Chapter 35 Harper
Two ribeye steaks marinated in the fridge with soy sauce, garlic, and a half cup of olive oil, alongside a green salad harvested from Marcia’s garden. Harper had prepared the food this afternoon along with a pan of baby potatoes, halved and slathered in garlic butter to roast.
One of the many things she’d learned working for Evan, even if she’d failed often, was how to cater a meal. What was much less familiar to her was preparing dinner for someone else that she would also enjoy. There’d be no disappearing tonight behind an invisibility cloak.
It was the awkward hour after dinner that worried her, his not wanting to be impolite at leaving too early and her not knowing how to end what would most certainly not be a date.
Then again, Finn didn’t seem to have any issue with impolite or awkward.
She changed into the only summer dress she’d packed, a blue midi with a skirt that would float if she twirled. Finn arrived right on time, wearing the same khakis and tie from their breakfast rendezvous.
She pulled the door closed behind her and joined him on the front porch. “Long day?”
“Long but productive. Did you get any writing done?”
“I’m still waiting for inspiration.” And to escape the shadowed reminder of Tony’s team currently shredding her idea.
“I hope the inspiration shows up soon,” he said. “You ready to drive up the hill?”
A glance at her watch confirmed it was already after six. “You must be famished.”
“One could argue that.”
“I’m not really one for arguing either way.” She smiled. “But what if we eat first and then head to the house?”
He agreed, eliminating one of her greatest stressors of the night. There’d be no lingering after the meal. “Just tell me how I can help.”
“I’ve got steaks,” she said. “If you man the grill, I’ll set the table.”
“Medium or rare?”
“Extra well-done.”
He groaned. “You want me to ruin your ribeye?”
“Yes, please.”
Shaking his head, he turned back to retrieve his briefcase. Then he grilled their steaks to perfection while she tossed the salad with balsamic vinaigrette and checked the potatoes.
A half hour later, they were eating on the back patio, talking about his work.
Much of the income from Olivia’s trust, he explained, came through compound interest on his grandfather’s investments, but he and Brett were searching for a new publisher to revise and reprint Olivia’s original books.
So far, no one was interested in republishing those old stories.
“I figured you and Brett knew each other.”
“He’s been our attorney since he started practicing law.”
“Did you go to school together?” she asked before taking another bite of her almost-blackened steak.
“I was a few years behind him, but I wanted to be just like Brett when I grew up.”
“You wanted to be an attorney?”
“No,” he said. “I wanted to letter in basketball.”
“Any luck?”
“None.”
“What about farming?”
“I dabble in it, but I’m much better at growing a business than working the land. My cousins can grow just about anything they want in those fields, as long as their crop likes our weather.”
At the end of the meal, he opened his briefcase and pulled out a clipboard, all official-like, with the confidentiality forms. “You want to read through these before we leave?”
She found no surprises in his paperwork. Just like he’d explained, she was signing away her freedom to talk about what she saw at the house or write about it without permission from the estate. Which was fine. All she wanted now was the truth about Olivia and the ghosts of Haven House.
A mound of flowers rested on the passenger seat of Finn’s Jeep, and he relocated them to the back before she climbed inside.
“Are you moonlighting as a florist?” she asked, smelling the roses and gardenias as they drove toward the bridge.
“You’ll see.”
This man had begun to shape into more of a puzzle than a pest. Perhaps she just needed to fit together the remaining pieces.
When they reached the parking area below Haven House, he pressed a button and the old gate opened.
The historic residence, built of blue-hued fieldstone, crowned the hill, and she admired the craftsmanship again as he parked by the porch.
The perfect mix of elegant and rustic in its many square feet.
Almost like it had been swept off the pages of a Via Belle story, protected now by trees and the keeper of the gate.
Finn unlocked the front door, and she stepped into a house that swept her back at least sixty years.
The hardwood floors, worn from use, were partially covered by an Oriental runner that trailed into a sage-green dining room.
To her right, above a row of coat pegs, was a staircase rail, and a brick fireplace lay beyond the steps in what looked like a parlor.
“What would you like to see?” he asked.
“Everything!”
He led her into the parlor with a baby grand, lace curtains, and a formal couch hedged between matching chairs. Near the fireplace was a desk with a reading lamp and typewriter and beside it—
“Is that a carousel horse?”
He grinned. “No one knows where it came from.”
“Fascinating. It’s like you haven’t changed a thing since she lived here.” Harper studied his face. “Like you’re still waiting for her to come home.”
“You want to see the turret?”
“Of course.” The floor creaked above them, startling her. “Is someone upstairs?”
“Two of the rooms are occupied.”
Her eyes traveled up to the crown molding before she looked back at her host. “Who’s living here, Finn?”
“That’s a bit of a story.”
“Good thing I like stories.”
“That’s why I brought you here,” he said. “Would you like to sit?”
“Do I need to?”
“It’s up to you.” He settled on the hearth. “I’ll just give you the highlights.”
“Don’t cut corners for me.” She opted for the sofa as he leaned against the bricks, his legs outstretched. She could almost see him puffing on a pipe, traveling back decades in his head.
“When my grandfather was the principal in Catawba, there was a high school student who needed a place to stay. Haven House was vacant at the time, and my grandfather was responsible for the property. Looters had wrecked a few rooms, but it didn’t take my grandparents long to put them back in order.
Gram helped the girl resettle, and they stayed with her until her father went to jail. Eventually, she married my uncle.”
“That’s amazing.”
“It’s not a story we get to share often.” His smile warmed his gray eyes, and she was glad he could share it with her. “In the 1970s, my aunt and grandmother decided Haven House should become a refuge for other women who needed a safe place.”
“Hence the ghosts.”
He shrugged. “No use trying to dissuade people. The lights have been known to scare off those who make their way around the gate at night.”
“Clever.” She stood to look at a photograph displayed on the mantel, Olivia Belle holding a bundle of calla lilies beside the fireplace below. It was the same picture she’d seen in Lady of the Lake.
“But then there are those who trespass during the day . . .”
Her cheeks burned. “I wasn’t chasing ghosts.”
“I think you might have been.”
And in part, he was right. “It’s wonderful that you’ve opened up a shelter.”
“Members from the local churches quietly support our efforts, and unless there’s trouble, Aunt Deidre manages the day-to-day.”
“Wait.” That name, familiar to her in the past week. “Deidre from The Book Barn?”
“Yep. Flexible hours there.”
“So I was classified as trouble for both of you.”
He grinned. “You were definitely trouble.”
She was pleased to hear him use the past tense. “Where do these women come from?”
“Most are from the Philadelphia area. We don’t advertise, but we have a few friends in law enforcement and a lawyer who often sends women and their children our way.”
“Brett?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Of course not.” She twirled once, her dress fluttering around her knees as she took it all in. “This is brilliant!”
“And very secretive. If word got out—”
“I won’t say a thing,” she promised. “Does Olivia’s estate pay for all of this?”
“It has for years, but we’ll be needing a new source of income soon to keep the house open.”
“Like a movie?”
“Which might seem like a good option except we don’t want media attention.” He led her up the staircase and down a hall. The doors were closed, but she heard squeals of laughter behind one. Children, she suspected, battling against bedtime.
At the end of the hall, on the second floor, was a large bedroom that doubled as a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on the non-windowed wall.
Finn pointed at a stairwell tucked away by the closet. “Go ahead.”
She didn’t hesitate, climbing the wooden steps alone.
The tower, like the rest of the house, looked like it hadn’t changed much since the 1940s. Dust clung to the shelved books and a mound of paper stacked on the desk beside an old typewriter. Ten mail slots were built into a panel between bookcases, each one labeled in cursive.
Church. Readers. Herring. Grocer. Milk.
She crossed the floor and picked up a handblown globe from the desk, a blue water lily floating inside.
Olivia had described this very piece in one of her books.
In fact, as Harper glanced around the room, she remembered a scene from Grace Haven describing a room very much like this one with its half shelf of books.
A formal fireplace between two windows, and—Harper closed her eyes, trying to recall the details—a sliding panel, if she remembered correctly, beside the fireplace.
In the book, the main character hid a ledger inside.
Finn’s head popped up at the staircase. “What do you think?”
“It’s marvelous.”
He nodded at the desk. “She wrote most of her novels right there.”
She scanned the room again, imagining Olivia’s many characters all chattering like friends, ready for a new adventure. Were any of them still waiting to be launched? “This room is crowded with characters.”
“Let’s hope they don’t all start talking at once.”
“Oh, they’re talking right now.” And she hoped they never stopped.
Did any of them know what happened to their creator?
Pink shimmered on the horizon, and in the distance, beyond the trees, she saw a thread of blue. Soon the sun would be setting, and she still needed to show Finn the gold button with Simon’s name.
But first. “Before we leave, and this may sound crazy—”
He raised a brow. “You’ve already established a lack of normalcy.”
“Good, because I’d hate to mislead you.”
“You’re about as transparent as they come, Harper.”
“Not always a good thing, I guess . . .”
“What sounds crazy?” he asked.
“Do you remember that scene in Grace Haven where the heroine is trying to stop a man from cheating her family?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t read that book.”
“She hides a ledger behind . . .” Harper stepped away from the windows. “Why didn’t you read that book?”
“I don’t read much fiction.”
Much fiction or . . . “Have you read any of Olivia’s books?”
“I’ve skimmed a few. Read their synopses.”
She planted both fists on her hips. “You manage her estate!”
“But not her writing.”
“How can you possibly serve her well if you don’t read her stories?”
He straightened the water globe. “We were talking about Grace Haven, right?”
“Are you trying to distract me?”
“Very much.”
“Fair enough.” Harper eyed the panels on both sides of the fireplace. “The book is set in the 1800s and describes a really unique office with a fireplace and built-in letter slots and a glass globe.”
“Olivia often wrote about places and things familiar to her.”
“There’s a panel in the fictional office, Finn. Right beside the fireplace. It slides like a pocket door.”
His gaze fell to the wide panels that divided the fireplace from the windows. “There’s no moving panel here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Olivia wouldn’t give away her secrets like that.” But even as he said it, he continued studying the wall. Given time, she suspected, he would be just as curious.
Six wide panels divided the stone fireplace from the windows and books. Finn didn’t try to stop her when she brushed her hands over the three on the right side of the fireplace, pushing on each one. None of the edges slipped inward.
As she inched left, Finn stood right behind her. The first panel on the other side didn’t budge and neither did the second one, but when she pressed the third panel, it clicked onto a track behind the wall.
Finn knelt beside her. “You’re kidding me.”
“It seems that Olivia didn’t mind sharing some of her secrets.”
“Apparently, you know her better than I do.”
The panel slid easily to the right, and Finn whistled when Harper pulled out a stack of paper, the pages covered in rusty paper clips, Moonflower Lake typed across the cover page. She flipped through the pages and saw the many margin notes before handing it to Finn. “For the estate.”
He stared at the title. “It’s her original manuscript.”
“I wonder why it’s hidden in here.”
“You and me both.”
Harper checked the dark space for other papers, but found nothing else stored inside. Turning, she focused on Olivia’s pages and wondered at all that was inside.
Finn laid the draft beside the typewriter. “You’re dying to read it, aren’t you?”
“I can’t believe you aren’t,” she said, incredulous at his lack of curiosity.
“I’ll delegate that task to you.”
“Really?” When he smiled, she placed her hand on the stack. “I’d like that very much.”
“You are welcome back whenever you want to read.”
Welcome. A life-changing word.
Warmth poured over her, flooding down into her toes. She had an open invitation to visit Olivia Belle’s house. Another place, in this peculiar season, for her to belong.
“Can I start reading tonight?” Her gaze traveled back to the lake. “It’s going to be too dark anyway to show you where I found Simon’s name.”
“It won’t be,” he said. “I’ll grab a flashlight on our way out.”
“It can wait until tomorrow, Finn. I’m not going back on my promise.”
“But I want to show you something else by the lake.”
He gathered up the bundle of bouquets from his Jeep, and she followed him down to the water.