Chapter 19
I press the buzzer at the gate to Ivy Hall.
I’ve never spoken into an entrance intercom before.
What’s the protocol? Is it like a Wendy’s drive-thru where you wait to be greeted before ordering a combo?
Right now, I can go for a large order of confidence with a side of wit.
I just really want to get through this evening without making a fool of myself.
“Look at you being on time.”
I mock huff at Leo’s teasing through the speaker. “I only confessed to being disorganized. I will not have you insulting my punctuality.” Although my chaotic mind has made me late for things. But I stated my point and am bound to defend it.
He laughs. “Come on in. You can park right under the porte cochere.”
“Port what? Is that another language or rich-person talk?”
“I hear that sarcasm. Just park by the front door.”
A beeping sound precedes the gates swinging back.
As I pull up the sloping drive, pathway lights frame the paved road, giving a soft glow.
It’s only six o’clock, but it might as well be midnight for how dark the sky is.
I take in the snow-capped trees surrounding a palatial-looking home.
My lungs squeeze at such opulence. The sprawling brick structure can easily be featured in magazines.
However, the best sight is Leo leaning on the open front door as if he’s been waiting for me all day.
A large overhang, supported by pillars, shelters the entrance.
Must be the port thingy. However, I can see why Leo wants me to park here.
My car won’t get dusted with snow or iced over.
The weather seems tame, but snowfall in Ohio is unpredictable from October to March.
I step out of the car, making sure I grab the Secret Santa folder, and meet Leo by the entrance.
He’s all casual in gray sweatpants, a hoodie that says, “Silver Creek Fire Dept.,” and—my kryptonite—a backwards hat.
An unexpected shyness courses through me.
Probably because it’s only been twenty-four hours since I acknowledged my feelings for him.
“Hello.” I hate the little quiver in my voice.
“Hey.” He smiles and eases back so I can step inside.
At first glance, the Mathis mansion lives up to the town gossip, at least in terms of extravagance.
The high-vaulted entryway tempts me to say something loud to check if my voice echoes.
But mostly, I’m thinking the recessed lights must be a pain to change.
Not everyone needs extension ladders to switch out a lightbulb.
My boots click against the marble flooring as I follow Leo farther into the foyer.
I unbutton my coat, hoping I picked the right outfit.
I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard to impress, especially since this wasn’t a date.
On the other hand, I didn’t want to appear as if I didn’t put in any effort.
My mood called for a red sweater dress and black leggings.
I swept up the left side of my hair with a vintage comb from the 1940s, a past birthday gift from Gran and Pap.
Leo takes my coat and scarf and hangs them in a closet. A grand staircase is before us, its wrought-iron balustrade making a bolder statement than the one in Gone with the Wind .
He glances at his phone, then pockets it. “The food should be here in about twenty minutes. I thought DoorDash would be good. That way we can get to work.” He nods at the folder I’m holding.
“Sure.” I’m standing too stiff, too wooden, like some overgrown nutcracker. Okay, deep breaths. Get the focus off me. “Can you give a quick tour? I need to verify if the rumors are true.”
His mouth takes on an amused twist. “Ah, the Mathis lore. Enlighten me, ’cause I only know of the suspected dungeon with a tunnel leading to an underground crypt.”
“Wait, you’re saying that’s a myth?”
He laughs. “Sorry. No skeletons or torture devices here.”
I snap my fingers in an “oh, darn” gesture. “Bowling alley made with the wooden slats from JFK’s bedroom?”
“No bowling alley.”
And the best for last. “A gallery full of sconces salvaged from the Titanic?”
Another shake of the head.
“Well, I better be going then.” I playfully turn toward the door, and that’s when I spot it. “Leo?” I say in a hushed tone.
“What’s wrong?” His hand’s at my elbow, and he’s glancing about as if I’d encountered a giant spider.
“Your hall side table.” I walk tentatively toward it.
He’s stuck to my side. “What about it?”
I inhale and brush a hand reverently over the rosewood top. “Do you know this is a Meeks?” I tamp down the urge to hug the pedestal table from the 1840s. It’s stunningly preserved.
The corners of his mouth tip up. “I did not. Is that good?”
I gape at him. “The J. and J.W. Meeks company is like the Tiffany’s of the furniture world.”
“Got it.” He gives a brisk nod. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t toss my keys on it anymore.”
“No!” I swirl around and move between him and the table, as if protecting the gem. “Reform your ways, Leo Mathis.”
He chuckles. “I think you might like to roam around the rest of the house. It’s filled with this kind of crap”—he retreats a step at my glare—“I mean, treasure. Have at it, Greta.” And he turns me loose.
It’s like an antique scavenger hunt plus a vintage wonderland as I explore the rooms. A Herman Miller chest of drawers.
A Drexel Heritage buffet. A Baccarat vase?
Are you kidding me? “This is like a museum,” I say to him on our way up the steps.
Seriously, Leo has a better inventory than I do, and he had absolutely no idea. I try not to be jealous.
“I spend more time up here.” He opens a door to a personal gym that puts my weightlifting equipment to shame.
“Wow. Impressive.” Not as impressive as the Baccarat vase, but I emphasize my words to placate him. He seems proud of this space.
“I thought you’d like this setup. Seeing that you love to strength train.”
Ha! Good one. I don’t contradict him, but apparently my face alerts him to the falseness of his words.
He raises a brow. “You do like to train, right? You have all the equipment.”
He would think that, since he interrupted my morning workout the other day. I lower onto a weight bench. “Yeah, but it’s not for me.”
“That’s not your gear?”
“It is. But I don’t strength train for myself.
I did it all for Gran.” I pick at a fuzz on my sleeve.
I never told anyone this, not even Tilly.
“A few years back, Gran started to lose her mobility. There’d be times when she couldn’t get out of the bathtub or stand up from her chair.
Pap couldn’t lift her, so it had to be me.
Which meant I needed to get stronger.” In more ways than one.
I had to build up my muscles, but also my emotions.
It was a time for Greta Carlton to toughen up.
He sits beside me. It’s not a large bench. One of his thighs is against mine. I don’t hate it. But I do feel uncomfortable under the weight of his stare.
“What?” I finally ask.
“You.” He gives a tender smile. “I don’t know anyone more selfless than you.”
“I did what I had to do.”
“What about now?”
I scowl. “What do you mean?”
His gaze slides to my exposed neck, then back up. “You still work out.”
I get what he’s saying. Since Gran’s passed, there’s no need to keep up with the vigorous routine.
“Why keep lifting if you hate it?”
The answer springs to my mind so quickly that I clamp my lips together to keep from spewing it. Word vomiting is a thing. While I can’t tell him the entire reason, I can offer a partial truth. “I work alone at the store. I lift and move heavy stuff all the time.”
“I’m here, you know. If you need help.”
Though for how long? I wisely keep that to myself and mutter a “thank you.”
He looks like he’s about to say more, but a buzzer sounds. “That will be the gate. Our food’s here.”
Leo takes care of everything, and I follow him into the large kitchen where he sets two huge bags of food on the counter.
“I hope you’re hungry. I picked pretty much everything off the steakhouse menu.” He gives a sheepish smile. “I didn’t know what you liked.”
“You could’ve asked.”
He shrugs. “Whatever you don’t eat, you and I can use for meals this week.”
Yes, because I always have filet mignon on my lunch break.
But it’s a sweet gesture. He unloads the bags, then hands me a plate.
His selection is far better than the food from the firefighters’ gala.
My taste buds applaud him. Once our dishes are full and we get our drinks, Leo suggests we eat in the living room by the fire.
“The dining hall’s always cold,” is all he says before leading me to the family room. This space is more relaxed, making me suspect this is where Leo spends a lot of his time. The giant TV between two bookcases is a pretty good hint.
Leo sets his food down on the coffee table and carefully pulls it farther from the couch. He plops down on the rug beside the table—as if he’s done this a hundred times—and pats the space next to him. “It’s easier to sit on the floor than balance a plate on your lap on the sofa.”
I appreciate his logic and join him. Although I do inspect the coffee table first to ensure it’s not a Chippendale or any other brand worth an entire year’s salary.
While we eat, I update him on the Vallerton search and explain the PastPort fiasco, which he finds hilarious.
“It hurts to think someone destroyed those beautiful pieces.” I press a hand over my heart, as if rubbing a physical ache. “I’ll check in again with my contacts, but I keep hitting dead ends.”
He downs the rest of his Coke. “It’s all good. I’m sure something will come up.”
I hate to dash his optimism, so I only nod.
“Now what about the letters?”