Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Reed
It’s not even noon and Crane House has already relinquished a nest of black snakes and half a wall no one had expected to lose.
Jackson stands inside the opening with a pencil behind his ear, talking to two carpenters about temporary posts.
Annie moves between them with her camera bumping against her hip, photographing every layer before it disappears.
“Dillon.” Jackson points toward a stack of salvaged boards. “Carry those to the trailer.”
“Got it.”
My palms are still tender from Lanie’s roof. The gloves drag over the healing skin, but I lift the boards and carry them where I’m told.
Annie’s phone rings as I come back. She turns away from the saws, one finger pressed to her other ear. “Today?” Her gaze goes to the open wall. “How long will Mrs. Ledford be in town?” She listens, already reaching for her notebook.
When she hangs up, she lets loose a sigh. “Maybelle delivered Mrs. Ledford’s great-grandmother. Her family found a box of letters and two old photograph albums in an attic. Mrs. Ledford is leaving for Ohio tonight, and she won’t let anything out of the house.”
“Go,” Jackson says. “We’ll keep working.”
“You’re opening the stair wall today.”
“If we find anything major, I’ll call.”
She looks at him, then at me. The pause is short, but a week ago, I’m not sure she would have looked my way at all.
“Don’t let anybody tear out something old because replacing it would be easier.”
“As you wish,” I say.
Her eyes hold mine for one second longer. She knows I’m referencing one of “our movies.” In my defense, I said it before I thought it.
She turns, gathering her camera bag. “I’ll be back this afternoon.” I watch her car disappear through the trees before I pick up another board.
My phone rings twenty minutes later.
Martin doesn't bother with a greeting. “Your mother has retained counsel.”
I step outside, away from the saw. Cold air hits the sweat at the back of my neck. “On what grounds?”
“They’re claiming your father intended her to retain lifetime occupancy and a governance role at Stanhope. Her attorney is threatening an injunction if you don’t restore her access.”
My attention snaps east as if I can see Stanhope from this ridge. For most of my life, a threat to the estate has galvanized me into action. They were something to be dealt with cleanly and efficiently.
“Does she have a case?”
“Not a good one. She may be trying to create leverage.”
Glen calls before Martin, and I finish. I let Martin go and answer.
“Tell me you’re coming back,” Glen says.
“Hello to you too.”
“The Heritage Weekend starts Friday. It feels like the whole damned operation is burning down around me, Reed. This needs to be handled.”
The annual weekend pays for a meaningful part of Stanhope’s preservation program. A Dillon has opened it every year since before I was born.
“Martin can handle operations. Margaret has authority over the event.”
“They expect the heir.”
Through the open side door, I see Jackson bracing one end of a beam while a carpenter works the jack beneath it. Dust turns in the light. Annie’s tripod stands folded in the corner, left behind because she trusted us to keep her house standing.
“They’ll have to survive the disappointment.”
Silence.
“Reed, where are you?”
“At Crane House.”
“You’re choosing a condemned house over Stanhope?”
“I’m choosing to let competent people do their jobs.” I look at the exposed framing. “Tell Margaret she can approve any expense under fifty thousand. Martin has final say on property operations. Anything above that comes to me by phone. Our attorneys can answer Mother.”
“And if the donors want a Dillon?”
“You are one.”
He exhales hard. “I walked into that.”
When the call ends, I wait for the panic to take over. It doesn’t. My pulse is hard and my jaw tight, but the ridge stays beneath my boots. I put the phone away and go back inside.
Jackson meets me at the foot of the staircase.
The bottom treads bow in the middle, worn shallow by generations of feet.
He points his light beneath the stringer.
“Rot’s worse than we thought. We can build a new staircase to the same profile and save weeks.
Reinforcing this one means opening the underside and probably bringing in a specialist.”
I run my glove over the dip in the nearest tread. Annie would photograph this exact spot. She’d swear she saw the ghosts of the women who’d climbed the stairs through the lens.
“The staircase stays.”
Jackson studies me. “It’ll cost.”
“Restore it.”
The windows come next. Two are warped in their frames, and one has a sash soft with rot. Replacement units would seal better, and Jackson says they can have them within a month.
“Can the originals be stabilized?” I ask.
“Most of them. We can repair the sash and add weatherstripping. You’ll still pay more for less efficiency, though.”
I look through the wavy glass. The bare trees bend in it. “They stay.”
In Maybelle’s workroom, somebody scrapes loose plaster from the baseboard and uncovers a blackened stretch of wall behind it. Jackson crouches and touches the edge. “Old fire. Doesn’t look structural. We can take care of it.”
“Leave part of it visible.”
He glances up. “Annie tell you that?”
“Not explicitly, no.” I point to the gouged trim and the shelves Annie showed me through the glass. “Repair the original woodwork anywhere it’s sound enough to save. Mill replacements only where it isn’t.”
“That adds a substantial amount to the budget. Not to mention the specialists we’ll have to call in.”
“Then add them.”
His expression closes a little. Then he shrugs. “You’re the boss.”
I pull off my gloves, the red seams crossing both palms. “Annie’s the boss. I just know how much she wants to save this place and restore it to what it once was.”
Jackson looks toward the scorched wall.
“If it’s safe and it can be saved, we save it,” I say.
He gives one slow nod. “All right.”
For the next two hours, I mostly haul and sweep. Jackson corrects my grip on a pry bar once. I catch an estimate that counts the same salvage allowance twice.
During lunch, Martin calls again. Margaret’s moved the opening speech to the foundation chair. A sponsor wants the south lawn tent relocated because of rain. I authorize the cost and ask about the legal threat.
“Weak,” he says. “Ugly, but weak.”
“Then let it be ugly. I’m not coming back this week.” I silence the missed calls when we hang up.
Jackson sits on the porch steps with a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. “Annie’s put a lot into this place already.”
“She’s counting on it,” I say, remembering how she looked at it the day she invited me over that first time.
“She always been a storyteller?” Jackson asks.
I sit down next to him. He offers the other half of his sandwich but I wave him off.
“Yeah. Back when we first met, she had to stop at every cemetery, every abandoned place.” I remember how we were back then. Young. Maybe a little ridiculous. But absolutely completely in love. “If she didn’t know the story, she’d make up one.”
And God do I miss her. I don’t say that aloud, but it’s no doubt implied.
“She’s one of a kind, Dillon.”
“That’s why I married her,” I say, missing her as if she’s a thousand miles away instead of simply down the road. “I knew I’d never find another one like her in a million years. Knew I’d never want to try. She was it.”
Jackson folds the paper around what remains of his sandwich. He stands and goes back inside.
Near the end of the day, his updated numbers arrive. They're high enough to make most people back away with their hands up and their expectations humbled.
“Stabilization is one thing,” Jackson says. “Annie may not want you paying for every choice after that.”
He’s right. “Separate the emergency structural work from the long-term restoration. I’ll cover whatever keeps the house from deteriorating while she decides. Nothing beyond stabilization gets approved without her.”
Something wary in his face eases. “I can work with that.”
We mark the staircase for reinforcement. The original trim gets blue tape instead of a demolition slash, and the scorched plaster remains open.
Then Jackson takes me to the landing and shines his light on a narrow stained-glass window buried beneath grime. Dark red flowers circle a pale center. One lead joint has split, and the panel bows outward.
“Maybelle installed it,” he says. “According to Annie. This is the one thing money can’t rush. We need somebody who knows old leaded glass, and there aren’t many close by.”
I picture Annie standing here, watching afternoon light come through Maybelle Crane’s window.
Jackson heads down to help the crew pack up. I take out my phone. My phone is filled with messages from Stanhope, each one threatening its urgency. I close them and search for stained-glass conservators.
Then I put my gloves back on and carry the last load of plaster out before Annie returns.