Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
ELLA
I t seemed the gray skies were back. No light seeped past the curtain edges, but my phone insisted it was well past eight. Somewhere in my hazy dreams about a block of cheddar cheese and Ms. Denton handing me a glass of lemonade, I heard Layla grumbling about having to get up so early for work. I, on the other hand, had landed a job that did not require me to get dressed and go out in the cold, but I’d only keep that job if I could deliver on my first assignment.
Last night’s grilled cheese had helped my hunger, but I was still no closer to writing the first episode in my series about Grimstone Manor. Andrea May had sent my employee paperwork and a slightly more detailed description of what they expected from my first project. “Make it interesting and exciting, but it must be factual.” That was the line that kept replaying in my head as I spent the rest of the evening scouring the internet for information about Margaret Grimstone. I now knew all I ever wanted to know about Marshall Grimstone, her father. Aside from being a bigwig in the railroad, he’d aspired to be governor or even president one day, but his political career ended after he voted for an unpopular bill that would have increased the state income tax. That was when he left politics to become head of a big chain of banks, and his wealth doubled in that time. It was estimated that he was worth more than 10 million dollars at the time of his death, a sum that would have been equivalent to more than 300 million dollars today. As the Whisper Gazette had mentioned in its highly lacking article about Margaret’s death, Marshall left most of that fortune to his only child. Margaret’s mother died of pneumonia when Margaret was thirteen, so she stepped in as the woman in charge of her father’s estate at a very young age. Marshall died when Margaret was twenty. She sold his vast estate in the country and purchased the land in Whisper Cove. And that was where most of the information ended. Marshall’s life ended and the Grimstone family story ended with it.
I badly needed more information on Margaret’s untimely demise. It was hard to believe I’d find anything more in the house, but it seemed my new editor expected me to at least get in there and give the place a look.
I pulled on my robe and slippers and followed the delicious baked bread scents to the kitchen. Isla had gotten up early to bake bread and cookies for the café. She was anxious to get into her own commercial kitchen to create her magic. Nonna’s kitchen held a treasure trove of fond memories, but like the rest of the cottage, it was small. Still, Isla managed to bake multiple loaves of bread every morning before the café opened. She’d already delivered her goods, and she was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee as she browsed appliance brochures.
She glanced up at the sound of floorboards creaking. “Hey, sleepy, how is the story going?”
“It’s not.” I walked straight to the coffeepot.
“That didn’t sound very promising. This is the job you wanted, right?”
“It’s definitely one I wanted, but my first assignment already has me twisted in knots. I need to find information about Grimstone Manor. I need to know how it became one of the most cursed homes in the country.”
“That actually sounds like something you’d enjoy writing. What’s the problem?”
I pulled up a chair next to Isla and sat down with my coffee. “I have to write five to six episodes for the publication. Naturally, I plan to start with Margaret Grimstone. But there’s very little about her online and almost nothing in the library. I can find plenty about her successful father, but he’s got nothing to do with the house or the curse.”
Isla rubbed her chin in thought. “I seem to remember something about a hunting accident.”
“See, that’s what I remember, too.” I laughed. “Can I quote you on that? ‘I seem to remember something about a hunting accident.’ It’s seriously the only thing I’ve gotten so far. The local paper from that time said she died of injuries from a fall, so that doesn’t line up with what we heard. The rest of her death notice was about her semi-famous dad. Margaret’s demise was just an afterthought in the article.”
“What about the cookies?” Isla asked. “Don’t tell me my chocolate chip cookie recipe failed with the new owner?”
“Yesterday was a failure, but it had nothing to do with your cookies and everything to do with me and my big mouth. I was blathering on to Gemma and Renee about the strange man I saw standing near the cliffs—the apparent new owner of Grimstone Manor—all while I was trying to reach a bag of pistachios on the top shelf in the market. I had no idea the new owner had walked in behind me. I hoped I could break the ice and restart the whole thing with the cookies, but he didn’t come to the door. I left the cookies just in case.”
Isla sat up with a smile. “Then you have the perfect excuse to go back. I assume the cookies were on one of Nonna’s tulip plates?” Nonna’s favorite dish set were white with a yellow and orange tulip border.
“You’re right. I did leave the plate behind. I don’t know what I was thinking. I thought I might still have a chance if I left him the cookies.”
“Then you need to go back and get the plate,” Isla said with a head nod. “And turn on some of that Ella charm. If he’s eaten the cookies, then he’s already sweetened up for a chat.”
“I’m not so sure about that. But I will go back for the plate.” I got up to put a piece of bread in the toaster. “Just need a little fortification first.”
T here was a frothy blanket of clouds draped across the sky. They badly looked as if they wanted to drop precipitation on the town. I pulled on my school bus yellow rainslicker just in case. I practiced many greetings in my head on the way to the manor, but all the rehearsed lines vanished once I reached the first step. I stood and stared up at the house. It seemed to scowl back at me from under the stone-gray sky. The old truck stood in the same spot on the gravel drive. It, too, seemed to be asking why I was trespassing.
I took a deep breath, walked up the steps and lifted my hand to knock. The door opened before my knuckles made contact. I stared at him for a stunned moment. He was wearing a dark blue sweater and jeans. His longish dark blond hair and golden-toned skin made him look like a surfer who’d just waded out of the Malibu waves with his board tucked under his arm. He looked less stern, but there was no smile. He was holding the tulip plate.
“Thanks,” I said weakly as I took the plate.
“They were good. I ate them all. Haven’t had a homemade chocolate chip cookie in years.”
“Oh, right, well, good. I just wanted to—you know—welcome you to the neighborhood.” I nodded and it seemed that was going to be the end of our interaction. I was about to leave but stopped. “You could have opened the door yesterday. I saw you sitting up in that top window, staring down at me like an angry crow from his nest.” I rolled in my lips and then forced a smile. “That didn’t come out the way I hoped. I didn’t mean to call you a crow.”
“An angry crow,” he reminded me. “A strange, grim, angry crow who is also a sucker.”
I could feel my cheeks warm. “You’ll have to excuse me. I tend to run off at the mouth. Motor mouth. That’s me and I didn’t mean any of those things.” I decided to switch topics because this one was making my face hot with embarrassment. “How are you settling in?” I asked briskly.
“Fine.”
“Good, well, that sounds—that sounds—fine.” I peered up at him with a sheepish smile.
“Cup of coffee?” he asked so curtly, I wasn’t sure if it was an invite or if he just decided to say the words.
I raised my brows and pointed at my chest. “Are you inviting me in for a cup of coffee?”
He looked past me and then nodded. “You’re the only person on the porch, so yeah, I guess I’m asking you.”
“Uh, a cup of coffee sounds great.” It occurred to me that I knew nothing about the man inviting me into Grimstone Manor, the cursed house on the hill, but it meant I’d be closer to some of the leftover artifacts in the house. I was a journalist now. I needed to be gutsy and take chances or my career would end before it started. Besides, even though he was rather sullen, he wasn’t giving off serial killer vibes. Not that I knew what those vibes would be like, but I’d met people, men, who set my teeth on edge. That wasn’t him.
I’d seen the entryway when I’d spied through the front window. It opened up to a large sitting room, mostly empty except for a couch, a massive stone fireplace and windows that were crusted with dirt but that showed great promise in the vast room.
“I realize I’ve ridden my bicycle and hiked around this old house many times, but I’ve never been inside.” My gaze swept up to the coffered ceiling above our heads. Everything needed paint and some wood needed replacing, but it was in relatively good shape. I hadn’t realized Mr. Lockwood was watching me until I felt his gaze on me. “It’s in better shape than I imagined. I wonder why Hannah had such a hard time selling it.”
“Because it’s cursed,” he said wryly. He turned and I followed him down a short hallway to the kitchen.
We reached the kitchen. It was in much more need of repair than the front room. It was a sprawling eat-in kitchen, the kind I’d always dreamed of for my own house. However, this one was sorely lacking. The only appliance was a refrigerator, and half the cupboard doors were missing. A hot plate, coffeepot and toaster oven had been set up on the counter beneath the broken cupboards.
“But it didn’t give you pause?” I asked. “The story of the house being cursed?”
He walked over to the coffeepot. “I’m already cursed, so I’m not too worried.” It wasn’t the answer I was expecting. As he reached for the pot, the sleeve on his sweater slipped back, exposing the scar on his arm. I hadn’t wanted to stare in the store, but he was turned away from me, so I got a better look at it. It was definitely a burn scar.
He turned around with two paper cups of coffee. “Sorry about the cups. I’ve ordered some dishes and kitchen utensils, but they haven’t arrived yet.” He placed the cup of coffee in front of me. “Milk? I don’t have sugar.”
“Black is fine.”
He sat down. Whatever soap he was using, it was a good one. “You were mostly right,” he said before taking a sip of coffee.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Mostly right about your assessment of me. Although, I’m far less angry than I look. I’ve come to accept some things, and now I’m just—what was the word—grim?”
I shook my head. “No, that wasn’t a good word either. I’m sorry.”
“And the more I explore this monstrosity I bought, the more the sucker label fits, too. It’s going to take a lot of work, but mostly, it’s going to take patience and enthusiasm, and I’m not sure I have either right now.”
I glanced at his left hand. The front edges of the scar feathered out across the heel of his thumb. “Was it an accident?” I wanted to kick myself right in the behind. Nonna always warned me about being too blunt, and since I’d already made some major missteps with Mr. Lockwood, I should have been more cautious.
He pulled the sleeve lower on his hand and ignored the question. Maybe I’d get a pass this time, and hopefully, I’d learned my lesson.
I surveyed the kitchen. Several pieces of tile clung to the wall behind the counter. The counter was modern, or at least last century, cheap, gray Formica or something similar. There were two large windows, one at each end of the room that would have provided plenty of light if not for the cloud cover. “It doesn’t look like much now, but this kitchen could be beautiful.”
He nodded. “I agree, but again, it’ll take patience and enthusiasm.”
“And money,” I added since that was usually the most important thing needed for a big remodel. I put down my cup. “I just realized something crazy as we sit here chatting over coffee.” I held out my hand. “I’m Ella.”
“Rhett.” His hand grasped mine, and for the briefest second, something that felt like static passed between our palms. He seemed to sense it, too, and looked up, surprised, before quickly releasing my hand.
The interaction was odd enough to leave me temporarily speechless. “Nice to meet you,” the words sort of stumbled out. I looked at him. “Did you say your name was Rhett?”
“Yes, and yes, I am named not so much after a literary character as I am after the Hollywood legend who played the literary character on screen. My grandmother and, subsequently, my mom are big vintage movie buffs, especially if it includes Clark Gable.”
“I love that story. And be happy they weren’t big Boris Karloff fans. Rhett is much nicer than Frankenstein … or Boris, for that matter.”
“Never thought of that. Guess I’ll appreciate my name more.” I still hadn’t made him smile, and something told me there was enough life weighing down his shoulders that a smile would not come easy.
“So, you’re living here alone?” I asked because I apparently still hadn’t learned my lesson.
“Unless there are some ghosts I don’t know about. Refill?” he asked as he got up.
“No, thanks. Another cup and I’ll be buzzing around the room like a hummingbird.” We drank a cup of coffee together. He wasn’t the terrible ogre I’d imagined after seeing him in the window. I’d worked up enough courage to ask about the items in the house.
Rhett sat back down at the table.
“Rhett, is it all right if I call you Rhett?”
“As you pointed out, it’s better than Frankenstein.”
I giggled, but still no smile on his end. “I’m writing an article for an online publication. They focus on interesting and noteworthy stories from small towns, towns like Whisper Cove. It’s my first assignment. I’m super excited because I’ve been wanting to write for this publication.”
He casually sipped his coffee. “You’re writing a story about Grimstone Manor.”
“Uh, yes, I am. About the curse,” I added and then rather wished I’d kept that morsel to myself.
“I found this house on the realtor’s site, and I know nothing about the curse.” His tone was drier and his expression harsher. “And here I thought you were just welcoming me to the neighborhood.”
“I am. The cookies were my way to say welcome,” I said quickly. I’d handled this all wrong, and he had every right to feel betrayed.
“And to get inside to see if you could find out information for your article.”
I felt the new job, the dream job, slipping away. “The realtor told my editor that there were a lot of photos and journals and books left behind through the years. That was before you bought the house.”
“So, you’re telling me I got in the way of your first big break by buying this wreck.” He stood up abruptly and I followed. I picked up the plate. It was over. I’d handled this whole thing like a big clumsy ox. I should have known a man like him wouldn’t be the least bit receptive to someone traipsing through his home and life.
I wanted this job. I wanted so badly to impress my new editor. So far, I’d been an absolute failure at this writing thing, and this job was supposed to change all that. “Look, I’m sorry. I went about this all wrong. I made the cookies, so I could meet you and ask if I could have access to the old things. I wouldn’t be a bother, and I’d be in and out as fast as possible.” I was tossing out all my words as he was already walking me to the door. It was over. My chance was over and so was my career in journalism.
Nonna told me I always wore my emotions on my sleeve, and I never shied away from letting the world know how I felt. She told me that was what made my stories so good because all my feelings came out in my words. She called it a gift, but I wasn’t so sure. Still, I had nothing to lose. He stopped at the door and turned to face me. That same indifference he was so good at showing was on full display now. He stared at me, waiting for me to make my final appeal before he waved me out the door.
“My whole life I’ve only had one dream—to write and to entertain people with those words. While other kids were outside riding bikes or playing on the beach, I was sitting in my room, my favorite quilt pulled up over my head to create what I called my writer’s den, scribbling stories onto notepads. I’d work feverishly on whatever story had taken over my soul that week and then I’d read them to my sisters. Some they loved and some were flops, but the flops never got in my way. I just kept writing stories. If I don’t do well on this story, I’ll lose the job.” I blinked back tears. His expression remained in stone. “But that’s none of your concern. I get it, and I’m sorry I wasted your time.” I reached for the door, pulled it open and let the cool blast of air from outside dry the tears. “Thanks for the coffee and good luck with the house,” I said over my shoulder. I reached the steps.
“I have one condition,” he said sternly.
I stopped and turned around. “Excuse me?”
“If I let you look through the old things, then you have to pack them up in boxes as you go through them. I need to get rid of all that old stuff.”
I didn’t react right away because I worried my ears were playing tricks on me. “Did you say I could look through the stuff?”
“As long as you pack it up when you’re finished.”
I clapped excitedly. “I can do that. You won’t regret this. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse, and you won’t even know I’m there.”
“Somehow, I doubt that. I’ll buy some boxes. You can start tomorrow. Nine?”
“Yes, yes, I’ll be here, and I’ll get everything packed up nicely. Thank you so much, Mr. Lockwood.”
“The occasional plate of cookies wouldn’t hurt either,” he added.
“Cookies. Of course. I’ll bake some tonight. Thank you again.” I turned and decided to skedaddle away before I said something that would change his mind. And that thought brought me to a new question as I hurried across the weed riddled lot. “Why exactly did he change his mind?”