The Caretaker's Son
Page 1
Symon Sinclair grew up in the caretaker’s cottage.
Now a successful writer in New York, he’s returned home to Savannah to thank his mentor, Miss B, for all her support. But it’s her niece Annabelle who greets him at the door. Symon remembers the little rich girl who never gave him a moment’s notice. Now she’s a beauty who has more depth than he’d ever imagined. As they spend time together, Symon begins to question his attitude toward life—and Annabelle.
Former beauty queen Annabelle Yarwood had her life all planned out—until she came face-to-face with the caretaker’s son. Suddenly those plans seem stifling. Just as Annabelle begins letting Symon into her heart, she discovers he’s been keeping a secret about his life in New York. Has their love story ended before it’s even begun?
Symon watched as the attractive young woman propped one hand on her waist impatiently.
“I stopped by to see Miss B,” he said.
“What for?”
“Business.”
“Her business is my business right now. I’m her niece.”
Niece? Of course. The little girl in fancy dresses whose mother would tug on her arm if she dared even look in the direction of the caretaker’s son.
“Is she home?”
“I don’t give out information to people I don’t know.”
Would she, if she knew who he was? “Sorry. Name’s Symon Sinclair. I grew up in that cottage down by the creek. I wanted to ask Miss B if I could rent it for a short while.”
“I see.” The woman’s stance relaxed a bit. “Would you like some iced tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Just run around to the front porch and I’ll bring it out.”
He watched her graceful sway as she meandered across the lawn in her bare feet. She glanced over her shoulder and caught him staring.
“Ma’am, I didn’t catch your name,” he said, as if he didn’t know.
“I didn’t throw it.” She smiled, opened the screen door and disappeared into the house.
Yvonne Lehman
is an award-winning bestselling author of fifty books, including mystery, romance, young adult, women’s fiction and mainstream historical. She founded the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference and directed it for twenty-five years, and she now directs the Blue Ridge “Autumn in the Mountains” Novel Retreat, held annually at the Ridgecrest/LifeWay Conference Center near Asheville, North Carolina.
Jesus said...You will know the truth,
and the truth will set you free.
—John 8:31–32
To my precious friend and daughter, Cindy Wilson, who toured Savannah, Georgia, with me
and shares her great insights on my writing ideas.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 1
A whimper sounded from the back floorboard.
Symon Sinclair shot a glance over his shoulder. “Pipe down now.” He returned his attention to steering his black sports car along the streets lined with live oaks and dripping with garlands of Spanish moss. “This is what I came here for.”
Hearing the compliant sigh, he continued to reminisce, loud enough for the dictating machine to record his thoughts. Soon, however, his mind moved from childhood to his current surroundings—a city laid out in squares. He was driving along the streets of one of the largest historic districts in the nation, passing churches, mansions, monuments, well-known landmarks and perfectly manicured landscapes.
It had come close to being devastated like Atlanta during the Civil War when General Sherman burned, looted and destroyed. Maybe this city had been too beautiful even for Sherman, who spared it.
The little snatches he knew of Savannah’s history intrigued him. He’d need to do research for his project, even though he’d grown up here. Not here, really. He’d been on the outside, looking in. He switched off the recorder he’d dictated into while driving from New York to an overnight stop at a bookstore manager’s apartment in Raleigh, and this morning on to Savannah, Georgia. The higher the sun rose in the sky and the closer he got to his exact destination, the more excited and apprehensive he became.
He hadn’t seen Miss B in four years. He’d come back two years ago, but that had been to pour his dad’s cremated ashes into the creek. He hadn’t tried to see Miss B then. She probably hadn’t known he was on the property since he had gone to a part of the creek where he wouldn’t be visible from the house. Then he’d hightailed it back to New York—on a jet plane.
Turning onto the property, he rolled down the windows and the aroma of growing, blooming foliage assaulted his senses. His eyes couldn’t believe the sight of the lush green lawn that looked more like a shag rug than a velvet carpet.
His dad would never have allowed that. To his dad, the lawn had to be perfect. He had believed in and taught Symon the secret of prevention. Do the job before it’s needed, he’d say, or you end up with twice the trouble.
Symon felt a smile form. Miss B had applied that secret to him and his fertile mind. There was no telling what her instruction and nurture had prevented in his life.
He drove past the caretaker’s cottage and continued up the long drive to the antebellum mansion with its porch, on which she had cultivated his storytelling ability. His glance lifted to the branches of the huge oaks laden with Spanish moss that formed a canopy overhead.
He needed to tell Miss B what he thought of her. That the lessons had really got through to him. That he had learned which part of his life was the lie and which was the truth.
Like when he was a child, the truth was always the hardest. But he had to face it or end up a pile of alcoholic ashes floating down a creek. And at age twenty-nine, this seemed the time to give it serious thought.
With hardly a glance at the house, he resisted the urge to stop, race up to the front porch and lean against the tall white column and prop a foot on the top step. Oblivious to any changes that might have occurred through the years, he parked in a clearing near the back patio, under an oak bearded with the pale gray fringe of moss. Seeing his traveling mate eager to be released from the confines of the backseat, Symon exited the car and opened the door for Mudd to squeeze out from behind the driver’s seat. His companion hesitated, displaying the same kind of misgiving in his eyes that Symon felt.
“Come on, boy. Everything’s all right.”
The dog apparently believed him and jumped down. He sauntered away with the slight limp of his left back leg.
Symon slammed the car door and strode down the yard, wondering if his eyes deceived him. He stopped in his tracks. Where was the cherry tree? He could not have forgotten where it should be, halfway between the brick patio and the wooded
area.
If that doesn’t beat all... “Who cut down the cherry tree?”
“I think it’s a well-known fact that George Washington did it.”
That didn’t sound like Miss B. Symon turned quickly, having had no idea anyone was around.
That didn’t look like Miss B either.
Standing about three feet from him on the wide green croquet lawn was the prettiest just-ripe Georgia peach he’d seen in a long time.
Not only did her soft Southern drawl indicate it, but so did the way she complemented her midthigh white shorts and red T-shirt. Her dark brown hair, golden-touched by the sun, was bound into a thick tress that fell over one shoulder. Her lifted chin and steady gaze made him feel as if she’d caught him with his foot stuck in a picket fence.
That reminded him of Miss B, along with the unusual color of what his dad would have called amethyst eyes. He’d thought that was a cuss word—still wasn’t sure he could spell it—until years later he learned it was a color somewhere between blue, purple or violet. He thought hers might be a wee bit lighter than Miss B’s. And not at all as inhibiting, despite her apparent efforts.
She was sweet tea and apple pie all rolled up into one, standing there in the warm, humid afternoon.
Amethyst eyes kept gazing at him, waiting for him to comment on George Washington, he reckoned. In New York, he’d suppose, but being back in Georgia made him reckon.
Forcing his mind from the Georgia peach to the cherry tree stump wasn’t the easiest thing to do, but his livelihood depended upon it. He held out his hand to the stump. “This ruins everything.”
“Well, it’s gone, mister. And I think that might be a good idea for you, too, unless you have a good reason for being here.”
Chapter 2
Symon watched as she propped one hand on the waistline of her shorts. The other hand held a cell phone. Those things could be deadly. Her red T-shirt might have taken his mind off the missing tree had it not been the color of cherries.
“I stopped by to see Miss B.”
“What for?”
“Business.”
“Her business is my business right now. I’m her niece.”
Niece? Of course. The baby he hadn’t cared about, the toddler who wailed when she didn’t get her way and the little girl in fancy dresses, straw hats, black shiny shoes, Shirley Temple ringlets, big blue eyes and her mother’s tug on her arm if she dared even look in the direction of the caretaker’s son and the darker children of Willamina the cook.
“Is she home?”
“I don’t give out personal information to people I don’t know.”
Would she, if she knew who he was? “Sorry. I forgot my manners seeing the tree slaughtered nearly to the roots. Name’s Symon Sinclair. I grew up in that cottage down by the creek. My dad was Miss B’s caretaker.”
Her stance switched to at ease, although the color tinting her cheeks indicated otherwise. “Oh. I’m sorry. I heard the sad news.”
“Thank you.” Did she mean she was sorry he was only the caretaker’s son, or sorry about the death of his dad? “I wanted to ask Miss B if I could rent the cottage for a short while if it’s not in use.”
“Oh, my goodness.” Her amethyst eyes widened and she folded her hands, with the cell phone between them. “You’re an answer to prayer. This place needs tending. You take care of these grounds and you can stay in the cottage for free. This place has just gone to the dogs.”
“Dogs?”
“That’s just an expression.”
“I know. But it sounds derogatory. Please don’t say it around my dog.” He tilted his head toward the trees where his dog strolled along the edge.
She tore her gaze from him and looked off across the wavy green lawn to the trees. “That’s your...dog?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mudd.”
“Mud?” Her eyes squinted and she rubbed a couple of fingers with her thumb. “You mean, like dirt?”
He heaved a sigh. “Mudd, with two d’s to make him feel important. And you might call it dirt, but I call mud an adhesive that sticks things together. He and I stick together.” She appeared momentarily speechless, and he added, “I could’ve named him Clay since he’s that reddish color, but I prefer Mudd.”
He detected a family resemblance in the lift of her eyebrow.
“How long have you had him?”
“Just a few months. Since a hurricane left him hurt and homeless.”
The eyebrow returned to its appropriate place and a hint of a smile appeared. “That was nice of you.”
He gave a half smile and watched Mudd, who kept looking back, afraid to venture off too far.
“Would you like some iced tea? And we can talk about what needs to be done.”
Now that sounded like a Miss B request of many years ago. “Yes, thank you.”
She turned to go inside and gestured toward the side of the house. “Just run around to the front porch and I’ll bring it out.”
Would she? Or would she have Willamina do that? Was Willamina still around? He watched her graceful sway as she meandered across the lawn in her bare feet, which sported red-painted toe nails. She glanced over her shoulder and caught him staring.
“Ma’am, I didn’t catch your name,” he said, as if he didn’t know.
“I didn’t throw it.” She opened the screen door and disappeared into the house.
A mite sassy, that girl.
He stuck his hands into his pants pockets and walked around the house, smiling. Sure was good to be back in the south again. Glancing around, he saw Mudd loping toward him.
Moments later, he sat on the porch and leaned against the column that rose to the second-floor balcony. He propped one foot on the porch with his knee bent and the other on the top step. She came out with two glasses and handed him one. Her ring finger was bare. “Thank you, Miss Annabelle.”
She drew a quick breath. “How did you know my name?”
“I...” He started to say was, but mentally edited it. “I am the caretaker’s son.” In some circles, once a caretaker’s son, always a caretaker’s son. “You were four or five years younger than I. Perhaps you don’t remember me.”
He sipped the tea. Cool, good, sweet.
She didn’t respond, but sat in one of the six rocking chairs spread across the wide porch flanked by the white banister. She crossed her ankles.
He supposed that wasn’t a good thing to say. Miss Annabelle wasn’t supposed to have noticed the caretaker’s son.
His quick perusal of the property gave him pause. Why wasn’t everything perfect like it had always been? Because his dad was gone? Or had it just seemed perfect when he was younger?
He looked at her again. “Is Miss B all right?”
“Yes, Aunt B’s fine. She’s visiting a friend at Tybee Island for a few days.”
“Ah,” he said, remembering. “Miss Clovis?”
At Annabelle’s nod and questioning expression he added, “Miss B sometimes took me there when I was just a little tyke. She would show me the turtle eggs. Then, after a few weeks, Miss Clovis would call and say they were beginning to hatch, and she’d take me again.”
Annabelle’s questioning eyes now held a hint of surprise, but she smiled faintly and her expression softened. “Oh, the Turtle Trot is amazing. Those little hatchlings head across the beach and make their way to the sea.”
“Natural instinct,” he said, “knowing where their home is.”
When his gaze shifted to the cottage, so did hers. That had been his home. He’d tried to make New York his home. Was it natural instinct that had led him back to Savannah?
Or was this a mistake?
He thought Annabelle might ask where his home w
as when she turned her eyes toward him again, so he quickly said, “I suppose Miss B and Miss Clovis are going to trot in the race.”
She almost laughed, but didn’t. Instead, she chuffed lightly. “Maybe the walk on the beach. She and Clovis like to be there for the fund-raising kick-off. And then there’s the release of the loggerhead sea turtle.”
“How long is Miss B staying on Tybee?”
“She doesn’t know exactly. She just left yesterday. But it’s only twenty minutes away so she can come and go any time. Did she know you were coming?”
No, he hadn’t done the polite thing. He had to know firsthand, see it in her eyes, on her face. “Just thought I’d drop in.” Rather than explain further, he traveled another route. “Why is it nobody’s been taking care of the place, yet somebody cut down the cherry tree?”
Her glance moved toward the lawn and an eyebrow lifted as if she saw nothing amiss. “Aunt B said she didn’t want a caretaker living on the grounds. She just calls in someone occasionally. But it doesn’t look all that bad to me.”
No, it didn’t look bad. But it wasn’t perfect. And he knew the answer. His dad wasn’t there. Neither said that.
“Lightning struck the cherry tree,” she said. “Then it started rotting away.”
A meow drew her out of the rocker and she opened the screen door for a white ball of fluff to stroll out as if she owned the porch. The cat settled herself beside the rocker, to which Miss Annabelle returned, and Annabelle glanced at Miss Independence, who did not glance at Symon.
“SweetiePie,” Annabelle said and Symon figured that must be the cat’s name but knew you couldn’t judge a character, a person or an animal by its name. Mudd knew that, too. The dog slunk back at the corner of the porch and peeked around while SweetiePie-misnomer pretended neither Symon nor Mudd existed.
Seeing that the cat settled like the sweet, docile thing a Persian was noted to be, Mudd ventured close. When he got to midway past the banisters, slowly approaching while the two humans observed, SweetiePie got to her feet. That sweet, calm ball of white fur turned into a snarling, hissing, threatening monster, like a character in one of Symon’s thriller novels.