Chapter Nine
Ava
At seven o’clock on Wednesday, one day after I turned thirty, I found myself skulking around the shrubberies of the Van Kamp house, doing my best impression of a rose bush. Unfortunately, sunset was still a couple of hours away, although the angling of the sun afforded me a modicum of shade on the eastern side of the house.
Not that it mattered if anyone other than Ben saw me, but I didn’t want to risk someone shouting at me about baked goods from the sidewalk while I was trying to go incognito. Which, by the way, I would never do again. They weren’t kidding about roses having thorns, and I had the scratches to prove it. That, and I’d never felt more uncomfortably obvious than when I tried squeezing between bushes and a foundation and keeping to the shadows. Never. Again.
Lifting my head like a whack-a-mole target, I peeked into the window nearest my hidey hole. It was a tiny half bath with a slanted ceiling that meant it was probably under a staircase, but it didn’t have any kind of view into the rest of the house. The only other window on this wall in the right direction was about eight feet off the ground, leaving me only one choice.
With a shaky breath, I tiptoed around the front corner of the house and climbed up onto the massive wooden porch. I took it in for a minute, imagining a cozy sitting area and some cold iced tea on a hot summer’s day. Jules would want to stuff it with as many potted plants as she could fit. It was perfect.
A row of low windows lined the wall along the porch, affording me an unimpeded view of the foyer and the bottom half of a twisty staircase. They stood in the center of the foyer, Ben gesturing to each of the three doorways surrounding it.
Mrs. Beatty scooted her walker at record speed toward the door furthest to the right. From my vantage point, I saw that it led to a series of rooms that reached to the back of the house, far away from the front door. Ben followed behind her, his mouth moving though I couldn’t hear what he said. I doubted she’d be able to manage the staircase that took up a good portion of my view, which meant this was my chance. Taking a deep breath, I slowly opened the screen door and stepped into a small hall that led to the main door.
Crouching low, so that I stayed below the window that took up the top half of the door, I reached up and turned the brass knob. It squeaked less than I’d expected. I kept turning, until I was able to push it open.
“…all original flooring here,” I heard Ben explaining from somewhere deeper into the house.
“I need to see that kitchen,” Mrs. Beatty called, louder than necessary. “Wasn’t it back this way? Betty did some work on it, if I recall.”
Their voices faded as they moved away, presumably toward said kitchen. I silently thanked the crafty Mrs. Beatty. She’d be getting as many free cupcakes as she’d let me offer her. Shutting the door softly behind me, I sidestepped out of view of the doorway they’d disappeared through and started snapping photos.
The foyer was fairly standard, with white walls and dark wood trim that matched the Tudor style of the exterior. The stairs began to my right, to my left was a giant double-wide arch into a sitting room, and in front of me were two doorways. I loved it the moment I set foot inside.
Hurrying into the relatively modern sitting room to the right, I tried to get a panorama shot for the girls. With cream walls and white trim, it had a real Craftsman vibe that I liked, even though it strayed from the Tudor style in the rest of the house. Fresh and clean, with plenty of natural light and a massive whitewashed brick fireplace, I envisioned a room littered with plush seating areas. It could easily fit two sets of couches, chairs, and tables, even if we used those deep couches that capture you in a squishy hug the moment you sit down. I could’ve spent hours in here daydreaming, but Mrs. Beatty’s loud questioning set me into motion.
Unfortunately, this room was isolated, so I had to scurry back across the foyer to the stairs to escape Ben’s imminent return. With painfully slow steps, I climbed the three turns of the staircase. When I reached the landing at the top, I let out the breath I’d been holding and went right back to snapping pictures.
There were five bedrooms, as advertised, and two upstairs bathrooms. Like a storybook manor house, they all connected to the same long hall, no two the same. One had a fireplace with lapis blue glass tiling around it. Two had access to balconies that needed a good refinishing. The bathroom wasn’t as big as I’d have liked, but it was serviceable. It also held the first and only triangular clawfoot tub I’d ever seen, tucked neatly into the far corner. Between deteriorating wood paneling and way too much blue floral wallpaper, the upstairs needed significant work but nothing caught my attention as a red flag.
Just as I was getting some final photos of the last bedroom, I heard Mrs. Beatty talking loudly.
“Well, I don’t think I’ll be able to manage those stairs. Could I bother you to walk me out?”
Shit. I moved to the top of the staircase, laying on my stomach and peering down to watch the front door. In spite of her clever ploy to get my path to the door cleared, there was no way I’d be able to just squeak out right behind them without Ben noticing. And I really wanted to see the rest of the downstairs.
The second he pulled the front door closed, I shot down the stairs and into the same doorway they’d gone through at the beginning of the tour. Deep, rich wood covered the walls and floor of the room beyond, except for a square of mosaic tiles in front of—another door out. Perfect. Even if Ben came back inside, I had another exit option.
Even with the dark wood, the room had so many windows that it didn’t feel dark or even dated. It radiated old-world cozy, like a private study in an English country estate. Past the mosaic and the exit, I found the kitchen, laundry room, and some sort of bizarre utility room or closet. I had questions on that one.
I was poking my head into the laundry room when I heard footsteps closing in. I spun, thinking I could dart for the back door.
But it was too late. Ben stood fuming in a door I hadn’t yet spotted, his arms across his chest and his jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscles working.
“I don’t appreciate being tricked,” he growled.
Something inside me snapped. Instead of apologizing or playing dumb, I charged him, stopping an arm’s length away.
“And I don’t appreciate being ignored,” I snapped. “If you’re looking for a terrible review to bring your business rating down, you could’ve just asked instead of shunning a potential client for no reason.”
“For no reason?” His blue eyes lit on fire. “Every time you talk to me you skewer me over something that happened almost fifteen years ago! Every time you look at me, I can see the daggers flying.” He swallowed, his throat working. “Tell me again how I have no reason to avoid working with you.”
“Then let me use one of your other agents!” I matched his tone. “Because I’m not leaving you alone until you let me try to buy this house.”
He took a step forward, until all I could see was his furious face and all I could smell was amber and vetiver. “I’m selling it pro bono for my mom,” he whispered, his voice dangerous and low. “I can’t demand that one of my employees take a job that won’t pay.”
Damnit. I gritted my teeth, my mind and my heart racing each other. This house was everything I’d hoped it would be. It had the potential for a B&B. It had the character and charm, and more than enough space for all the girls to live together while we renovated it. Jules and Gianna wouldn’t touch the deal if it meant spending months communicating with Ben. Riley wouldn’t agree to anything that took money away from the McKinleys. I hated Ben for what he did to Jules, but I didn’t want his mom paying the price for his crimes.
He sighed heavily, continuing before I could say anything. “I can’t refuse you the option of using another agent, but you’ll be taking away a good chunk of money that I promised her she’d get.”
“I want this house,” I declared. “And I want you to stop ignoring me and treat me like an actual client.”
“Fine,” he clipped, running a hand through his short chestnut hair. “Make me an offer.”
“I can’t.”
“Then what are we even doing here, Ava?”
“I’m not buying it alone,” I explained, careful not to give him any indication that Jules would be involved. “I need to talk to the other investors, and they need to see it, too.”
His jaw tightened again. “There’s an open house on Saturday. Bring them if you want. But don’t talk to me again unless you’re making an offer.”
I couldn’t contain a grin at my hard-won victory. “We’ll be there.”
Now all I had to do was convince the girls.