Jeanne momentarily felt sorry for her ex-husband. “Did he ask you about Father’s house?”
“No. I suggested that he talk to you because you might consider getting rid of it for a good price. You hardly need the money. Both of you would benefit from the sale.”
“He plans to have it appraised and make an offer.”
“Good. Give some serious thought to selling the house to him, Jeanne. I’m sure he’d do a wonderful job with it, if The Astilbe Inn is any indication.”
“Emily, why this sudden interest in helping a perfect stranger make money?”
“As I said, I found him to be quite personable.”
“Uh huh.”
“You think there’s something more? Something that I’m hiding from you?”
“I’m guessing that you were anxious to get the Sinclair house out of our lives and everything that goes with it, including Father’s indiscretions and heaven knows what else I don’t know about the Sinclairs and the Bolands. You’re afraid someone will ask questions.”
Emily was uncomfortable with Jeanne’s accusations. Feelings that she had kept inside for months suddenly came to the surface. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through, Jeanne?” Her words were biting. “I came back here from my dear father’s funeral last August. I told my friends how I had inherited his lovely home, and then suddenly it was all taken away from me.”
“You sold it! You couldn’t have been very attached to it if you tried to sell it only a few months later.”
“There’s no need to raise your voice.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just trying to understand what your problem is.” Jeanne rested her head in her hand.
“Gregory insisted at the time that the market was good for selling. He said there was no point in keeping an empty house just to pay insurance and taxes on it. And he was right. I spoke to some of Mother’s family in Ontario, and they agreed with me.”
“What business is it of theirs?”
“They’re family!”
“Not mine.”
“We’ll all be better off.”
Jeanne tried to ignore her judgment. “Kevin will want some background information, especially when he advertises it as an inn.”
Emily froze at her casual comment. “What kind of information?” she demanded.
“The usual. Who built it and when.”
“Jeanne, I don’t think that’s any of his business or anyone else’s.”
“I wouldn’t worry. It’s normal practice when someone purchases an old home.”
“Perhaps so, but . . .” she stumbled. “Jeanne, please. Ask Mr. Gillis to leave the history of the place out of it. Tell him to buy it and turn it into an inn. No one needs to pry into the past, no one needs to know.”
“Know what?” Jeanne was quite puzzled but feared she would never get an explanation out of Emily. “If it’s this business of Father and Hannah . . .”
“No. No. That’s not it. I’m worried there might be other secrets.”
“Whatever there is, I will deal with it, since I’m the one who lives here. Emily, could we talk about this perhaps at another time? It’s been a long week, and I have an early morning.”
“Oh my, yes, of course. I’ll plan a visit, then, and we can get all of this out and what we’re going to do from here.” Her voice quivered. “Jeanne, I don’t want anything to upset you. You’ve been through so much. I know Father’s passing was upsetting, and selling his home is just as difficult for you. You are my half-sister. I feel it’s in our best interests to leave the past where it is.”
There was a momentary silence. Finally, Jeanne said softly, “Interesting, Emily. You’ve known me for fifty-nine years and you’ve always referred to me as your sister. Yet, how easily the word half-sister rolls off your tongue. Not the slightest hesitation. It’s as if you always knew.”
There was no response, because Emily was preoccupied with her next move, one that had nothing to do with Jeanne. Her mind was on Kevin Gillis and how she could prevent him from discovering the truth.
CHAPTER 5
After a restless night, Jeanne woke shortly after 7:00 a.m. to the sound of heavy rain against her bedroom window. She glanced at her flowers in the garden below and saw that they were not faring well in the high wind and rain. She grabbed her warmest bathrobe and hurried downstairs. Inside the sunroom, she pushed back the heavy glass door only enough to squeeze out and, in her bare feet, she padded across the stone steps to her potted plants. She pulled them back in the shelter under the eave of the house. Raindrops ran down the back of her neck, so she hurried inside for a towel.
She dried off, stuck her feet in warm slippers, and put water on to boil for tea. Minutes later, she tucked her feet underneath her in the corner chair of the living room and wrapped both hands around the china cup filled with hibiscus tea and honey. On the table next to her, she placed a plate holding a lightly buttered English muffin, being careful not to stain the lace cloth. “Lucinda’s cloth,” she said aloud with a smile. She wondered about Lucinda’s name and who had chosen it. Was she named after someone? A relative, perhaps?
Jeanne felt a tight strain in her neck, the result of a lack of sleep, perhaps, or her conversation with Emily last night. Emily’s silence when she suggested that she knew about them being only half-sisters was, in Jeanne’s assessment, an affirmative response. It bothered her. She had acted so shocked when Jeanne told her last year. Now it seemed that Emily already knew. Their conversation had ended rather abruptly, as Emily refused to talk about it anymore and had hung up. But that was not the most disturbing part. Her comment that Jeanne should sell the house as soon as possible was more than a suggestion. It was a directive, a command, and Jeanne wondered why she was so adamant. She recalled last fall when Emily was told that she had inherited the house. When she immediately announced she would try to sell it, Jeanne assumed that Gregory was behind her decision. She expected nothing less of him. But now as she ran the sequence of events over and over in her mind, she realized that Emily had been the one who was most anxious to get rid of it.
A glance at the clock on the mantel indicated that it was 7:40 a.m. She left her plate and cup on the table and headed back upstairs to change. Shortly after 9:00 a.m., she pulled into the driveway of the Sinclair house and waited for Kevin. As she stared at the house through the rain, memories of her father during the last month of his life returned. His complaints about the house, that it was too drafty, too warm, or too costly to maintain, were unusual for him. Although she had been surprised, she attributed his change in attitude to his illness. Now as she turned the handle of the heavy wooden door and pushed it open, she pondered the real reason for his disdain.
Inside the house, the only sound was the low hum of a dehumidifier. She took off her raincoat, shook it gently, and hung it on the coat rack in the front hall. Standing for a moment in the doorway of her father’s study, she recalled a summer party that had been held to celebrate his eightieth birthday. She smiled as she pictured him standing there in full health and vitality deeply engrossed in conversation with two prominent politicians. Today the room was empty. As her hand slowly ran across the edge of the door frame, the realization that she would never see him again, never talk to him again, overwhelmed her so much her breathing became shallow. Her memories were as strong and clear as they were on the day of his funeral, and she desperately wondered if they would ever fade. Whoever said that time heals was miserably wrong.
The sound of a car door pulled her away from her memories and she headed down the hall. “Come in out of the rain, Kevin,” she said as she held the door open.
He moved past her, being careful not to let the water from his jacket touch her.
“It’s cold and damp, not the weather one would expect to have in mid-June.”
Jeanne shook her head. “It is here.”
Jeanne was surprised at his demeanour, because she believed that the house was nothing more than a business venture for him. But now, standing there, he appeared to have much more of an emotional response to what he was seeing than that of a typical investor. “Feel free to look around,” she said, sweeping her hand. “The dining room is through those pocket doors. Beyond that, to the left there’s the kitchen, a very large kitchen.” She walked behind him and watched as he touched the wainscotting. His reaction was intriguing.
“It’s quite solid. Even the floors don’t creak. Whoever built this place knew what he was doing,” he observed, glancing back at her. He stopped by the dining room window and examined its frame. “There’s some condensation here, but not a huge issue.”
“This house is quite old, but Father made sure it was well maintained,” she said proudly.
Kevin looked at her with a cold, blank stare that for the moment almost frightened her. Realizing what he had done, he quickly regrouped, and smiled. In the hallway, he placed his hand on the newel post at the foot of the staircase. “This is amazing. Not a flaw of any kind.” His statement was more than a guess. His voice held conviction.
She wondered if Kevin took such interest in all the homes he wanted. “You have an appreciation for quality carpentry,” she said, quietly, hoping it would draw an explanation.
Kevin, momentarily absorbed in what he was seeing, came back to reality. “Ah . . . yes, I do. I’ve had to learn about carpentry and design over the years, given my work.” He hoped his explanation would be sufficient. “That’s why I have a difficult time understanding why Joe would not want to live here. It’s a perfect opportunity. He could maintain it, even renovate it, if he wished. The proper way, by bringing back its original character.”
“For what it’s worth, Kevin, I offered it to him as a wedding gift.”
“You did?” he asked, shocked at her generosity.
“Yes, but he turned it down. To be honest, I wasn’t surprised.”
Kevin was momentarily taken aback, but he shrugged his shoulders. “His loss,” he said in a half-whisper. And hopefully my gain.
Jeanne climbed the stairs slowly with him close behind her. “Joe’s interest in renovating old homes is strictly business. These days the only thing he wants to do is make his bride happy.”
Kevin followed her, taking in every grain of wood in the banister. “I suppose that’s to be expected,” he commented with words he hoped were appropriate. He walked the length of the upstairs hall and noted the number of working fireplaces. “The house would need more washrooms as an inn, but that’s easily done. These beams, Jeanne, the original doors and window frames, they would have to be kept.” He stood back and his eyes swept the view from the end of the hall. “I can see a market for this, especially with the appropriate window treatments, bed linens, and furniture. It would be the place to stay in St. John’s. I could have it featured in magazines; the market would be obvious.” Kevin fantasized about the advertisements.
She knew he was correct, that, done right, it would be an attraction. From out of nowhere she asked, “If you did own it, Kevin, and turned it into an inn, would you call it the Sinclair house?”
The question sent Kevin’s mind in a tailspin. He could feel his heart quicken. He struggled to slow it down by breathing deeply, hoping that she wouldn’t notice. “I don’t know,” he managed. “I’ll give that some thought.” In that moment, he wondered if it should more appropriately be called the Boland house, since it was originally owned by the Boland family. Either choice made him sick.
Jeanne walked with him through the remaining rooms, listening to his assessment and still curious about his passion. What was it about a Sinclair house that fascinated him so? His eyes saw potential; her eyes saw memories. While she appreciated his description of its transformation, strangely, the more she listened, the more she realized she was not ready to give up her father’s house.
* * * * *
At home, early in the afternoon, Jeanne made a chicken and mandarin orange salad and laid it on the small table in the sunroom. Outside, torrential rain continued to wash the flat stone steps through her garden. As the wind gusted, water ran down the northeast windows. She checked to see that they were tightly closed and flicked on the heat to take the chill from the air.
As she poured lemon vinaigrette over the bowl of greens, she reflected on Jonathan’s advice earlier that week to stay away from Kevin Gillis. He offered no explanation; nothing more than a hunch. Surely selling the house would be in his best interest as well. Kevin’s interest that morning went far beyond her expectations, so much so that she postponed asking him about his encounter with Emily. She promised that she would call him by the end of the day with a plan to proceed. She intended to ask him then.
A phone call interrupted her thoughts. She checked the caller ID, hesitated, and answered. It was Caroline.
“I haven’t heard from you all week, Jeanne. What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been busy. Mostly the house.”
“Your place? Are you redecorating?”
“No, Father’s house.”
“So, you’ve decided to put it on the market?”
“Let’s just say I’m exploring the possibility. There’s a person here from a Halifax-based company who’s interested in making an offer. I gave him a tour this morning.”
“No doubt he was quite impressed. I think that’s a wonderful idea. Get rid of it while you have the opportunity. After all, Jeanne, there won’t be too many people who have that kind of money to put into the Sinclair house. Far be it from me to tell you what to do, but I’d sell it as quickly as I could.”
She shook her head at the contradiction in Caroline’s comment. “Yes,” she responded with a sigh. Yet another person in my life telling me what to do.
“If there’s anything I can do to help . . . I know how much you are attached to it, and if you would like someone to step in, I’d be only too glad. You know that.”
“Yes, thank you, Caroline,” Jeanne answered half-heartedly. Wanting to change the subject of conversation, she added, “I have a much easier week coming up. Let’s meet for lunch.”
“Perfect. Just let me know when.” There was a marked hesitation. “By the way, Jeanne, not meaning to pry, but have you heard from the . . . ah . . . people in Falcon Cove?”
Jeanne rolled her eyes at the inquiry. “Yes, Hannah and Carrie were in town earlier, for just for two nights. It wasn’t too much of an intrusion.”
“They stayed with you?” Caroline shrieked.
“Yes, as I said, it was only two nights.”
“I don’t know, Jeanne,” Caroline warned. “I thought that might happen. They heard about your beautiful home, and all of a sudden it’s a free hotel. Just be careful it doesn’t become a habit.”
Jeanne chuckled, hoping to lighten the tone of the conversation. “I think I can control who comes to stay in my home.”
“Of course you can. It’s just that you are so kind-hearted, and I wouldn’t want anyone to take advantage of you, that’s all. Now then, I’m looking at my planner. How about Wednesday for lunch?”
“Sounds good. Take care, and I’ll see you then, same place and time.”
Jeanne shook her head as she hung up the phone. Caroline would make a good companion for Carrie. As she placed her dishes in the dishwasher, she remembered that Kevin had told her he would be returning to Halifax on Sunday morning. She realized that if she wanted some answers from Kevin she would
have to act quickly.
He answered her call on the first ring in his hotel room.
“I just got back from lunch, Jeanne,” he answered. “Nice to hear from you so soon.”
The sound of his voice made her sigh with resignation. Her growing feelings for him had forced her into a struggle between memories and possibilities, and the realization made her feel vulnerable. “You mentioned that you’re going home to Halifax tomorrow.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Would you like to come for dinner this evening, unless, of course, you have other plans? I realize it’s short notice.”
“Just the two of us?”
“Yes. Why? Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not. Just pleasantly surprised that you’re inviting me into your home. Thank you. I look forward to it.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you around seven? You have my address.”
“Yes. And thank you, Jeanne.”
She hung up and wondered if he would be so grateful when he found himself confronted with her questions.
* * * * *
Falcon Cove
Despite the cloud cover, warmer temperatures and calm winds made for a pleasant day in Falcon Cove. Hannah was sweeping the bridge when she looked up and saw Adelia coming up the path.
“Nice day for a walk?” she called.
“If you insist,” her friend answered, with her usual delightful laugh. She reached Hannah’s doorstep and with her panting breath managed, “Just give me a minute.” She sat in the nearest deck chair. “Oh my, not getting any younger, am I?”
Hannah laughed. “Don’t know anyone who is.”
At the age of seventy-eight, Adelia had long given up the battle of the waistline, as she called it. “The Good Lord brought me into the world like this, I expect He’ll be happy enough to see me home like it.”
All Good Intentions Page 15