Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Chandler
Haunted.
The word echoed with every ring of the call.
“Hey, Chandler,” Tom answered. “How’s it going up there?”
“Haunted.” For all the years I’d been involved in this business, this was one conversation I’d never had to have.
“Excuse me? Are you on your way to Edgewood? The service out there can be spotty. I could’ve sworn you said?—”
“Haunted,” I repeated and forced out an exhale. “Apparently, the inn is haunted.”
“Well. That’s certainly…interesting.”
My grip tightened on the wheel, midday sunlight splattering through the shroud of aged trees onto the drive, shadows hanging like ghosts from their branches.
“None of the buyers said anything about it? No one when you were up here mentioned?—”
“Of course not. I can employ a certain amount of discretion when I tell you things, but I wouldn’t have held something like that back,” he said firmly. “No one ever even hinted that the reason they were no longer interested was…paranormal.”
“Dammit,” I muttered.
I sped down the long, tree-shaded lane toward the Edgewood Estate. Nestled in the woods and pitted against the peaceful placidity of the thoughtfully named South Pond, the old colonial mansion had been transformed into an assisted-living home. One that cost an arm, a leg, a firstborn, and an entire bitcoin to reside at— a price I would happily pay ten times over for my mom.
Laura Collins had been the mom everyone wanted. Thoughtful. Caring. Kind. She’d bent over backward when I was younger, doing more than she needed to—more than seemed humanly possible—to make up for a mistake that hadn’t been hers. She didn’t want me to feel any kind of deficit, having only one parent in my life, and I never did. Only anger at the man who’d put her in that position in the first place.
“Chandler, now, I’m not going to make claims about spirits or the afterlife, but that inn isn’t haunted. I stayed there when it was open; there was never any mention of ghosts.” Tom sounded—for lack of a better word—flabbergasted, and that was a considerable feat for a man who retained an admirable degree of control over himself.
“I know it’s not haunted, Tom,” I grunted.Notafucking chance.
I’d been there. Stood in front of it today. The massive stone facade. Generous, paned windows. Wrought-iron sconces and lamps. For a second, I’d stepped back into colonial times, in awe of the character of the building that couldn’t be dulled even after decades of disuse. It might be old. Run down. But it sure as shit wasn’t haunted .
“Who did you hear this from?”
My body hummed tight. A coy candlemaker.
“A local shop owner.”
“Well, they have to be mistaken.” I could practically hear him shake his head and then scratch the back of his nape, perplexed.
“I’m going to look into it,” I said, full well knowing I was going to do more than just look. There was something in her eyes—something when she’d told me about Revolutionary War ghosts—that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. And it was something that—for lack of a better word— haunted me.“I just needed to know if you’d heard anything along the same lines?—”
“No. Not a word.”
“Right.” I breathed out and let off the gas as I approached the last corner of the drive. “I’m almost at Edgewood and will probably lose you.”
“All right, I’ll see if I can dig up anything.” He sighed. “Just try to forget about it while you’re with her, Chandler. The stress…she can sense it.”
“Yeah,” I croaked and then mumbled a goodbye.
Around the bend, the large, whitewashed building came into sight. The striking columns of the two-story porticoed front porch towered over a line of wooden rocking chairs that stretched from one end to the other. Those chairs were new. I wondered if Mom liked them.
If the owners hadn’t turned this place into an elder care facility, they could’ve easily transformed it into a luxury bed-and-breakfast. That was my suggestion when I’d sold it to Chip and Dianne. But before the ink was even dry on the papers, Chip started showing signs of early-onset Alzheimer’s, soDianne changed all their plans. Instead, they’d decided to restore the manor to a place for them to still enjoy, but one that could also accommodate Chip’s deteriorating health.
In many ways, it had the same B the only thing I was interested in building was business and a better legacy.
I slowed and turned into the small parking lot for guests, all the spots marked Reserved .
From the lot, there was a wide path that led down to the pond, a favorite of Chip’s and many of the other residents here. According to Tom, Mom thought it was okay. Probably because it wasn’t the beach . But Tom would know. He came up here every other weekend to visit her…and then discreetly gave me any updates when I would see him.
He wasn’t judging me. He understood— knew how hard it was for me to come up here. I had a million work-related excuses at the ready to explain why I put off visiting Mom, and I was happy to fall on the sword of appearing an asshole if it meant avoiding the truth: there wasn’t anything more painful than having the one person I loved see me, talk to me, want me to be the only person I hated.
And it wasn’t her fucking fault. Wasn’t her fault her brain confused me with Geoff Collins or that my genetics helped the association by giving me his notorious good looks.
I turned into one of the parking spots out front and shut off the engine. Reaching for the keys set on the center console, the candle I’d unceremoniously dropped in the passenger seat caught my eye.
“ It’s a limited-edition beach scent.”
Air hissed through my lips as I grabbed the candle and secured the lid. I should smell it first—make sure it was halfway decent before giving it to Mom as a present. But if I did that, I’d lose the scent of her.
Cinnamon. A little bit of sweet, a lot of spice, and wholly intoxicating.
It was honeyed but with a punch—the kind that didn’t hold back when it hit you, didn’t try to bury it under other aromas, but said you’re either going to like all of me or you’re not .
It was bold. Unyielding. And if that wasn’t the whole goddamn vibe of Francesca Kinkade, I didn’t know what was.
Hell, it wasn’t just her. “Unyielding” should be their family motto, given the way her sister kept trying to buy my inn. Learning Lou stood for Elouise, not Louis, was a fun lesson to learn yesterday morning . All this time, I’d pictured Louis Kinkade as some heavyset country bumpkin trying to swindle himself a deal. What were the fucking chances the first people I’d met in town were the very family I wanted to avoid?
A piece of frustration broke off deep in my chest and erupted as a groan. At least they were still unaware of who I was. For now.
I shoved myself out of the seat of the car and strode toward the building. Mom would like the candle. Frankie wouldn’t be in business if she didn’t make candles that smelled good.
The pastel blue front door swung open, Edgewood’s longest-serving employee on the other side of it to greet me with a smile.
“Morning, Cathy. ”
“Mr. Collins. It’s so good to see you.” She pulled me in for a hug like she always did. I could be a beggar, a billionaire, or the Prince of Sheba, and Cathy would still greet me like family. One of the many reasons I’d pay any price for Mom to stay here—because they treated her like family, too.
“I know it’s been a little bit,” I admitted. No beating around the bush here.
“You’re very busy.” She patted my back gently and gave me a sympathetic look. “And it’s hard.”
My throat tightened. I wasn’t sure hard was the right word to describe how it felt to face a loved one with dementia. I wasn’t sure there was a right word.
“Not an excuse, Cathy.” I was a decisive businessman. It was how I started my business. Ran my business. Made my business what it was. The rest of the industry and the tabloids could call me cold. Ruthless. But all I did was keep my emotions out of my decisions. I saw a situation for what it was—good and bad. And I didn’t spare myself that assessment either.
There were many ways I was a good son, but for this, for avoiding her, I was an ass.
The inside of the old estate was cozy rather than clinical. Sure, there were doctors and nurses on staff, but it never looked like it.
“They finished the screened-in porch since the last time you were here, Mr. Collins.” She pointed as we walked through the main room, the large windows that overlooked the pond on the far side now revealed a closed-in area with large couches and tables where I could see some of the residents playing games.
“Chip loves chess,” I murmured, recalling Dianne telling me about the porch a few years ago as part of her future plans .
“Miss Laura enjoys the porch,” Cathy said over her shoulder.
“What about those rocking chairs out front?”
Her smile grew. “She loves those on a nice day like today.”
Perfect. I firmed my lips and nodded. “How is she today?”
Her smile held, but her eyes changed. And not for the better. “Quiet,” she answered, and then gathered some enthusiasm in her tone. “But she’ll be happy to see you, Mr. Collins. Very happy.”
Me? Or my asshole father?
I followed Cathy up to the second floor, listening to her give me all the updates to the estate since I’d been there last. Had it really been almost four months? Guilt filled each step down the hall toMom’s room. Her suite was all the way at the end, giving her windows on two sides of her room with views of the forest and lake.
I hadn’t just sold this estate to Chip and Dianne; I’d invested in it, too. The new porch this year. The restored fireplace in the common area last year. The community garden the year before. The French chef before that.
I’d paid for it all—and I’d pay for more if it made Mom’s time here better. Happier. Fuller.
Because if she couldn’t remember the past, all she had was now.
“Let me know if you need anything.” Cathy patted my shoulder again, leaving me at Mom’s door.
I drew a deep breath, holding the candle a little tighter as I knocked.
“Mom?” I paused. “It’s me. Chandler.” My jaws clamped together, locking my breath tight in my chest.
The door swung open, Mom’s wide smile greeting me. “Oh, Chandler. It’s so good to see you, honey.”
Relief swamped me. She remembered. It was a good day .
I bent down to hug her, thinking that she had to have gotten a little shorter in the last four months. And skinnier. Her loose, pale purple blouse hid her thinning frame, and I felt the blade of her shoulders against my hand.“Good to see you, too, Mom.” I held her close and breathed deep, able to pretend for a second that this was how it always was.
“Well, come in.”
Even her hand felt more fragile as she took mine and guided me through the door into aroom covered in lilac and butterflies. Mom loved butterflies. Every bare wall held at least one frame containing either a butterfly photo, piece of artwork, or preserved butterfly specimen— the monarch was her favorite .The spacious sitting area housed two loveseats on one side with a small table between them, usually covered with photographs, but it was empty today. I looked at the cabinet along the wall and found the photographs stacked on top of it, and my brow creased. Were they being cleaned? Did she want them changed? I’d have to ask Cathy.
On the right side of the room were two doors, one to a powder room, the other to Mom’s bedroom and bath.
Mom ushered me to one of the couches. “So, come sit and tell me, how are you? How is school going?”
School.
I stilled, feeling the lightness in my chest deflate. She thought I was visiting from college.
I forced myself to swallow and smile. “I’m good, Mom. Keeping busy.” I never knew what to do in these situations. Did I try to correct her, knowing it would be futile? Or was it worse to go along with something that wasn’t the truth? “How are you doing? What’s new with you?”
“Oh, I’m wonderful, honey. The company here is excellent, and the food is superb.” Well, at least I’d done something right. “I always tell Cathy that I’d live here forever if I could.” Her eyes twinkled as she laughed, completely unaware that she was living here forever.
“I’m happy to hear that,” I said, my voice lowering.
Mom picked up her glass of water, taking a sip, and then walked over to the mirror on the wall, adjusting one of her white curls so it sat just right.
“Have you seen him lately?”
I stilled. “Who? Tom?”
She looked over her shoulders and chuckled. “Tom?” Her head shook. “No, Geoff, I’m talking aboutChandler.”
It was like a bucket of ice water over my head every time. Even now—after years of experiencing the muddiness of her memory—it was still like a wound ripped open.
I knew I looked like him. One didn’t have to see too many photos to see the resemblance. Hell, maybe I even sounded like him, though I was far less certain on that. But what I didn’t get was why would her mind want to picture him? Why would her memory choose to put her back in those few good years they had together?
All questions I’d never get answers to.
“I brought you a present,” I offered—a plea to return to the gift and the present moment. That was the only place I could visit with her now.
“Oh, a candle.” She clasped her hands and came back to the couch. “I do love a good candle.”
I fished a lighter from my pocket, popped off the lid, and carefully lit the wick. “It’s a beach scent.” I extended the jar for her to smell, the first hints of salt and sea grass hitting my nostrils.
Her smile didn’t waver as she leaned forward, her serene expression telling me she was still adrift between the past and present. And then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath .
“Oh my.” Her eyes fluttered back open, her head tipping to one side.
Shit.
I wasn’t thinking. Was this a bad idea? Had I just made it worse?
“This smells wonderful, Chandler.” Her voice sounded stronger. Like instead of floating, it was tethered to solid ground.
“Mom?” My voice cracked. She was calling me Chandler again.
“This was such a thoughtful gift. You know how much I love the ocean.”
It was the first thing I’d thought earlier when Lou had led the way onto the beach—a beach that looked vaguely familiar to me. How many vacations had we spent on the coast of Maine? Mom loved the shore, but not the tropical, suffocating sunshine shore; she loved the rocky coastline and rough waves. Her favorite thing to do was get ice cream after dinner and find some rocky perch or another to sit on and eat it while we watched the rumbling tide.
I gritted my teeth, emotion threatening to split my chest and flay open my skin. “I do.”
She didn’t like the beach at its best; she loved the ocean at its most honest. Sometimes calm. Many times stormy. But beautiful all the same.
“Remember that one time Tom and I took you to the beach in Friendship? You could’ve only been maybe five.”
My jaw went slack. “In Friendship?”
She nodded and took another deep breath close to the candle. “We walked along the beach and collected seashells.”
I stilled, vaguely recalling the memory.
“There’s a lighthouse there, and you wanted to go all the way over to explore… ”
“But it’s impossible,” I murmured, recalling the exact spot I’d been standing this morning when Lou pointed out the Friendship Lighthouse, sharing it was where her brother, Kit , lived and worked both as the lighthouse keeper and as an artist.
“You remember?” The irony that she was asking that question wasn’t lost on me.
“I was there this morning.”
“You were?” Her brows lifted.
“Stood on the beach. Saw the lighthouse. Walked along Maine Street and got the lay of the land.” From the Maine Squeeze all the way down to the inn, Lou had pointed out businesses old and new along the way, including her brother’s art gallery that she managed— the Kinkade Gallery.
I blinked, and Frankie’s stormy gaze stared back at me, reminding me of the tangle of our conversation. Her, trying to focus the conversation on my time with her sister. And me, trying to learn why the hell Lou wouldn’t share much about the inn— and no, it couldn’t be because she knew who I was; she would’ve been pleading her case rather than giving me a tour of the town if that were the case.
“Oh really?” One of Mom’s brows arched the way it did when I was akid, and she knew I was in trouble—or about to be. “And what interest does Collins Realty have in a small seaside town? Last I checked, there were no skyscrapers there, honey, only sand castles.”
I wasn’t sure I could reply, her lucidity left me speechless. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so with it. Sure, there were moments here and there. A split-second answer before it was gone. But not this. Not the makings of a conversation. To be fair, I wasn’t exactly around her enough to make the claim that these moments were rare in general—they were just rare when she was around me.
My throat tightened. What I wouldn’t give to not have this moment unravel. All my money. All my properties. I’d give it all…
“Come on.” She patted my knee, drawing me out of my thoughts. “I know you weren’t in Friendship for vacation. Heaven forbid, Chandler Collins doesn’t work a day in his life…”
“Mom.” I let out a pained chuckle and managed to give her a guilty smile. Damn, if seeing her—having her like this—wasn’t the most bittersweet fucking experience of my life. And it was all because of that candle—because of Frankie fucking Kinkade. I cleared my throat and told her,“There’s an inn…”
“The Lamplight Inn?” she asked with a small gasp and then gushed, “Oh, I love it there.” Her eyes swung around the room as she let out a soft sigh. “Or I did. It closed quite some time ago…” When I nodded, she continued. “Are you selling it or buying it?”
Well, she clearly had no idea my father had owned it—or willed it to me. And I wasn’t about to bring it or him up. “Selling.”
“Oh.” Her face fell.
“I’m up to take a look. It’s not under contract yet.”
“Well, tell Tom to only bring you buyers who want to preserve the place,” she declared, and I swore I was having déjà vu. How many times had she put her own stamp on my business dealings? Not a lot of them, but always ones that had history or character or meaning; Mom always took a stand for those.
“It’s absolutely charming and quite a landmark for the town, so be sure you sell to whoever is going to preserve that.”
Which was definitely notJohn Fairfax. The condo king.
“Noted,” I said with a tight voice, my knuckles turning white where they held my knee. Fuck if that wasn’t going to make this deal more painful to do .
“It reminds me a little of this place, actually,” she said, her voice softening as her gaze strayed around her room. “Warm and welcoming.” She looked back at me and then waved her hand over the candle, wafting more of the scent toward her at the same time as it made the flame go out. “A place that can make you feel at home.”
The significance of her words wasn’t lost on me. The Edgewood Estate wasn’t her home—not the one she’d give the designation—but the place and the people were enough to give her the same kind of comfort. It wasn’t what I wanted for her, but what I wanted wasn’t possible. So, this was all I could do.
I took her hand in mine, giving her small fingers a gentle squeeze. “And it’s close to the beach,” I added with a small smile. “Maybe we could go over there one day.”
She smiled back, blinked, and then broke me. “What beach, Geoff?”