“Thanks. And again,” I wave over the stain now setting in, “sorry.”
“It’s no problem,” he assures me, before turning his attention to my new friend. “Callie.”
“Everett.” She smiles.
Everett points to City Hall, located on the opposite side of the grassy town square. “My office is on Stuart Street. It’s that sage house, kitty-corner to the right of City Hall. I will see you tomorrow morning. And, I’ll try not to wear anything white, just in case.” He winks. “Callie, it’s always a pleasure.”
“Pleasure is all mine,” she coos, and her eyes become softer.
We both watch him leave, along with half the female patrons in the coffee shop.
After a moment, I turn my focus back to Callie.
“So, not only are you new in town, but you are the new interior designer?” she asks.
“I am.”
“Lucky you. That man is sex-on-a-stick hot.” Her deep-olive-colored hand grabs mine, and she yanks me out of the coffee shop and onto the sidewalk, before pointing toward a storefront. “My family owns Callie’s Consignments. Right there.” She motions to the left of Coffee Haven, just past an alley. “We specialize in designer and high-end clothing and furniture. I bet we have a few pieces that would appeal to you for decorating projects and stuff.”
“That sounds amazing. I’ll have to check it out.”
“We’re open Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays from about tenish in the morning until about fourish in the afternoon. Sometimes the times vary, depending on my mood.”
“Your mood?”
“I’m a bit of a free spirit. I don’t really do well with schedules, or staying in one place for too long. I like to be unrestricted and explore, kinda like a . . . a gypsy.” Her smirk has a wicked edge.
“Then you must also have the great power of fortune telling?” I jest, not having heard the word gypsy since I was in elementary school and studying moths.
She smiles brightly. “If I did, I’d predict that you and I are going to be the best of friends.”
I smile at her reply.
“Anyway, I have somewhere I need to be. Come by the store on Tuesday, yeah?”
“Absolutely!”
“Good. See ya then.”
Callie sashays off in the opposite direction from her store, while I turn toward the town square, taking it all in. There’s a slight nip in the air. For April in Colorado, it must not be unusual, given how the handful of people walking along the sidewalks, passing the storefronts, are dressed. A glowing, amber hue from the thick beams of sunshine has cast over the town, causing the colors bouncing off the buildings and grass to come to life.
My eyes land on an empty bench, and I begin to take a few steps toward it, only to be cut off by some children running past me inhumanly fast. I frown and recall Michaela telling me there is a small park not too far from the center of town. I decide it might be a little more peaceful this morning. A few blocks up, I’m just about to cross the street when the sight to my right has me stopping dead in my tracks. Slowly, I change direction and walk over to the lot facing the park.
That’s when I see the sign that causes my breath to hitch and my heart to skip several beats.
I knew it was only a matter of time, but seeing it now, with my own two eyes, when I wasn’t ready emotionally, hurts. Stepping closer, I place my scone bag and coffee down on the ground before I allow my fingers to trace the words under the rendering of a stunning Gothic-Victorian building, “Future Home of the Havenwood Falls Public Library.” The names Weston Designs, PLLC, and McCabe & Sons Construction are both prominently placed underneath.
My eyes lift, taking in the leveled earth behind the orange netting, and my heart squeezes.
This is it. The place where she died.
Unable to continue looking at it, I pull in a heavy breath, grab my coffee and scone, and briskly make my way across the street to the park, as memories and images flood my mind, causing my eyes to tear. No longer hungry, I throw out my breakfast in a nearby trash can and take in the picturesque commons.
There are small gardens all around, perfectly manicured grounds, and beautiful stone paths. I make my way to one of the few benches and sit down, staring mindlessly at the bronze fountain in the center of everything. Three mermaids have been carved into the bottom, appearing as if they’re holding up the three tiers so that the water falls softly down each layer. A plaque on the fountain etched with “Cook’s Corner” sits proudly as water dances over it.
In the distance, the sound of a baseball game floats to me. I look around at all the wildflowers, butterflies, and vine-covered stone arches. After having seen what’s left of the library, I’m not ready to experience life just yet. That is when I notice a small gravel pathway off to the left of the entrance. It’s framed by a wrought-iron arched sign, sitting on two wiry columns. The entire entry is covered by climbing white roses. The arch is outlined with draping white wisteria. It’s what’s beyond the entry, bordered by tall stone walls covered in ivy and white roses, that I’m drawn to—Havenwood Falls Cemetery.
Without thinking, I stand, and my feet start moving toward the arch.
With each step, my breath becomes heavier and heavier.
I already know what I am going to find. The need to see it, to make it real, pulls me forward.
As I step through the entrance, I’m immediately stunned to see a large memorial park laid out in front of me like a garden. Labyrinths of stone pathways are covered with flowers and greenery, meant to appear haphazardly designed, but perfectly placed. In addition to headstones, the walls surrounding me contain plaques engraved with names and dates.
Pointed arcs with wrought iron gates lead to different sections of the cemetery, each covered in greenery and flowers. It’s breathtaking and heartbreakingly sad at the same time.
I flatten my palms and allow the lush vegetation to tickle my skin as I make my way through each passageway. Monarch butterflies guide me past each plaque on the walls and stones in the ground as I search her out.
After about an hour, I’ve come up empty. Frowning, I step through one final gated archway.
“What you seek cannot be found here,” a deep, accented, unfamiliar voice states.
I turn and come face to face with a stranger, dressed head to toe in black. The black color of his wardrobe deepens his tanned skin and makes him stand out among the purple and yellow flowers surrounding us. My arms fold protectively around my chest because, good looks aside, this guy screams intimidation, power, and dominance. Studying me, he pushes his shoulders back and slides his hands into the front pockets of his designer pants. The perfectly tailored shirt he’s wearing is open at the top, showing off a hint of his smooth chest, and the sleeves folded neatly on each arm show off two black beaded bracelets on one wrist, and a silver Rolex on the other.
“How do you know what I seek?” I counter.
The stranger lifts his chin, causing him to appear taller than, if I had to guess, his six-foot, four-inch status. His jawline and upper lip are covered with a perfectly manicured beard and mustache. The sun shines off his slicked-back dark hair as his blue eyes assess me with guarded curiosity. A smooth smile plays at his full, perfect lips. “For once, the town gossip is accurate.”
“Gossip?”
“You look like her.”
“Who?”
He tsks. “I don’t play games, Graysin.”
“Who are you?”
“Roman Bishop.”
All the air leaves my lungs, and my mouth parts in disbelief.
Chapter 3
Secrets And Lies
Roman steps closer, and his wing-tipped shoes make no sound on the stone pathway as he approaches me. Lifting my chin, I stand my ground and try to get a hold on my erratic emotions. After a moment, he lifts one of his hands, letting his long fingers brush over an etched name on a plaque.
“To some in Havenwood Falls, it’s considered bad luck to bury the souled in the ground,”
he explains. In silence, I watch him stalk toward me. “Do you really think I would bury my wife, the love of my life, with mere commoners?”
The love of his life? I scoff at the statement. “Where is my sister, Roman?”
“On my estate. Her ashes rest peacefully under a zapis tree, as is customary in Serbia.”
I throw a look of disdain at the man my sister Jenni ran off with and secretly married.
She was only supposed to come to Colorado for college. Instead, she disappeared from our lives without a trace—without another word spoken to her family or the friends she left behind.
Until about a month before her death, when she contacted me, out of the blue, acting weird.
“You are welcome to visit Jennifer anytime you’d like,” he offers.
“Coming from you, that’s a strange offer. Given that was not the case while she was alive.”
“Jennifer had her reasons and wishes. As her husband, I saw to it both were satisfied. Along with her happiness.” The words coming out of his mouth don’t match his unreadable expression.
“You’d have me believe that Jenni, who was not only my sister but my best friend, walked away from a family and life that she loved deeply? With no contact for years? At her own wish?”
He sighs. “The Jenni you once knew and the Jennifer I married were two very different women. I can assure you, she chose to leave her past behind, in lieu of a future with me.”
I study his face. He’s lying. I don’t know how I know. I just do.
“You didn’t even give us the courtesy of extending an invitation to her funeral.”
“The tragedy of Jennifer’s death haunts me. No family should suffer the pain of only burying the ashes of their daughter and sister, Graysin.”
I swallow hearing this, praying that she didn’t suffer too long in the fire.
“Did you receive her things?” he asks.
“Yes.” My answer is clipped as I recall how a package showed up one day at my family home in Newport containing my dead sister’s belongings. There was no letter or warning. The few items were just tossed in a FedEx box and sent back to us, without a care for them, or her.
“I hope they brought you comfort. Will you be in town long?”
My eyes narrow at his aloof manner. “Until the library is rebuilt. I’m designing the interior.”
Something flashes over his expression. “You are working with Everett Weston then?”
I frown at the sneer Roman makes when he says Everett’s name. “I am.”
“I see. At some point, I would be honored to host you at the estate for dinner.”
I wouldn’t. I would rather burn in a fire like my sister, but I came here for answers.
“That would be lovely,” I manage.
“I’ll have my housekeeper arrange it. Where are you staying?”
“Whisper Falls Inn.”
He laughs haughtily.
“Is something funny?”
“You’ve been in town for less than seventy-two hours, and you’re already keeping company with protectors and bloodsuckers.”
My brows pinch. How does he know how long I’ve been here?
“I don’t understand.”
Roman falls silent, his face hardening. “No. You don’t. And it is my hope you never will.”
With the delivery of the cryptic message, he dips his chin and spins on his heel. I watch his back retreat, trying to make sense of the oddity of our conversation. If nothing else, my sister certainly had strange taste in men. How did he know I was in town, or here in the cemetery?
And what did he mean by protectors and bloodsuckers?
As the painful ache of talking about my sister fades, I look around the cemetery and come to the realization that behind all the beauty and charm, Havenwood Falls is shrouded in mystery.
With my coffee firmly planted in my hand, I walk past Shelf Indulgence and make a mental note to check out the bookstore later this week, before crossing the street, cutting through the town square, and then making a right toward Everett’s corner office. The entire time, I remind myself to try to act like a normal person in front of my very attractive boss. That’s right, Graysin. He is your boss, not some random hot guy who stopped to help you in your time of emotional and tire-changing need.
Which reminds me, I need to swing by the mechanic shop and drop off my tire. I stop to put a reminder in my iPhone before admiring the historic, three-story, sage-colored building through the open wrought-iron fence decorating the front and flanked by trees.
Tall, arched windows, inlaid with black trim, highlight the turret on the left side of the house. Off-white Victorian trim adorns both the borders and rounded gables. The black doors give the entire building a modern, clean, and fresh look.
Making my way over to the right side of the building, I walk up the ten or so dark gray stairs and push open the door, and my breath hitches. The interior is just as gorgeous as the exterior.
Everett’s managed to keep the classical lines, moldings, and feel of a Victorian, but he’s completely modernized it. Hardwood floors gleam throughout the first floor and entryway. The wide planks are so dark, it’s hard to tell if they’re black or just a deep brown. There’s a long, narrow staircase to the right that leads up to the second floor, brightly lit by a large window, and adorned with an iron railing.
Arches frame the long hallway in front of me, leading to a black door. The glass panes on it showcase the closed-off back of the house. In the entry, a long console table before a large mirror holds coffee-table books on design, architecture, and what look like Gothic statues. I’m just about to thumb through them when an older woman pops her head out of the front room to the left.
“You must be Graysin?”
“I am.”
Her thin lips smile, lighting up the deep lines etched in her face as she steps out into the foyer with me. The older woman’s blue eyes sparkle with playfulness and humor as she assesses me.
“I will say you are much better looking than that old Irish gentlemen Everett wanted to hire. I guess my little mix-up with the resumes and hiring worked out in all our favors, after all.”
My cheeks become warm at the compliment. “You must be Mary Beth?”
Everett’s office manager smiles and tilts her head. Her short, perfectly-styled gray and white hair reminds me of the older ladies from my father’s country club—the ones who come from old money.
“Mrs. Mary Beth Fairchild. Though I prefer, and am known around here as, Miss Mary Beth.”
I smile at her pleasant disposition. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Miss Mary Beth.”
“You, too. Come in. Let’s get you all situated, shall we?” She motions for me to enter the front room. As I do, I notice to the left an elegant, intricately carved white desk sitting in front of the large bay window. The décor on it is sparse. A few silver frames with family photos, a laptop and cell phone, and a flower-patterned china teacup with red lipstick on the side are all that sit on top.
“This is where you will find me when I’m not fluttering around the office,” she points out, before guiding us over to the living room area. “Everett meets and entertains clients here.”
I take in the smartly decorated area. The walls are a soft cream, as is the fireplace. Two velvet, clean-lined, gray couches flank a long ottoman made of the same soft material. Architectural coffee-table books and a tray holding a modern glass sculpture sit on top of it.
The crystal chandelier hanging over the ottoman is one of the only traditional Victorian pieces in the room, aside from the gigantic mirror hanging over the fireplace, which is decorated with two small tables on either side, holding lamps. Large photos of architectural drawings sit perfectly between the crown molding frames on the wall. It’s all very pleasing and inviting.
“Come, let me show you the work and powder rooms, kitchen, and conference area. Everett’s private quarters are upstairs. The lower level suite is kept for guests. It has its own private bathroom, small
living room, and kitchenette,” she explains as I follow her back out toward the hallway and through the door that was closed earlier. She points to the left. “This used to be the dining room, but now it’s where you and Everett will work.”
I smile at the space. Shelves filled with books line both sides, with a window in the middle. Everett’s drafting table is on the left, filled with plans that are rolled up and strewn about. On the right is a large design table. Fabric books and paint chips are strategically placed around a laptop and large computer screen, and I can’t help but smile.
We peek into the gray, marble powder room, passing a door to the lower floor housing the guest suite, before continuing to the back of the house, where the white modern kitchen is decorated with quartz and stainless-steel appliances. To the right is a large circular table with chairs, which Miss Mary Beth explains is what they refer to as the conference area. To the left of the kitchen is a living area with a wall fireplace, cozy couch, and chairs. Natural light comes through the wall of French doors that leads to a quaint garden, home to a small iron table and two chairs.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, taking it all in.
“Everett will be so pleased to hear that the interior designer approves,” she says with a wink.
I smile and follow her into the kitchen. “Have you worked with him long?”
“Not really.” She shakes her head. “Everett contacted me at the end of January to see if I would be interested in being the project manager on this place. A friend of mine, Jeanine Turner, was the real estate agent that sold him the property. During the transaction, he’d inquired with her about finding someone local and trustworthy to oversee the renovations while he was still in Spain. Knowing I needed a project to keep me busy after my husband passed away, she nominated me. When he moved here last month, and officially established and opened the firm, he asked if I’d be willing to stay on as his office manager.”
My brows pinch. “I thought Everett was hired specifically for the library renovations? The fire happened in March, so how did he know in January he would be moving here?”
Covetousness: A Havenwood Falls Novella Page 3