The House on Findlater Lane

by Helen Goltz

  The House on Findlater Lane

  Helen Goltz

  Contents

  Preface

  1. This is how it began…

  2. Introducing the Sergeant

  3. Holly signs the rental lease

  4. Introducing Luke Mayer – horticulturist

  5. Moving-in day

  6. Holly’s first visitor

  7. My kingdom for a date

  8. Home alone… or not quite

  9. Holly gets a client

  10. A garden, a client and a rare pink diamond

  11. Missing Meghan

  12. How does your garden grow?

  13. The battleground

  14. An unwanted guest… no, not the Sergeant!

  15. Ms Hanlon meets the Sergeant

  16. The Sergeant gets a housemate

  17. Ghost incoming

  18. Questions about the afterlife

  19. The Sergeant’s last memory

  20. A best friend comes to visit

  21. Plans and plants

  22. A tender heart

  23. Finders’ Keepers

  24. Would that be jealousy?

  25. Love and sea spray is in the air

  26. Alone to begin again

  27. The research begins

  28. Love it when a plan comes together

  29. A green delivery

  30. The Sergeant dies… again

  31. Hearts abound

  32. A breath of fresh air

  33. A comfortable pair of shoes

  34. In pursuit of the truth

  35. Old friends and enemies

  36. The heart of Paris

  37. War and peace

  38. Home sweet home

  39. Visiting hours

  40. Four weeks later

  41. A homecoming

  42. Time to meet Meghan

  43. Closing a chapter of life

  44. Goodbyes and hello

  Dear Reader

  You might also like

  About the Author

  Copyright (C) 2020 Helen Goltz

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

  Published 2020 by Sanguine – A Next Chapter Imprint

  Edited by Lorna Read

  Cover art by Cover Mint

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

  For Bev, I’m so glad Dad found you.

  The characters and locations in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to a location, or person living or dead is purely coincidental, and a bit of a worry really given the quirky cast in this novel!

  This is how it began…

  It was love at first sight.

  Admittedly, Holly Hanlon’s expectations were high and rose in accordance with the gear shift change as they drove up the steep slope and followed the oceanside esplanade to the very last house before the road turned and began its descent.

  The house at the top of the esplanade, or lane as it was known, was perfect – unlike everything else in Holly’s life. Holly knew from experience that when you know, you just know, and she could see herself happily ensconced within the walls of this little village “cottage”.

  Holly and the young man next to her alighted from the car. She breathed in the salty air and turned to admire the ocean view. He stood by, waiting patiently; it was his job. Holly then turned to admire the house that would soon be her home for the next six months.

  While its neighbours were a mixture of glass beachfront homes and modernised white brick rendered cottages, this house looked like it had come through the last century untouched. It was a two-storey white timber cottage with enough distance from its neighbour to feel remote. At the front of the house were enormous bay windows on both levels and a delightful little cottage garden.

  ‘The light and sea view will stream into the house! You are just what I need – Findlater House on Findlater Lane,’ she said in a low whisper. Holly smiled, forgetting for just a moment about the real estate agent standing beside her.

  ‘Sorry?’ he asked.

  She jumped slightly. ‘I love it.’ She turned to face him. ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘But you can’t take it…’ he stammered.

  ‘Why? It’s for rent, isn’t it? The sign says so.’ She glanced at the sign, then back to the agent. ‘Is it taken? Why are we here then?’ This was not going to end well if he was a time-waster.

  The real estate agent ran his tongue over his lower lip – a nervous gesture. Holly noticed he did this regularly… more so since they arrived at Findlater House.

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s for rent,’ he assured her, ‘but you haven’t seen inside. I can’t rent it to you until you see inside, it’s our company policy, Ms Hanlon.’

  ‘Really?’ she doubted that and her voice betrayed her.

  Damien Flat (truly his name) was tall, thin, dressed by catalogue, and lucky to be a year out of high school; his parents owned the real estate agency and he was working in the family business. There were so many properties for rent in the small seaside village during the non-tourist season that Holly expected her announcement that she would rent the cottage would be met with great enthusiasm. She expected Damien to immediately pull the papers and a pen out of his stylish leather shoulder bag and point at the “sign here” line with glee.

  Let’s face it, she thought, Findlater House was not going to appeal to everyone. It was old-fashioned, it looked like a good gust of wind from the ocean would topple it and the garden was a shambles. She was desperately hoping that the bathroom and kitchen were at least modernised.

  Fortunately, the house was high and slightly back off the road, so, like a voyeur, you could sit and watch everyone walking past but not be obvious to the street. Holly liked the fact that she could live unseen and no-one would know how many wines she had at cocktail hour! Heaven. But if she wanted people contact, which occasionally was necessary for human survival, she noted the small area in front of the garden where she could sit and wave to those walking by on the footpath, or make a bit of small talk about the weather.

  ‘C’mon, I’ll show you around,’ he said, fishing in his pocket for the key. ‘I’ve got another four properties to show you, we’ve only just started.’

  Holly squinted at Damien in concentration. She had just realised what was going on – Damien Flat was bored stupid. It was mid-morning on a Wednesday, she was probably the first person he’d seen all week and it was his chance to get out of the office.

  She took pity on him. After all, it wasn’t the city, there wasn’t a queue to rent the house and she could cut him some slack.

  ‘Good-oh, let’s go then. We’ll have a look here and then go see the other four,’ she said with enthusiasm, for Damien’s sake, ‘and please, call me Holly.’

  ‘Sure, great… Holly,’ he said, buoyed, and headed up the garden stairs with an improved attitude.

  Holly followed him up to the front of the house, stopped at the top stair and turned around to observe the vista. It truly was the perfect location… two streets from the village, across the road from the drop to the ocean and suspiciously cheap. Her Aunty Kate was right… ghost or no ghost, who could resist?

  In a flash of consciousness, Damien stopped just before he turned the door handle to Findlater House. Holly almost ran into him, not realising that he
wasn’t moving forward.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ he said and cleared his throat. ‘Legally, I don’t have to tell you, but we’re a very upfront real estate agency with integrity.’

  ‘Okay then, please tell away,’ she said, waiting for it… she knew what was coming but Damien Flat didn’t know her connection with this house.

  ‘It’s got termites?’ she ventured.

  ‘What? No, no termites,’ he said, looking put out that she would think such a thing.

  ‘Oh well, that’s good,’ Holly said. ‘You’ve put the rent up then?’

  ‘God no,’ he declared, ‘it’s hard enough to rent as it is,’ he said, and then realised the error of his ways. He shouldn’t have said that, now she might negotiate! He cleared his throat again, pulled at his tie as if it was tightening around his throat there and then, and looked her in the eye. ‘I think you need to know that… um, this property is what we call a… well, a stigmatised house,’ he said, finally.

  Holly burst out laughing, and Damien looked affronted.

  ‘A stigmatised house!’ she repeated, and laughed again. ‘It sounds like the house needs therapy. Stigmatised… that’s great! Are you talking about the portrait of the Sergeant? The ghost?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, his eyes widening. ‘You know? How do you know about the portrait?’ He sighed. ‘Who am I kidding? Everyone knows… it’s even part of the local history walk.’

  They were still standing at the front door and all she wanted to do was go in and sign the papers, not necessarily in that order.

  Holly shrugged. ‘Long story, but to make it short and quick…’ She began her rave at super speed. ‘My grandmother, Lily, owned this house and her children – my father Joseph and my Aunty Kate – they inherited it and the portrait and the ghost, on the basis they didn’t throw the portrait out. I think Loopy Lily, sorry Grandma Lily, quite liked it and the ghost. My Aunty Kate bought out my father – he was pleased to be cashed up and rid of it I suspect, so now she owns it. She won’t sell it because she’s sentimental like that. You see, my grandparents – her parents – have both passed away. As you manage the property for Aunty Kate and she was complaining to me that she wasn’t having much luck renting it out long-term, I decided I really needed a sea change. With me so far?’ Holly asked, stopping for breath. Damien gave an unconvincing nod.

  Holly continued. ‘Mm, well, if I told Aunty Kate that I wanted to stay, she’d offer me the house for free. But I might want to stay long-term… longer than six months and I don’t want to take advantage of her, so I’d like to rent it under my married name because she won’t remember that name. And yes, I’m very familiar with the portrait, but I’m sure the Sergeant will be in it when we go in!’ Holly finished, looking rather pleased with her abridged version of history. Bet he’s glad he asked, she thought.

  ‘Right, just so I have this straight… you know about the portrait and its, uh, subject, and you still want to see the house and maybe rent it?’ Damien asked, his mouth slightly ajar.

  ‘That’s the gist of it,’ she agreed. Holly wondered if he had heard anything she said.

  ‘She was just here, you know, the property manager, your aunty Kate. She did a few renovations and stayed in the village while it was being tweaked. She left this morning,’ Damien said.

  ‘Oh, I had no idea. It’s a shame I missed her,’ Holly said. Aunty Kate was in town? Phew, that was close.

  ‘Will your husband be living here, too?’ he asked.

  ‘No, just me. Shall we go in?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said looking relieved that he’d done the right thing by her and now she was sure to take this property off his books. She could tell that coming here terrified him and a long-term rental would be no doubt be a godsend.

  Introducing the Sergeant

  Sergeant Alexander Austen froze… if a ghost could freeze. He heard the rattle at the door as the house key went into the lock.

  ‘Sod’s Law,’ he said, aloud, as he raced down the hallway to take up his position in his portrait. ‘You would think by now the presence of a sinister bleeding ghost in the house would be enough to keep that wet real estate agent away.’

  He could see through the window the young agent unlocking the door. Beside him, a petite, attractive blonde looked keen to enter. He scoffed – that'll be easy. He adjusted himself into the portrait frame to watch their entry.

  The door opened and the agent stood aside to allow her to enter first. She inhaled and smiled, apparently pleasantly surprised.

  ‘Mm, the smell of fresh paint and not at all musty,’ she said.

  The agent looked around nervously. The Sergeant smirked; he liked to put the wind up him. Damien’s gaze ran up the hallway to the ceiling and then as soon as the woman moved out of his way, he looked straight to the portrait that was one of three on the living room wall. Two were landscape paintings and the third was of a good-looking young man in a military uniform.

  From his lofty position on the wall, the Sergeant watched as the woman turned to Damien.

  ‘So white and bright,’ she said and followed the agent’s gaze towards the Sergeant’s painting. ‘If that is our ghost, he’s definitely framed.’

  He heard the young agent breathe a sigh of relief.

  ‘Yes, that’s him and of course he’s framed. You don’t want to be swayed by those silly village stories,’ Damien said, in a tone that implied he expected nothing less. The agent continued: ‘Anyway, as I said, Kate decided the house was all a bit tired, which it was, so while she was here she got it repainted inside, bought new linen for the beds, crockery for the kitchen, and replaced the rugs. It’s like new.’

  ‘It is… and clutter-free, I love that,’ the woman agreed – the Sergeant was yet to hear her name. ‘Lucky me!’ she said.

  The Sergeant turned his attention to her. She was young… mid to late twenties, wearing white sneakers, a white T-shirt, jeans, and a black jumper with some sort of a hood on the back. A black bag was slung over her shoulder.

  She turned around slowly, taking in the room, and smiling.

  ‘Oh, I love it. I love the space and the view,’ she said. ‘These big windows are gorgeous.’

  The Sergeant’s eyes followed her as she turned to study the rooms. In front of her, a staircase curved its way up to the floor above and she glanced to the ceiling.

  ‘Ah, I know enough from my house renovation to recognise this was once a couple of rooms before it became open-plan,’ she said to Damien. ‘A big improvement. The beams along the ceiling give it away.’

  ‘Must have been poky in the past,’ Damien said, taking in the beams.

  ‘Codswallop… it was perfectly fine as it was,’ The Sergeant said, but not for their ears. He crossed his arms but they didn’t notice. ‘Although it is better now,’ he conceded, seeing it from her point of view.

  The woman stood in the living room which took up the entire front of the house. On one side was a small dining room table for four, and on the other side was the couch, coffee table, television, and a black marble fireplace. She moved closer and looked at the Sergeant’s portrait again, this time with more concentration, and then moved to the painting of the ocean next to him.

  ‘That’s clever, isn’t it?’ she said, observing the painting, then looking out of the window at the view which was mirrored in the painting. ‘It really does draw in the eye.’ She then returned to study the Sergeant. He was sorely tempted to raise an eyebrow at her.

  ‘I can see the attraction to the portrait,’ she said, her voice softening. ‘I’d want to keep it there, too. Quiet striking, very handsome. Did he ever live here? I can’t remember the story.’

  The Sergeant stopped short in his tracks – or would have, had he been out of his frame. He studied the woman with more scrutiny. The agent still hadn’t said her name and the Sergeant sure as hell didn’t recognise her.

  ‘Who are you?’ he muttered, trying to place her. He could swear he had never set eyes on her befor
e, but how did she know about the portrait and its story? And who was attracted to him? Who was she talking about? Surely not Lily. Dear, sweet Lily, old enough to be his mother and then his grandmother by the time she died.

  ‘I think he did live here,’ Damien said, fussing with his folder before returning to stare at the portrait above the fireplace. ‘That does ring a bell. The locals are mostly ancient around here and they love to share a story. I think one of them told me that,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘You can ask them yourself. They’ll be over with scones as soon as they see a removal truck. Come and have a look upstairs, Holly.’ The agent invited the woman to take the stairs before him.

  ‘Holly,’ the Sergeant repeated her name. ‘Nope, I don’t know anyone called Holly.’ He waited until they were halfway up the stairs, and then moved out of his frame to follow them. Holly led the way, with the agent reluctantly in tow. The Sergeant raced up and went past them towards the main bedroom, past the bathroom and two other rooms, and waited for her on the square landing of the main room. He chose who could see him and when, but unfortunately everyone could see the empty frame if he wasn’t in there.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ she exclaimed and turned to the agent. ‘It’s a modern bathroom! Old houses are best when they’ve been brought gently into the current century.’