The House on Harbor Hill

by Shelly Stratton

  Tracey narrowed her eyes again. “What other things?”

  Jessica pursed her lips and seemed to hesitate. She returned her attention to wiping down the counter.

  “What is it?”

  She paused mid-swipe. “I’ve heard rumors about her. Nothing substantiated,” Jessica hastily added, “but still . . . rumors. And not good ones.”

  In small towns, rumors were plentiful, but Jessica wasn’t usually one to gossip. Tracey hadn’t known her long, but they had developed the sort of relationship other women took years to hone; she knew her friend well enough. If Jessica was saying something like this now—if she chose to share gossip—it had to be important.

  “What rumors, Jess?” Tracey persisted.

  Jessica let out a loud breath. She glanced at Caleb and Maggie, who were now at the other end of the counter, pointing at the shelves in the glass case, ogling cupcakes. She leaned over the counter and gestured for Tracey to do the same.

  “They say she killed someone,” Jessica whispered into Tracey’s ear.

  Tracey leaned back and stared at her, dumbfounded. She barked out a laugh. “You don’t . . . you don’t really believe that, do you?”

  Jessica sat the paper towel and Windex bottle on the counter and shrugged. “I don’t know! Part of me says, ‘Why would someone lie about something like that?’ But then I think about the rumors about me that I’ve heard . . . that I’m sabotaging the other bakers on Camden Beach . . . that I serve chopped-up dog in my pastries.” She rolled her eyes. “And then I think, ‘Hey, maybe some people in town make up outrageous lies just to be mean!’ Still I’d think twice about living with her, about bringing my kids around her.”

  “Mommy, can I have a cupcake now?” Caleb interrupted.

  Tracey slowly turned to her son, now stunned. “I’m sorry . . . w-what, honey?”

  “I said can I have a cupcake now? You said I could have one.”

  “Uh, s-sure, honey.”

  “All right! Pick out which cupcake you want, big guy. It’s on me,” Jessica said, winking at Tracey and opening the glass display case. “We’ve gotta get one for your mom and your little sister too.”

  Tracey watched as Jessica and the children got to the business of the cupcakes, but she felt removed from the scene, lost in her own thoughts.

  Of course, when it finally seemed things were changing for the better for her, there was a catch. But there was always a catch, wasn’t there? There had been one when she had decided to marry Paul. She had been awed by his good looks and his ambition, by how much he was willing to woo and pursue her. She didn’t find out until later—much too late—what came with those looks and polished veneer. When she had finally decided to leave Paul, the decision had come with a catch too. She had to eschew everything from her old life: her home, her friends, and her financial security. Now she was facing yet another conundrum.

  “Do you know which one you want?”

  Tracey blinked and turned to find Jessica holding out three cupcakes displayed on a platter—three sugary beauties covered in candied pearls and pastel icing. Neither looked more appetizing than the other. They seemed almost identical.

  “No,” she answered honestly, shaking her head. “No, I don’t.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Delilah shuffled down the hall toward the stairwell. The soft flap of her slippers on the hardwood and the creak of hundred-year-old floorboards beneath her feet were drowned out by the chainsaw-like buzz of the lawnmower. She glanced out one of the second-floor windows to see Aidan riding up and down the front lawn, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his hand as he created orderly columns of cut grass. He looked to be nearly done; he would probably start on the backyard soon.

  She descended the stairs, careful of Bruce, who zigzagged between her legs.

  “You’re gonna kill me one day with this nonsense,” she admonished, though the cat ignored her.

  The stairs at Harbor Hill were precarious. She knew this firsthand.

  But there’ll be no falls today, she thought as she descended the last riser and her feet landed safely on the first floor.

  It had been almost a week since Claudia had moved out, and that old feeling was starting to sweep over Delilah. The feeling came with the absence of bodies in Harbor Hill’s many bedrooms and seeing the numerous empty chairs at her dining room table. It was the feeling that came with the lack of someone to take care of and cater to—since Aidan refused to let her do it. He was like a petulant child some days, shoving her away every time she tried to embrace him and help him heal.

  She longed for voices and laughter, for the thump of footsteps on the stairs and even half-eaten bowls of cereal and oatmeal in the kitchen sink that weren’t hers. She longed for people. She could feel the loneliness expand within her each day the house sat empty.

  Since Claudia had left, Delilah had peered eagerly out the front bay windows, on the hunt for an unfamiliar car pulling into her driveway, hoping it might belong to Tracey Walters.

  Tracey would be someone she could help. Tracey also had young children—boisterous beings who could keep Delilah amused and busy, bright-eyed innocents who could thrive under Delilah’s love and care. But Tracey hadn’t arrived or even responded to Delilah’s invitation, and it might take days, perhaps weeks before she did. Or she may not respond at all. Until Delilah found another suitable candidate—one who wouldn’t steal her jewelry or hold wild parties—she would continue to wait for Tracey Walters like a hotel manager eagerly awaiting the next incoming guest.

  “That’s what I feel like some days—like I own a hotel,” she mumbled as she made her way into the living room. Bruce glanced up at her as she spoke. “Like I’m a caretaker. It’s like it’s not even my home.”

  “Because it isn’t your home,” the voice replied, making her pause in her steps. “It never was your home—until you tricked me into giving it to you.”

  That was the other thing about the loneliness. The voice—her ever-present companion—grew bolder and louder. Sometimes it would talk endlessly, babbling to her day and night, interrupting her sleep.

  “I didn’t trick you into doing anything,” she whispered as she stepped into her living room, not willing to deal with its nonsense today. “I never asked for this damn place! Remember?”

  “All things connivers say,” the voice replied dryly.

  She sat down in one of the wingback chairs facing the sofa. Her eyes scanned the books on a nearby shelf, held in place by porcelain bookends belonging to one of the house’s original owners. She finally settled on one of the leather-bound hardbacks and removed it from its shelf: The Grapes of Wrath.

  As she settled into the chair, Bruce staked out his ownership of a nearby footstool. He stretched like a sunbather on a nearby beach and closed his eyes. Delilah turned on a table lamp despite the afternoon light filling the space. Her eyes weren’t what they used to be and needed all the help they could get.

  “She’s never gonna come, you know,” the voice said just as she opened the book. “You can wait until doomsday, Dee. That woman is going to find out who you are, and she won’t be able to get away from you fast enough. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hasn’t thrown your letter in the trash already. Maybe she burned it.”

  Be quiet, Delilah thought, trying her best to concentrate on Steinbeck’s words but failing miserably.

  “And you were so excited.” The voice chuckled. “‘Oh, look, she’s got little children!’ And we know how much you like children, don’t we? Especially since you didn’t have any.”

  “Be quiet, I said,” she whispered, flipping to the next page.

  “But, on the bright side, sweetheart, you’re lonely, but not dead. But you’ll die soon enough. We aren’t getting any younger, are we?” It laughed again. “And when that time comes, you and I are gonna tango, Dee. And not like we tangoed in the old days. This will be worse . . . much, much worse. I’ll make sure you feel everything I felt, you bitch! Every day, for all eternity, I will—�
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  “Enough!” she shouted, shooting to her feet, dropping the book to the woven rug. Startled, Bruce scrambled off the footstool and ran out of the room.

  “Enough,” she repeated breathlessly, whipping off her glasses and pressing the tips of her fingers to her eyelids.

  She couldn’t take it anymore—the menacing voice, the solitude, and the silence of this house.

  She walked from the living room into the foyer, leaving the table lamp burning bright. She grabbed her sun hat from the center table and her purse from a hook on the wall adjacent to the front door. Delilah marched down the front steps of the porch to the blacktop of her driveway, pulling the keys to her PT Cruiser from her purse’s depths.

  Aidan paused from mowing the lawn to stare across the yard at her. He shaded his eyes with his hand.

  “Hey!” he shouted over the riding lawnmower’s idle engine. “Where you going, Dee?”

  She didn’t answer him. Instead, she opened her car door and climbed inside. She turned on the engine and turned up the volume of the radio so the walls almost vibrated with the gospel music blasting from the car’s speakers.

  Delilah threw the car into drive and pulled off.

  She was about to do something she loathed almost as much as the voice in her head. She was about to head into downtown Camden Beach.

  * * *

  After driving for less than ten minutes, Delilah slowed to a stop and pulled into one of the open parking spaces in the small shopping center less than half a mile from the waterfront. She looked around warily at the faces of people who sauntered out of the grocery store, pushing shopping carts or carrying plastic bags filled with goods, at the couples and families who sat at the metal bistro tables outside of the Seafood Shack, eating crab legs and shrimp po’boys and curly fries sprinkled with Old Bay seasoning.

  Would they narrow their eyes at her or conspicuously shift their gazes when they saw her walking toward them? Would they turn and walk the other way?

  Over the years, it happened less and less. The longtime residents of Camden Beach who remembered the Delilah Buford whose bewildered and haggard face had appeared on the cover of local newspapers were starting to die off, taking their judgment and condemnation with them to the grave. The newer residents didn’t care enough about her to even bother to do a Google search and were content to give her the anonymity she craved. Still, on occasion, Delilah would step up to a counter at a store in town and be met with aloofness or, worse, outright fright from a salesgirl. Or she’d enter a local deli and the entire shop would fall silent. She’d always wonder, Do they know? Is that why they’re acting like that?

  Better head inside, she now told herself as she continued to peer out the car window. If she didn’t, she knew the voice would start speaking again. She could practically feel it chomping at the bit to say something to make her shout at it.

  Delilah turned off the PT Cruiser’s engine and slowly opened the door. She was assailed by the scent of the bay: the brine-like, fishy smell that sometimes came with high tide. She ventured toward the grocery store, removing her sunglasses and keeping her head held high as she walked. She told herself to keep an even pace.

  Don’t run like you’re in a rush to get away. Just walk.

  Thankfully, no one looked at her or did a double take when she passed.

  They don’t recognize me, she realized with relief. None of them have heard or read about me.

  She stepped through the automatic doors, from the humid heat of early September to the blustery cold of the air-conditioned supermarket. She squinted under the glare of the overhead track lights.

  “Welcome to Milton’s Grocer!” the greeter in suspenders shouted, waving at her with a wide grin.

  He looked to be no older than eighteen. Shaggy brown hair almost fell into his eyes. A smiley-face pen dangled from one of his suspenders, along with another pen showing the Milton’s Grocer emblem.

  “H-hello,” Delilah stuttered, pulling her purse close to her side.

  “Let us know if you need anything, ma’am!”

  She nodded absently before grabbing a plastic basket from a stack near the automatic doors. “I will. Th-thank you.”

  Delilah then made her way to the produce aisle, scanning a pile of oranges and then a tower of lemons. She headed to a display of grapefruit, thumping one with her forefinger, then placing it in her basket. She turned to grab a second, then stopped.

  That’s when she felt it—the heavy weight of someone’s gaze on her. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Her stomach muscles clenched. Her pulse began to race. She was seized with the urgent need to set her basket on top of the bin of cantaloupes and flee the supermarket.

  Don’t run, she told herself, even though every part of her rebelled. Don’t you dare run!

  “Ms. Grey!” a booming voice called from behind her, jolting her to her core.

  She turned to find a man wearing a navy blue visor and matching polo shirt with khakis so immaculate they looked as if they had just come off the sales rack. This was a man who went to the golf course to talk business and rub elbows, rather than play actual golf. He strode down the produce aisle toward her, casually tossing a Granny Smith apple. She squinted at him, momentarily confused as to who he was.

  “Ms. Grey, how are you?” he asked.

  She continued to stare at him blankly.

  “Don’t you remember me? It’s Teddy!”

  “Oh . . . oh, yes. Hello, Teddy.”

  She did remember him now, though she did not find comfort in the recollection. Instead, her brow wrinkled, and her mouth formed a grim line.

  Teddy was a developer who had recently moved to Camden Beach. There were so many these days, all looking to buy vacation homes, renovate them, then flip them for a profit. He had stopped by the house in May.

  “Uh, how can I help you, Mr.—”

  “Theodore Williams,” he had told her the first time she had met him on her front porch. He had held out his hand to her in greeting.

  Delilah had glanced down at his hand before reluctantly shaking it. His hands had been soft and clammy, almost like a saturated sponge. She’d immediately drawn her hand back. “Mr. Williams, how—”

  “Not Mr. Williams . . . just Theodore.” He had shoved his hands in his pockets and offered a smile that was more smug than warm. “Or you can call me Teddy. Actually, I’d prefer if you’d call me Teddy.”

  “All right,” she had said, gazing at him warily. “What can I do for you, Teddy?”

  “It’s not what you can do for me. It’s what I can do for you, Ms. Grey. I’d like to buy your home . . . the entire property . . . and I’m willing to pay above market value for it—top dollar.”

  She had turned down his offer without a second thought. She could never sell Harbor Hill, especially to a perfect stranger. For better or for worse, it was her home. It had been for several decades, and it had been standing for almost one hundred years. It was a place that had offered solace to so many others. Harbor Hill was all she knew, and she was too old to move on, to start all over again.

  But Teddy didn’t seem to accept her answer. Like clockwork, he would call once a month, offering to buy Harbor Hill and raising the price of his offer. The last had been three million dollars.

  Delilah was at a loss to understand Teddy’s logic. Realtors had been leaving business cards on her door for decades, offering to put the house on the market for her. Developers had called over the years, offering to buy Harbor Hill—some with cash deals. But all had gone away when she politely but firmly turned them down. Why was Teddy so persistent? Why was he offering so much money? What was it about Harbor Hill? It was a nice property and home, but nicer properties and houses could easily be found in neighboring towns.

  “It’s a property that has history . . . that has meaning, Ms. Grey,” Teddy had explained. “No price can be put on meaning.”

  Meaning? What possible meaning could Harbor Hill have for him? Was Teddy one of those men with a perver
se interest in the macabre? Would he point to the stairs and tell visitors, “You know someone was killed right here?”

  But his motivations didn’t matter. She still said no. Now, with him standing in front of her, she prepared herself for another onslaught.

  He set aside the apple, stepped forward, and embraced her like they were old friends. She tried not to flinch but kept her arms stiffly at her sides.

  Teddy stepped back. “Funny running into you here!” he said with a laugh.

  “Why is it funny?”

  His laughter tapered off. “Well, I guess it isn’t funny really.” He loudly cleared his throat. “Anyway, did you give any thought to my latest offer? That’s quite a nice chunk of change, if I do say so myself.”

  “I did, and my answer is the same as it was the last time you asked me. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not gonna sell Harbor Hill.”

  His grin teetered a little, like a picture on a wall not hung correctly. An invisible finger nudged it back into place.

  “Uh, no offense, Ms. Grey,” he whispered as he leaned toward her, shifting his visor aside. “But do you really want to continue to live on such a big property, in such a big house, at your age? All those stairs and an acre’s worth of lawn that needs to be mowed and raked? The snow removal alone . . .” He let out a low whistle and shook his head. “I know I wouldn’t want to have to deal with that in my eighties.”

  “I’m not quite eighty yet, Teddy. And I have a caretaker for all that.”

  “But wouldn’t you rather go to a retirement community where you could be taken care of? I heard some are really nice, and with the money I’m willing to give you, you could get into one of the best.”

  “I don’t want to live in a retirement community. I’m happy where I am.”

  Most days . . .

  “But you may not always be happy there. I’m willing to take care of Harbor Hill and treat it like it was my own.”

  She tiredly looked around her as Teddy prattled on, glancing at shoppers who passed them by as she waited for him to finish so she could politely extricate herself from the conversation. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a young woman with mousy brown hair in a lanky ponytail, wearing a white shirt and black skirt. The outfit was so bland it had to be a uniform. She was pushing a cart where a baby sat in front, sucking on a foot-shaped teething ring clutched in her pink fist. A boy walked beside the young woman, talking and pointing to a line of cereal boxes on display.