“I’m so glad you made it safely,” the woman said, and he turned to look at her, the lamp she held illuminating her kind eyes and pretty face; very pretty, in fact. Her hair appeared to be dark brown and hung a little past her shoulders, with more fluff than curl. She was dressed in jeans and a heavy white sweater.
“Yes,” he said, “so am I. Thank you for your help. I would likely still be out there if you hadn’t called.”
“I was praying for you,” she said with a smile, and he felt taken aback. Religion was not something he’d encountered personally in his life. He’d met and worked with many people who lived it in varying degrees and beliefs, but he couldn’t recall anyone ever saying they had prayed for him. He felt touched and had to visually assess her again. Her kindness and concern took on a whole new level of meaning; he just wasn’t quite certain what to make of it.
Chas had been wondering during their brief phone conversations what this Mr. Leeds might be like. She’d had no idea of his age or what he might look like, and he wasn’t at all what she’d expected—even if she hadn’t known at all what to expect. He was average height, which made him about five inches taller than she. He had nice features without being so handsome that he might turn heads on the street. She guessed his age to be fortyish, although he had a youthful look that wasn’t deterred by hair that was going prematurely gray. It was cut short, almost military in appearance, more salt than pepper, which told her that he’d once been quite dark. He wore a long wool coat, dark brown, expensive, and a cream-colored wool scarf that hung around his neck. He had brown leather gloves on his hands, and a brown leather bag on his shoulder. With his other hand he held a black case that she guessed held a laptop.
“Do you have baggage?” she asked. His brows went up, and one side of his lips did the same.
“Undoubtedly,” he said. “Is this part of the psych evaluation you require for admittance?”
Chas chuckled and glanced away long enough to break eye contact. “Is that all of your luggage?” she clarified, recalling that he had reserved the room for a week.
“I have another bag in the trunk, but I can live without it till morning.”
“Let’s get you settled in, then,” she said and started toward the stairs.
“Don’t you need to . . . swipe my credit card . . . take a blood sample?”
Chas chuckled. “We can take care of the technicalities in the morning. You must be exhausted. If—”
“Did he get here all right?” Granny called from her room on the other side of the parlor.
“Yes, Granny,” Chas called back. “He’s here.” Mr. Leeds again showed the barest hint of a smile, and she added, “Sorry. That’s my grandmother. She adds character to the place . . . quite literally.”
Chas started up the stairs, and he followed. “How is that?” Jackson asked, surprised by his own intrigue, but not by his curiosity. He was always curious. That’s what made him so good at what he did. He just didn’t like people knowing he was curious.
Chas gave an explanation that she was accustomed to giving when new guests arrived. “My grandmother inherited this house, which was built by her grandparents in 1870. The renovation was completed about ten years ago, and that’s when we opened the inn. Granny is sort of an abbreviation for Grandmother Fanny. Yes, that’s really her name. And even though I’m her only grandchild, she likes everyone to call her Granny, so feel free.”
“Okay,” Jackson said, although he didn’t have any intention of hanging out with anyone but himself while he stayed here. He’d come for peace and quiet, to sort out everything that had happened, and hopefully come to terms with it—or at least make some progress in that direction.
They came to a landing at the top of the beautiful staircase, went down a hall, then up more stairs. He was fine with that. The higher the room, the less noise and interference. His innkeeper continued her explanation as they went. “It was my idea to turn the place into a bed-and-breakfast, but Granny insisted on the Dickensian theme. She loves Dickens. In fact, she was raised on Dickens; it’s practically a religion around here. She has his novels memorized and will be able to offer advice on any given matter in relation to one of Dickens’s characters.”
“I’ll be sure not to ask for any advice,” he said, and Chas laughed.
“Very wise. She wanted the rooms to have themes related to Dickens’s works, but I took a stand on that. I didn’t think guillotines and prisons would go over very well for romantic getaways.” She remembered that he was alone and added, “Or just getaways.”
Chas was surprised when he chuckled and said, “So, you don’t have a blacking factory suite?”
Chas turned to look at him. “You know Dickens?”
Jackson enjoyed the expression on her face. She’d asked it as if the writer were alive and well and they might be mutual friends. When he didn’t answer right away, she added, “I mean . . . not many people know that he worked in a blacking factory as a child.”
“Did he?” Jackson asked. “I was talking about David Copperfield.”
She smiled and moved on. “So, you’ve read Dickens.”
“A long time ago.”
“Well, Granny and I settled on a compromise. The rooms are named after characters. You’ll be staying in the Dombey. We also have the Copperfield, the Florence, the Nickleby, the Chuzzlewit, the Dorrit, and the Little Nell. And then there’s the Carol.”
“Is there a character named Carol?”
“No, of course not.” She laughed softly.
“Then—”
“As in A Christmas Carol. It’s the Christmas room. Of course, anyone is welcome to rent it anytime throughout the year, and they do. It’s a wonderful room. And who couldn’t use a little Christmas anytime? But the reservations in December fill up fast.”
“How quaint,” he said, not even wanting to think about Christmas.
She stopped at a door and turned a key in the lock. Not a plastic card with a magnetic strip, he noticed, but a key that looked as old as the house. “I’m Chas, by the way.”
“Just Chas?” he asked, curious over such a name.
She hesitated with her hand on the doorknob. “Chas Florence Henrie. I loathe being called Mrs. Henrie. Florence is a deplorable name, but according to Granny I have to respect it because it was after her favorite Dickens character.”
“And Chas?”
“The abbreviation for Charles,” she said with a sly smile. “I was supposed to be a boy, according to Granny, because she wanted to name me Charles. Since I was a girl, she settled for Chas. It is my legal given name, and it’s the name you need to know if you want anything around here.”
She pushed open the door to the room, and Jackson felt like he was in some old movie. There was a fire blazing in the fireplace, with a healthy woodpile beside it, and there were three different oil lamps burning in the room. The room itself was simple but tasteful, with dark green paint on the walls, and authentic Victorian decor, including a four-poster bed and a beautiful wood-carved mantel over the fireplace.
“The furnace isn’t running because of the power outage,” Chas explained, “but the firewood and extra blankets should keep you from freezing to death. I’ll have more wood brought up in the morning if you need it. I think the rest is self-explanatory. You should have everything you need, but if I can do anything for you, just . . . well, I was going to say call, but . . . well, when the power is on, I keep a cordless phone with me all the time and you can push zero to get me. Until then, you might have to come down the stairs and find me.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Any questions?”
“Nope. I’m good,” Jackson said.
Chas almost left, then turned around to say, “Oh, I’ll bring you up something to eat in a little while.”
“I thought it was just a bed-and-breakfast.”
“And where were you going to go to get any supper tonight?” she asked with a smile that matched the kind voice that had
guided him safely here. “It might not be real great without a stove, but I won’t let you starve.”
Jackson was still trying to figure out how to respond to such perfect kindness when he realized she’d closed the door and was gone. He put down his bags and explored the room further. There was a little desk with a chair, perfect for using his laptop—had it not been confiscated as part of the investigation. Instead it would do nicely for the books that filled his laptop case. There were two wingback chairs facing the fire. He could use one for his feet. The bathroom had an old-fashioned tub and fixtures that were obviously new but made to look old. The bed had lots of decorative pillows, but they looked soft and inviting. On the bedside table were two books with leather bindings. One was a room journal where guests had written comments during their stays. The other was an old edition of Dombey and Son, by Charles Dickens. He smiled and glanced around. Everything was elegant and perfect. A good place to hide. He opened the blind to watch the snow falling and found some peace in feeling safe and cared for. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that way. Yes, it was a perfect place to hide.
CHAPTER 2
Chas went carefully back down the stairs, then hurried outside to get the lanterns off the porch and lock the door. She checked on Granny and found her dozing beneath a blanket in her big chair that Chas had moved closer to the fire when the power had gone out. Chas put another blanket over her, touched her silver hair, and went to the kitchen with an oil lamp to figure out what might be presentable to serve a guest. Fortunately she had some of Charlotte’s homemade whole wheat bread and the makings for a good sandwich. Chas prepared a lovely plate with a thick sandwich, some old-fashioned potato chips, a pickle spear, and a sprig of parsley. She added a bottle of water and a tall glass of milk, figuring that one or both would work. She would have preferred to take the discreet elevator that had been installed during the renovation, but with the power out she had to take two flights of stairs in order to deliver supper to the door of the Dombey, knocking lightly.
Jackson pulled the door open to see Chas holding a tray against her shoulder with one hand, and a lamp in the other. “Your supper,” she said, and he hurried to take the tray to relieve her of her burden.
“Thank you,” he said, setting it on the little desk. “You’re very thoughtful.”
“It’s not much, but . . .”
“It’s great. It looks great. Thank you. Um . . . do you have any liquor available?”
She didn’t look surprised by the question, which meant it was likely a common one, but he was surprised by her answer. “Only my grandmother’s brandy, and she’ll fight you for it. Sorry. You’re on your own.” More facetiously she added, “Besides, I don’t allow drunken behavior at my inn.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m a quiet drunk.”
He felt her attempting to measure the degree of his seriousness versus humor. It was a character trait he prided himself on. The fact that people who didn’t know him well didn’t know whether or not he was joking held a certain fascination for him. He liked to see their reactions, and he’d found that he could learn a great deal about a person by how they responded to his humorless humor. Some people ignored him. They usually had no backbone. Some people argued with him. They were usually insecure. Some people sought to clarify. They were the ones he respected. And when they did it with eye contact, he respected them more.
“Good night, Mr. Leeds,” she said. No backbone? That didn’t seem to fit.
“Call me Jackson, Chas.”
“Not Jack?” she asked, and he wasn’t sure whether or not she was teasing him. Was she beating him at his own game? Did she know it was a game for him to figure people out and keep them from figuring him out?
“Not Jack,” he said. “I’m not a pirate; just FBI.”
She let out a one-syllable laugh. “You’re joking, right?” She was trying to clarify. He liked her more with that one question.
“About what? Being a drunk, or being—”
“FBI.”
“I thought you would have figured that out with my background check.”
Chas remembered then his jokes about fingerprints and DNA. Was that it? He thought like an FBI agent because that’s what he was? She was quick to retort with an even voice, “The database was offline due to the power outage.”
Jackson let out the same kind of laugh he’d just heard from her. She was good. Any doubts he had about her having backbone disintegrated when she said, “Prove it.”
Jackson snapped his wallet out and opened it as he’d done thousands of times to show the badge and ID in order to be allowed to enter places most people couldn’t go. She didn’t just glance at it, she took the wallet from him and held the ID close to the lamp she was holding. “Jackson T. Leeds. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Very impressive . . . Jackson.” She handed it back to him. “What’s the T for?”
“Tobias,” he said.
“Serious?”
“Serious.”
“Almost as bad as Florence.”
“No, much worse than Florence.”
They watched each other for a long moment while Jackson attempted to figure out if he was attracted to her, or just to her kindness.
“FBI, huh,” she said, looking away. “A lonely job, apparently.”
“How do you figure?” he asked, and she looked at him again, making eye contact in a way that was almost unnerving. And it took a lot to unnerve him.
“For a man who came here for peace and quiet, you certainly seem to enjoy having company and conversation.” Jackson straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, the same way he might if he were wondering whether or not to draw his weapon. Without flinching, she added, “I can tell when people want to be left alone, and when they want to talk.” It felt like some kind of accusation until she added with perfect kindness, “If you’d like, you could bring your supper downstairs and eat with me and Granny. I’m afraid we’re the only company available, since you’re the only guest in the house. Most people leave on Sunday.”
Jackson quickly figured how to save face and not be unkind. She was sharp enough to see through him, and he had to soothe his defensive impulse with a reminder that he respected her. “Thank you for supper, Chas . . . and everything else. You’ve been very kind.”
“I told you I take very good care of my guests.”
“And I can see that you are a woman of your word.”
She left the room asking, “What time would you like to eat breakfast?”
“What time will it be ready?”
“You’re the guest. You can choose. Seven, eight, nine, or ten.”
“Nine,” he said, hoping to sleep in a bit.
“I’ll see you in the dining room just off the entry hall at nine. Good night . . . Jackson.”
She left and closed the door. Jackson let out a long sigh, put some wood on the fire, and ate his sandwich. He wondered if it was the atmosphere or the hands that had prepared it that made it taste like the best sandwich he’d ever eaten. Or maybe he was just hungry. He stopped trying to analyze and just ate the sandwich before he went to bed, wondering why he felt lonelier than he’d felt since he’d left the home of his childhood more than twenty years ago. And yet, somehow, he felt less alone. Chas and Granny were in the house. The thought made him chuckle. They both added character to the house.
* * * * *
Jackson slept well but woke up early. He knew snow was still falling since he’d left the blinds open last night. The clock on the bedside table was flashing numbers, which meant the power was back on. Since the fire had long since gone out, he concluded that the only reason he wasn’t freezing was due to the furnace running. He laid there for a long time, comforted somehow by his surroundings. The room was even more amazing in daylight. He loved the Victorian details of woodwork and plaster that held no hint of modern architecture. And it had been restored so beautifully! He gave himself credit for good instincts when he’d picked this place out of the list on G
oogle when he’d been searching for a remote bed-and-breakfast. Thinking of the breakfast part, he hurried to shower and get dressed in order to get to the dining room by nine.
Jackson lovingly stroked the polished wood banisters as he descended the two flights of stairs and quickly found the room where six little tables with two chairs at each were aesthetically arranged, with a sideboard against one wall that he suspected would display a buffet on mornings when there were other guests. Today it had little more than a pot of hot coffee and a pot of hot water, side by side on a hotplate that kept them warm. He heard some noises from the kitchen where he could only see a refrigerator and a counter. While he was pouring himself a cup of coffee, he heard Chas call, “Good morning. Have a seat and I’ll be right there.”
“No hurry,” he said and sat at one of the tables where he could see the snow falling. On the table were cloth napkins and dainty silverware and goblets.
“There are some newspapers over by the window if you’re interested,” she told him from the other room.
Normally he would have wanted to look at a paper. Today he felt like it would encroach on his hiding from the world. “Good coffee,” he said when she walked into the room with a tray.
“That’s what Granny says.” She set a china plate with a muffin and a tiny dish of butter in front of him, along with a pretty little bowl of fruit.
He looked up at her. She was wearing an apron in the same deep green shade as the napkins, and he was startled by a little quiver in his stomach. It was a sensation he’d not experienced for years, but again he asked himself if he were attracted to her, or her kindness. Or perhaps simply to her company and conversation, as she had pointed out last night. Focusing on the food, he said, “Thank you. It looks delicious.”
The Best of Times: A Dicken's Inn Novel Page 2