicles, he’d been nickeled and dimed to death over expenses. He’d passed up two other jobs to service his clients better, and for what? All to be fired so some cheap construction company could take over, a company that used cheap materials along with cheap, illegal, slave labor. All those city slickers were alike, in it for themselves—and that’s not how he worked. Those types of clients wanted to spend more money on their highfalutin’ toys than pay a man an honest wage for good, hard work. Because of their greed, his kids had eaten watered-down soup for a week until he’d found a new job.
The driver—blonde with big dark sunglasses—no doubt was just like the rest of them.
John gritted his teeth and stood his ground. He would stay because his uncle had asked him to show her around, and for his uncle only. The faster he could acquaint her with her property, the faster he could start looking for another job. A real job.
****
“You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS informed Lesley as she drove down the long, dirt and gravel driveway to the Rosalyn Manor. The old oak trees covered her car like a dome, the sun daring to peek through the crooked branches. A large, dilapidated house came into view, as well as three strangers staring back at her.
Her heart sank. The property looked nothing like she remembered.
Surely, this can’t be the right place.
She put her car in park and stared. The bricks on the columns were cracked and missing in some spots. What few shutters were left dangled free and threatened to fall at any moment. The house was no longer white, but a smoky gray from weathered wood, and two of the people staring back at her from the porch looked just as old and gray as the house itself.
She remembered Rosalyn as a pristine, old plantation home with grand brick columns and elegant black shutters. Then again, she’d been twelve the last time she visited. As a child, she’d bragged to her dad how the rooftop of the house met the sky. Now, she wasn’t sure if what was on top of the building even classified as a roof…or if the structure even classified as a house.
She picked up the picture that sat on her passenger seat and compared the real version with the obviously much younger one.
A glossy, spitting image of the plantation home in Gone with the Wind stared back at her. She had dreams of calling one of the rooms the Tara Suite, modeled after the famous film.
This house was gone with the wind—and not in a good way.
Lesley tossed the picture on her dashboard and blew out a breath. Time to face her reality.
Home sweet home.
Humid air slapped her in the face when she opened her car door, and the hot, sticky breeze caused her sunglasses to fog over. Peering at the ground, wondering how she was supposed to walk through grass almost as high as her chest when sitting in the car, she placed a sandal-covered foot in the weeds and prayed no creepy crawly thing decided to wedge itself between her toes.
A man wearing a white undershirt and cargo pants marched toward her, a pencil tucked behind one ear and a tape measure attached to his hip. His jaw set and his eyes narrowed. Maybe she had the wrong place, and he was irritated with her for trespassing on his property. She prayed to God she had the wrong place. There could be two Rosalyn Manors in Bakersville, right?
Yeah, right.
“Are you Lesley DeLoach?” the man snapped.
She sucked in a deep breath, the air more suffocating than reassuring. “Yes.” Shutting her car door, she slid her sunglasses on top of her head and waved to the two people standing on the porch.
They each waved back. At least someone seemed happy.
“Are you the local contractor?”
“That would be me.” He stuck out his hand. “John Hambrice.”
He just confirmed her worst nightmare. This was indeed the Rosalyn Manor.
Lesley forced a smile and shook. His dry skin felt like she held a hand made of bark, rough and calloused, yet strong at the same time. No doubt the hands of a working man.
“Hambrice? Any relation to Milton Hambrice, the lawyer?”
“That’s my uncle,” he confirmed. “It’s a small town. Most people are either related or know each other.”
“I see. That would explain why he asked you to come.”
He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “I can leave if you’d like.”
Apparently, she’d insulted the guy without even meaning to. Not off to the best start.
“No, please don’t. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to insult you. This place is obviously going to need some work. I simply meant that since you are Mr. Hambrice’s nephew, it’s no surprise he called you first.”
John’s mouth tightened. “Ma’am,” he said pointedly, “my reputation speaks for itself. If you don’t believe so, ask around.”
Where was his southern hospitality?
“The name’s Lesley, and that’s not what I meant. Can we start over?” She bit her bottom lip.
John stared at her as if trying to assess if she was worth his time. She pulled back and gave him the same stare, or at least attempted to. The sun glared right in her face, causing her to squint more than stare, and she held her breath to fight back the sudden outburst of sneezing she felt coming on from the bright light.
His stare changed from cutting to concerned. “You okay? You look a little…red.”
“Yep.” She turned and sneezed. Four times.
“Need a tissue?”
“Nope.” Lesley held up a hand, her back still facing him. “I’m fine.” When she turned back around, his sharp stare was back.
“Good.” He nodded and pivoted to look at the house. “You want a tour of your new estate?”
“That’d be nice.” Considering the fact she would be sleeping here tonight, she needed to get an idea of what she was up against. Leaks, mold, rot, man-eating rats.
Please no rats.
She stared at the house. The two people on the porch—she assumed the caretakers mentioned in the lawyer’s letter—stood still with pleasant smiles on their faces, and she wondered if this contractor even knew how to smile.
“Follow me.”
John stomped through the lawn, his boots flattening the knee-high grass. She stepped after him, following his trail.
“Watch right there.” He pointed behind him.
Too late. Her foot sunk into a soft mound, like jumping into a warm, powdery snow pile. Dirt rose over her foot as black bugs crawled up her ankle.
“Ants!” she screamed and swatted at the insects while hopping on one foot.
“Hold on,” he grumbled as he went to his truck and retrieved a water bottle. He uncapped the lid and took a sip, then held the bottle by his side as a smirk played across his lips.
“What are…you smiling…at?” she gasped as she slapped her foot, the sting from the bites penetrating her skin.
“At how funny you look.” He ambled back across the grass. “Give me your foot.”
She smacked her ankle again. “What?”
“Give me your foot.” He reached for her calf and propped the sole of her shoe on his knee.
The touch of his hand to her leg sent a jolt through her limb and up her body, like she’d placed her whole foot in an electrical socket. The sensation left as fast as it came.
Must have been the ants. Who knew Georgia had electrifying ants?
He slowly poured the cool contents of his bottle over her sandaled foot, wiping away the bugs with his hand. The jolt came back with each stroke.
“Better?” He examined for more ants.
She jerked her foot away from his touch. “Yeah. Thanks.” Her toes ached as the cool water gave her a slight reprieve from the throbbing of the bites.
“I’ve been meaning to take care of those pesky piles,” the man on the porch hollered. “You okay, miss?”
She raised a hand. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Heat flushed her face.
John took a few steps and tossed the empty container in the bed of his truck. “You might want to watch your step from now on. That was my only water bottle.”
“Thanks.” Lesley shook the excess liquid from her foot as he turned and marched toward the house.
“Don’t mention it.”
“Hey, wait up.” She ran after him. What’s his big hurry?
“I’ve got a cousin in the real estate business if you’re interested,” he said over his shoulder.
“Why would I be interested?” she asked, her breath coming out fast from the little jog she had to do to keep up with him.
“In case you think this is too much for you. This place is almost unlivable.” He made his way up the porch steps. “I imagine a city girl such as yourself might not feel too comfortable living in such a remote location.”
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. So, this was why he’d stared at her all weird when she first walked up. This guy expected her to run the minute she saw all the damage. That was exactly what she had wanted to do the second she laid her gaze on the house, but she couldn’t. She had nowhere else to go, and the fact that he thought she wouldn’t stick around made her bristle.
I’ll show him.
Lesley straightened her shoulders and tugged her blouse straight, ignoring the deep yearn burning inside to lean down and scratch her foot. She didn’t dare. She’d already made a big enough fool of herself as it was. “Well, I think the place is absolutely fabulous,” she lied through a plastered on smile.
The man narrowed his gaze. “Fabulous, huh?”
What’s up with everyone in this town saying, “huh”?
“Of course.” She pointed toward the side of the manor. “I can see this porch being extended all the way around the house.”
A wrap-around porch wasn’t something she’d given much thought to before, but the idea sounded legit, and at least this contractor took his eyes off her for a split second. His intense gaze had her pulse racing, and she wasn’t sure why, especially with his sour attitude. Regardless the reason, she didn’t like it.
“And I’ll have some rocking chairs, potted plants, maybe a hammock. This will be the place to be in Bakersville. Rosalyn will be so spectacular people will beg me to host their weddings. Besides, this house has been in my family for years. I wouldn’t dream of selling.” She puffed her chest and marched up the first step, pushing past the muscular grump of a contractor.
A cracking sound registered in her brain a split second before her foot pummeled through the board. Lesley threw her hands out in front of her as a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist, stopping her with her palms and face inches away from hitting the hard surface. A burning sensation shot up her leg as an equally concerning sensation seared her skin where his palms held her firm.
“That step’s always been a little tricky. I guess it finally gave way,” the old man said.
And on her of all people. Why couldn’t it have broken when this annoying contractor walked over it?
Once she’d regained her balance, he let go, and she pulled her foot out of the hole. A trickle of blood ran down her ankle. “Ouch.” An old rusty nail covered in red poked out from the wood.
John stared at the pit in her leg. “You’re probably going to want to see Doctor Franks. Maybe get a tetanus shot.”
“Let me guess, is he your cousin?” She placed her foot on the next step, testing it before she applied all her weight.
He shook his head. “Nope, no relation at all. He’s my neighbor.”
“Figures,” Lesley mumbled. Thankfully, she’d already gotten a tetanus shot a few months before when she’d sliced her finger at a friend’s vacation home in Martha’s Vineyard, cutting some fancy cheese she couldn’t even pronounce…before her life went south. Literally.
“Let’s get you inside,” the other woman suggested as she placed a dark hand on Lesley’s arm. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Beatrice, but you can call me Bea.”
Lesley peered at the older lady, and recognition ignited her brain. “Thank you, Bea. I do remember you. It’s lovely to meet you again.”
“And this is my husband, Leo. You never saw him much when you were a child being his duties kept him busy, but we sure do remember you.”
“Pleasure again, Leo.” She shook the man’s old, arthritic hand.
“It’s all mine, missus. Now, let’s get inside. Let Bea here take care of you.”
“Thank you.”
On a stinging leg and still burning foot, she hobbled around John, giving him a side-glance before she went with the grandmotherly figure. His scowl stayed in place.
What the heck is his problem?
Lesley shook off the annoyance and stepped over the threshold. The inside viewed nearly as ragged as the outside. The wood floors had lost their varnish, and the wallpaper pictured an old, French toile design of people outlined in blue, working a farm. Parts of the paper had taken on a yellow tinge while other parts curled and separated from the wall. A dusty chandelier hung overhead with only half the bulbs glowing a yellowed haze.
And the clutter.
In every corner, stacks of newspapers, magazines, and books littered the floor, making piles taller than her. Little trinkets adorned every available tabletop space, and the few nice pieces of furniture she did see were covered in scratch marks. The whole place stank of dust, wood rot, and urine.
As she and Bea rounded the corner of the entryway into the dining area, a fat, gray and black tabby cat crawled out from behind a pile of papers. She watched in horror as he hiked his butt in the air and peed all over the stack of Bakersville Gazettes.
“Stop that, Demon.” The housekeeper swatted at the cat with her broom. The animal eyed her with disgust and pranced toward the living area, hissing at Lesley as he went. Bea shook her head. “Blasted cat. He hasn’t been the same since Miss Myrtle died.”
“Is that really his name?” Lesley asked. “Demon?”
“No.” The woman’s narrow hips swayed as she continued walking. “That’s his nickname.”
She followed behind her new roommate. “What’s his name then?”
“Angel.”
A loud crash came from the living room, and she whirled around. Angel had jumped atop the mantel and knocked several baubles onto the floor. Shards of glass scattered the only remaining walkway in the room not covered by papers or furniture. Ahead of her, as if nothing had happened, Bea continued through a doorway to the kitchen. The old swinging door stood propped open.
Is the old woman hard of hearing?
Angel perched on the mantle and flopped his tail vigorously.
“Blasted cat,” Bea mumbled under her breath.
Not hard of hearing.
Lesley followed Ms. Bea into the kitchen. Leaning over a white, chipped porcelain farm sink, the older lady ran a tattered, rust-colored rag under the faucet. Lesley eyed the dirty cloth as a sinking feeling formed in her stomach. The rag itself might give her tetanus—but she took the offering anyway, not wanting to be rude.
Thank God for my shot.
“Thank you.” She dabbed at the blood.
From a cabinet by the sink, Bea pulled out a box of bandages that must have come with the blueprints of the house. The woman’s hands shook as she peeled the plastic wrapper off the back of the dressing.
“Here, let me.” Lesley gently reached for the bandage and smiled.
Bea gave a crooked grin.
She ripped the white off the dressing, tearing half the compress in the process. With only one end in tack, she applied the good side to her leg; the glue on the strip wouldn’t adhere to her skin.
“Let me see if we have any more.” The older woman reached back in the cabinet.
“Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. Look.” Lesley tossed the warped bandage in the trash bin next to the sink and pointed to her cut. “The bleeding’s practically stopped.”
Blood trickled down her leg like a red worm.
Spotting a roll of paper towels on the counter, she tore a piece off, applying it with pressure to her wound. The tissue soaked up the blood and stuck to her leg, using the red goo as a sort of glue. That would have to do until the bleeding stopped…or until my leg falls off from some nasty bacterial infection.
“You all better, princess?” John’s voice dripped sarcasm from behind her.
Princess?
She turned and crossed her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He held his hands up. “Nothing at all.”
“I’m not a princess.”
“Sure you aren’t.”
That same, cocky grin he had on his face when she’d been screaming over the ants spread across his features again. Was he trying to get under her skin?
She wouldn’t let him. “Let’s finish that tour shall we? Then we can discuss your budget for fixing the place up.”
He cocked his head. “Are you sure you’re ready to take on a job this big?”
Was she ready?
No.
But she didn’t have much of a choice. Whether she liked it or not, this dilapidated, run down, smelly building was now her home, and she’d rather sleep outside in her car every night before she admitted defeat. She needed to get her life back in order, and she would, no matter what. Even if she had to scrape every last bit of paint off this old house and do the whole job herself.
She stood, placed her hands on her hips, and willed the pain in her leg and the itching on her foot to go away. “I think the question is, are you?”
