Holiday Hideaway

DAY 1

T illy had unloaded her groceries in the kitchen at the Crowe’s Nest when Smoosh, her elderly shelter dog who was sitting in the doorway, waiting for his good-boy treat, perked up his ears and gave a short, sharp bark.

The sound was the Smoosh equivalent of an air-raid siren, and it startled Tilly so badly she nearly dropped her bottle of budget red wine. She ran to the parlor at the front of the house just in time to see a white Jeep pulling up the washed-out gravel drive that ended at the front of this dilapidated Victorian mansion.

“Smoosh, come!” she called, her voice low but urgent. She raced to the kitchen to retrieve the tote bag that contained her essentials, then ran up the back stairway, stopping halfway to scoop up the dog, her sleeping bag from the bedroom, and the trash bag containing her clothes. Then she moved on, awkwardly up another flight of creaking wooden stairs, all the way up to the attic, where she dropped everything but Smoosh, stooped down, and opened the surprisingly small door. She stepped inside, pulled the door shut, and dashed over to a dust-caked window that faced the front of the house. Through leafless treetops (and numerous crow’s nests) she could see Calico Bay, where the setting sun was a dazzling orange, and along the bay’s shoreline she could see the twinkle of white lights adorning docks and rooflines and even the masts of sailboats. A New England winter sent plenty of locals down to Florida, but Tilly had always loved her hometown this time of year—the white lights, the cool blue of the sky, and the short days that made it okay to hide away inside with a good book. Looking down now, she could see the Crowe’s Nest’s weed-choked lawn below and the roof of the white Jeep.

What she couldn’t see was the Jeep’s occupant. The motor was still running, sending a plume of smoke into the frigid night air.

Tilly dug her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans and called Ruth, her best friend, who also happened to be the bookkeeper for Piney Point Vacation Rentals, where Tilly was employed as a rental agent.

“Ruth,” she said breathlessly. “Someone just pulled up in front of the Crowe’s Nest. A white Jeep.”

Tilly stood on her tiptoes to look down. The Jeep’s driver’s-side door was now open. A man stepped out. Slender build, darkish hair, probably in his thirties from the way he dressed—hatless, jeans, a puffer jacket, and boots. As she watched, he walked around to the back of the Jeep, opened the tailgate, and lifted out a duffel bag.

“Oh, shit. It’s a guy. And it looks like he’s planning to stay.”

“Who is it? The house hasn’t been booked. Unless it’s someone from the family.”

Tilly watched the stranger approach the house. “Whoever he is, he’s kinda cute.”

“See, I was afraid something like this would happen. I warned you.”

“No. You warned me in eighth grade that cutting my own bangs was a bad idea, but you never warned me that some cute rando would show up here at this house, where not a single soul has stepped foot in at least a year.” Tilly glanced around the gloomy attic. Cobwebs stretched from the eaves to the rough wooden floor. Aged cardboard cartons were stacked haphazardly against the exposed wall studs, and obsolete objects were scattered about: an old brass headboard, a circa-1970s plaid sofa, an ancient console television, a pile of what looked like army-surplus camping equipment, even a dust-covered cello.

“I believe I said that trespassing at vacant properties managed by our company was a terrible idea and that if you got caught, your ex-husband, the sheriff, would happily lock you up for the rest of your life.”

“It’s not like I had a choice,” Tilly said. “Mrs. Langley kicked me out of my apartment because of Smoosh, and you know my new place isn’t available until January. In the meantime, between the first and last month’s rent, security deposit, pet deposit, and utility deposits, I’m broke now. Anyway, I’m not really trespassing. This place is vacant. I’m just doing property-management due diligence, making sure ...”

The man below was standing still, looking out at the bay. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a large brass circlet from which dangled a multitude of old-fashioned keys, which he proceeded to sort through.

“Oh shit. It looks like he’s going to come in,” Tilly said. “He’s got a key, so I guess he’s not a burglar.”

“Where are you?”

Tilly explained what had happened and why she was hiding in the attic. “Geez, it’s cold up here,” she said, her breath forming tiny white puffs of condensation. She dropped down onto the sofa, and when a tiny mouse scurried across the floor, squeaking in protest, she had to clamp her hand across her mouth to keep from screeching. Smoosh had already settled himself at the other end of the sofa, curling himself up into a tight ball. “The man of my dreams,” Tilly said fondly. “Either too old or too loyal to chase another girl.” She scratched the tender spot under his chin. To show his appreciation, he farted softly and promptly fell asleep.

“Tilly! What are you going to do?” Ruth demanded.

Tilly heard footsteps on the wooden porch floor, followed by the loud squeaking of the front door’s rusty hinges as the door opened. “He’s in the house,” she whispered.

“You’ve got to get out of there!” Ruth urged.

Tilly’s work phone vibrated from her other pocket. She pulled it out and glanced down at the caller ID. “Great. Now I’ve got a work call coming in.”

“Don’t take it. Get out of that house. Right now.”

“I gotta. It could be Collette checking up on me. Everyone else in the office is gone until after Christmas.”

Tilly hung up and answered the other call. She moved to the far corner of the attic, farther from the stairs in case the man was headed her way. “Piney Point Vacation Rentals,” she said smoothly. “Happy holidays.”

“Uh, hi,” a man’s voice said. It was deep, resonant. And she realized, with horror, that it was likely coming from two floors below, in the very house where she was currently squatting—er, exercising prudent property-management practices.

“I’ve just arrived at my family’s property here in Piney Point, and I’ve noticed a strange car parked in the driveway.”

Tilly’s blood pressure spiked. She’d pulled her battered Kia up to the back door of the kitchen, intending to move it onto the street after she’d unloaded the groceries.

“Which property is that, sir?” Could he detect the nervousness in her voice?

“The Crowe’s Nest. On Beaverton, facing the bay.”

“I see,” Tilly said. She grabbed the sleeping bag, pulled it over her head, and crouched on the floor, hoping her voice wouldn’t be audible.

“Sir, our records show that the owner of that property is Augustus Crowe. Is Mr. Crowe aware that you’re inside his residence?”

“Augustus isn’t currently aware of anything. He died three weeks ago.” The caller sounded absolutely cheery about this turn of events.

“Oh. Well, er, please accept my condolences.”

Tilly had met Augustus Crowe, Piney Point’s richest citizen, only once, when, as a teenage cashier, she’d rung up his groceries at the Stop ’N’ Shop and had earned a withering tongue-lashing when she’d made the mistake of placing a twenty-five-cent dented can of tomatoes on top of a loaf of sandwich bread. He’d called for her manager and attempted to have her fired on the spot. Fortunately for Tilly, the Stop ’N’ Shop manager was her mom, who let her off with a stern look and an offer to replace the old man’s bread.

She felt briefly ashamed of being glad the old man had passed. Nobody at Piney Point Vacation Rentals would be mourning the loss of their most irascible homeowner.

“Thanks. He was ninety-six and as miserable a human being as ever walked the earth,” the caller said.

“Wow. Harsh,” Tilly said.

“No. Harsh was him disowning my uncle for marrying a Unitarian,” the man said. “ Harsh was him boycotting my mom’s funeral because she voted for Hillary Clinton.”

“So you’re related?” Tilly asked cautiously. “I wasn’t aware Mr. Crowe had any family.”

“None that he spoke to, anyway,” the caller said. “I’m his great-nephew, George. As a token of his utter disdain for our family, Uncle Gus left his millions in a trust for his cat, Emmaline. He left this decrepit money pit to my cousin and my sisters and me, and I drew the short straw, which means I get to figure out how to get it cleaned out and ready to put on the market ASAP. Over Christmas.”

“You’re selling the Crowe’s Nest?” Tilly asked, aghast. “That house is a local landmark. Mr. Crowe always said he’d never part with it. Every summer, we had sellers asking, and the answer from your great-uncle was always the same: ‘Over my dead body.’”

“He got his wish,” George said, chuckling. “Anyway, about that junker car ...”

“Yes, er, it belongs to one of our maintenance workers.” Her thoughts raced. “The battery died when he was out there doing a routine property check. We’ll send someone to remove it.”

“Another thing. When I got in the house, I actually found food on the kitchen counter. Eggs, bacon, Cheez-Its, Cheez Whiz, and a two-pound bag of Peanut M&M’s. Even a bottle of really cheap wine. And also a little Christmas tree, set up in the parlor. Has someone been in here?”

Tilly’s cheeks grew heated with embarrassment. She’d turned to stress eating after the divorce. Now, her brain scrambled for an explanation. “That would be our Piney Point Vacation Rentals complimentary welcome package. We had a guest booking, and they chose the holiday option, which comes with all the trimmings. Unfortunately, the guests canceled at the last minute.”

“Kind of a bizarre holiday welcome basket, if you ask me. Just as well, though. I drove up from Boston just now and didn’t stop for groceries. Say, what did you say your name is?”

“Er, Tilly,” she said, her stomach growling at the mention of the food she’d bought.

“Okay, Tilly. Well, I guess I’ll drop by the office later this week. I’m assuming you guys will need some paperwork signed before I list the house?”

“I suppose.”

After he’d disconnected, George set his suitcase down at the foot of the elaborately carved front-hall staircase and walked slowly through the rooms on the first floor, making a mental inventory of all the work that would have to be done. He tried to remember the last time he’d been inside the Crowe’s Nest. Twenty years, at least. Maybe Christmas, his junior year of high school?

Funny, he could remember the menu—a dried-out ham, canned Le Sueur peas, and instant mashed potatoes—but not the reason for the rare invitation to dine with the old man. What he did remember was his mother jumping to her feet during dessert—slices of fruitcake left over from the Mesozoic Era—grabbing her pocketbook, and running, red faced and in tears, out of the house. What had the old man said to upset his usually placid mother? He had never known.

The dining room looked much the same as it had on his last visit. It was clean enough, but who would choose this mausoleum as a place to spend a week at the beach? And over Christmas? The house was dark, drafty, and depressing. Not exactly the kind of halls a sane person would want to deck with boughs of holly. The floral wallpaper was faded and peeling away from the walls. The pattern in the vividly hued Oriental rug was worn through and threadbare in places. China and knickknacks were scattered about on yellowing doilies.

“Gotta get rid of the wallpaper.” George dictated a memo into his phone. “Paint. Ditch the carpet. Donate all this old crap.”

The parlor was furnished in ornate satin-upholstered sofas and stiff-looking chairs, with a huge dust-encrusted crystal chandelier overhead. Fussily swagged velvet curtains dripping with gold fringe hung at the windows. A three-foot fake Christmas tree, complete with twinkling multicolored lights, sat on an ebony table near the fireplace—the single note of cheer in the whole house as far as he could tell. Would anybody want this stuff?

Maybe he’d ask the property-management gal he’d talked to earlier. She’d have a handle on what buyers were looking for in this small coastal tourist destination.

His phone rang. Vanessa. He sighed and put her on speaker. “Hey, babe.”

“I thought you were going to call me as soon as you got to the house. I was starting to worry.”

“Sorry. Just got here and doing my walk-through to figure out what all I need to do these next few days.”

“You need to get a contractor over there and tell him to get it done,” Vanessa said. “I don’t see why you have to be the one to give up Christmas. Why can’t your sisters or your cousin help out?”

They’d been over this, in detail, multiple times in the weeks since the lawyers had notified the family about Gus’s will, but Vanessa wasn’t having it.

“You know that my cousin Layton just gave birth six weeks ago. My sister Paulette can’t take off work until after the holidays, and Abby is just Abby. Sweet, but clueless when it comes to this kind of stuff. That leaves me. I own my own business, remember?”

“What I remember is that this is supposed to be our most glorious, exciting holiday season as a couple ever,” Vanessa put in. “I texted you a photo of the absolutely perfect ring I found, by the way. Not yellow gold, not white gold—platinum. Did you see that?”

George gulped and stared down at the text she’d sent as he was driving. “I did, but I’ve been thinking, maybe we should wait? I mean ...”

“You’re overthinking things again,” Vanessa said, cutting him off. “I thought we’d announce our engagement when we’re with all our friends at my charity gala at the club. Which is another reason you need to get back here. Otherwise, we’re missing the gala, my office party, your company’s Christmas brunch ...”

George wasn’t missing any of those events. He wasn’t a party person. “You could come up here and spend Christmas with me,” he said, knowing full well she wouldn’t. “The place could really use a woman’s touch.”

Vanessa’s tone was dismissive. “I saw the pictures of the place on the management company’s website, and this woman wouldn’t touch any of that crap with a ten-foot pole. It looks like something out of Harry Potter , and not in a good way. Give it all away, burn it, whatever.”

“Don’t think the township is gonna appreciate me making a bonfire out of a local historic landmark.” He leaned down to peer up the chimney, which was when he noticed the fireplace was stacked with wood and kindling. He found a match, touched it to the kindling, and was rewarded with a warming blaze. “Nice,” he muttered.

“What’s that?” Vanessa asked. “George, are you even listening to me?”

“I always listen to you,” he said dutifully.

“Okay, but all our friends will be at the country club dance. It’s the twenty-third. You definitely have to make it back in time for that. So we can make the announcement.”

All her friends, George thought. But what he said was “Umm. What day is today?”

“The eighteenth. You should be able to whip that house into shape and still make it home in plenty of time for the gala and the other parties. And Christmas, I suppose. Right?”

“Let me ask you a procedural question, Vanessa. You don’t actually expect me to dance at this country club thing. Right?”

“Of course you’ll dance. Who goes to a ball and doesn’t dance?”

Me, George thought. It’s me. I’m the problem.

“George?” Vanessa was losing patience with him. It happened a lot. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, let alone dated—smart, successful, and waaay out of his league.

He was staring up at the parlor ceiling, at some crumbling plaster and ominous water stains.

“Sorry, babe. I don’t like the look of the ceilings in here. Thinking I might need to get up on the roof tomorrow to check it out.”

“No!” Vanessa shrieked. “I absolutely forbid you to go up on that roof. You know how clumsy you can be.”

“We’ll see,” George said. Years ago, there’d been a barn at the back of the property, where he and his sisters and cousin had spent many happy hours escaping adult supervision. Was there a ladder back there? And a flashlight? He’d add it to his list.

It was really remarkable, Tilly thought, how sound traveled in this old house. It felt a bit voyeuristic listening in on George’s conversation, but since she was already squatting in a dead man’s house, this was probably the least criminal thing she’d done this week.

He’d mentioned family members, a Paulette and a Layton and an Abby. The names sounded vaguely familiar. For that matter, George’s voice sounded familiar. Was he a local? She couldn’t remember knowing any George Crowes. The most alarming thing she’d overheard was that he was apparently planning on staying. At least a week? Meaning she’d potentially be trapped in this unheated attic?

Ruth was right. She needed to get out. If he caught her squatting here, he could call the cops. Which meant Denny. She’d lose her job and the new apartment. But what other options were there? She shivered again and stretched out on the sofa, tucking her feet under Smoosh’s warm, unconscious body. She pulled the sleeping bag over both of them and uneasily drifted off, hoping the solution to her predicament would arrive in the morning.