Chapter 2
Chapter two
“Is that our house?” Henry cried from the back seat when we pulled up to the curb in front of the palatial old home in Savannah two weeks later.
I frowned as I took in the towering four-story mansion then double-checked the address on my maps app and the small metal sign identifying the home as a historic landmark.
Dawes House.
This was the place, but there had to be some mistake. There was no way Whit Proffitt had invited us to move into a house like this and only charge me the same rate I was paying for a tiny, rundown house in a dying neighborhood…right?
Mature trees surrounded the property, draped with Spanish moss that hung low, drooping in the muggy Savannah heat, giving the house an obscured, secretive air. The yellow stucco was chipping and crumbling in places and needed repair, but the edifice was still stunning.
The bottom level sat half submerged below street level behind a high wrought-iron fence, but I could see the top half of two sets of red double doors that opened onto a patio.
The two main levels of the home each boasted balconies supported by thick columns that spanned the entire front of the facade, the peeling white paint giving it the appearance of a once-elegant home now softening into faded grandeur, yet still clinging to what once was even as long-hidden decay began to seep through the carefully curated exterior.
The top floor looked like it should’ve had a balcony too.
A large set of doors opened inward, white curtains billowing in the breeze, but the occupant enjoying that breeze would’ve stepped out into nothing but air.
I could picture a woman standing there, her back to the door, her hair lifting with the same breeze that rustled the curtains.
In the next moment, she spread her arms and fell backward.
I gasped and shook my head, banishing the horrific scene. What the hell had that been? A glimpse of a past tragedy at Dawes House? A vision? Or just my overwrought nerves, inflamed by the stifling heat?
I decided not to explore the thought as none of the options were particularly appealing and surveyed the rest of the property.
Next to the massive house stood another building—a carriage house, if my research at the public library was accurate.
Whit had told me there were eleven total apartments on the property, so one or two must’ve been in that building.
Whereas the main house was imposing, the carriage house seemed… cold. Dead.
I shuddered from chilling vibe the carriage house threw off, grateful we weren’t staying there.
“Mama,” Henry said, impatient. “Can we get out yet? Is this our house?”
“Yes, baby,” I said at last, still awed. “Yes, this is it. But let’s go check in before we unload the car, okay?”
My hands were clammy as I opened Henry’s door.
The sweat sliding down my spine from the cloying humidity suddenly went cold, as if someone had whispered at the nape of my neck where my hair was pulled into a ponytail.
I shivered, then wiped the perspiration from my hairline and tried to tamp down the nerves knotting my stomach.
Henry, unbothered, beamed with excitement, his steps bouncy as we approached the wide veranda. He hopped up each step, turning to me when he reached the top, eager for praise at what a big boy he was to jump up the steps so easily.
My nerves settled at his grin. He saw this move as an adventure—a brand-new place to explore. I just hoped that I’d made the right decision, that his joy signaled the fresh start I’d longed for, the one Whit had promised.
“Did you see me?” Henry panted. “I jumped up all the steps!”
“You sure did, baby,” I confirmed, forcing a smile. “You’re so big!”
“Big enough to go to school?” Henry asked. “Do I get to ride the bus now?”
“Yes! Won’t that be fun!” I pulled him in for a quick hug, keeping my tone cheerful to hide the fact that sending him to school filled me with dread. “Just a few more months, kiddo.”
I reached for the crimson door’s knob, noting the colorful stained-glass panels, when the porch creaked. My head snapped toward the sound, my heartbeat spiking. An elegant white bentwood chair rocked slowly, the floorboards beneath creaking with the chair’s rhythm.
What the hell…?
The door suddenly swung open, jerking the knob from my grasp, and a man strode out, barreling straight into me.
“Oh, shit, sorry, ma’am!” he cried, grabbing my upper arms to keep me from tumbling backward down the steps.
I tensed and reflexively brought up my arm to knock his hand away but stopped short when he released me quickly. “It’s okay,” I said in a rush, taking a half-step further from his reach. “No big deal. Excuse me.” I gestured toward the door. “I’m the new tenant. I’m here to check in and get my key.”
“You’re Zellie Dupont,” he said, scrubbing a hand on his thigh before offering it.
He didn’t seem much older than me. His wavy, chin-length blond hair was already beginning to curl from the humidity, and well-developed muscles were visible through his T-shirt where it clung to his skin.
A toolbelt slung around his hips looked more fashion accessory than functional, but the hand he still held out was callused, his nails showing proof of hard work despite his pretty-boy appearance.
I eyed him warily as I shook his hand. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Chase Crawford,” he announced as if his name was supposed to mean something to me. When I stared at him blankly, he added, “I’m overseeing the renovations, so you’ll see me around here quite a bit.”
I managed a tight grin. “Lucky me.”
Henry tugged my hand. “Mama, are we going in?”
I lifted a brow at Chase. “I don’t know. Are we?”
“Oh, sorry,” Chase fumbled, pushing open the door and holding it for us. “You go right on in, little man. I’ve got your key inside here, Ms. Dupont. Whit wanted me to help y’all get settled.”
I started to step over the threshold but paused, an uneasiness I couldn’t explain rippling through me.
I glanced toward the rocking chair—now still—and swallowed hard.
A gust of wind rushed through the porch, setting it rocking again.
I let out a shaky laugh, relieved to blame a breeze instead of one of Savannah’s infamous ghosts.
But I still sensed something—an awareness squirmed beneath my skin, making my muscles twitch and my bones ache to run.
I didn’t know who this Chase Crawford was or if he truly had the authority to give me the keys.
I would’ve been less anxious had Whit met us himself.
As it was, I already felt like a charity case who was living here on borrowed time.
And walking in now, I felt like…well, an intruder.
“C’mon, Mama,” Henry urged, pulling my hand, hopping with excitement. “C’mon!”
“Sorry, sorry!” I laughed. “I’m coming.” I shook off my apprehension and followed Chase inside.
The lobby area looked like it had once been a great hall, receiving guests for dinner parties and garden soirées.
Just inside the door sat a heavy wooden reception desk that looked as old as the building, making the computer and flat screen monitor on it seem out of place.
Chase rummaged through the top drawer and produced a set of keys, then grabbed a manila folder from the corner of the desk. My name was on the tab.
“Sorry,” he said, holding up the folder. “I don’t normally handle this. Iris is the one who welcomes new tenants and runs the building, but she’s off today. She makes the most amazing peach cobbler you’ve ever tasted—you’re gonna love it.”
I’d lived in Georgia for several years but had never had peach cobbler, so my basis for comparison was nonexistent.
Even so, the mention of it made my mouth water.
Dessert had been a luxury Vivian never allowed— sugar led to gluttony, a deadly sin—so, I couldn’t wait for Iris to share her famous cobbler.
I might even have two helpings, just for spite.
“Y’all come on,” Chase continued, motioning for us to follow him.
“I’ll give you the tour. We’ve got two floors completely renovated.
Still working on the fourth floor—” He gestured toward the wide staircase with intricately carved banisters.
“—and the first floor, which folks like to call the garden level. If it’s half underground, then it’s a basement, in my estimation.
But it’s never been labeled that way, so call it whatever suits you.
No washer and dryer hookups in the apartments, so everyone uses the ones in the basement. ”
He chuckled at his own joke, then gestured toward another set of stairs tucked back in the shadows.
“Those lead to the lower level. Eventually, the basement apartment will be rented out, but it’s empty at present.
Now, on this level, there’s one apartment down that hall there where Junior and Pearlie Johnson live.
They’re good people.” He sent a grin over his shoulder at me.
“Ms. Pearlie loves good low-country cooking and invites everyone over for dinner Sundays. It’s my favorite day of the week. ”
“Do you know everyone here by their cooking?” I asked, finding I liked his lighthearted attitude.
He chuckled. “Well, boy’s gotta eat, ma’am—especially one who can’t cook worth a damn. Darn,” he amended quickly, glancing down at Henry. “Worth a darn. Sorry about that. Not used to having kids around until recently.”
“There are other kids nearby?” I asked, hoping Henry could make friends—something that was in short supply in our old neighborhood.
What few people who’d still been around were older, too poor or too stubborn to move from a neighborhood, which had more houses boarded up and rotting to ruin than not.