Marry in Haste

by Susan Van Kirk

  “That’s the main stairway leading up to the third-floor ballroom. But there’s the servants’ stairway at the back, too.” Jeff turned to their right and opened a set of pocket doors into a spacious room, which was probably a front parlor. “I’m anxious to take the paint off the woodwork and see what’s under it. From the looks of the pocket doors, it might be mahogany. I can’t wait. I imagine this was the front parlor for guests. Huge. High ceilings. Let’s go upstairs and check out the bedrooms.”

  “Really, Mr. Maitlin, when we hardly know each other?”

  He moved closer and put his arms around Grace’s waist. “No time like the present to get more acquainted.”

  “Mmmm,” she said, as his lips met hers, and lingered in a soft, but convincing, kiss. Then she pulled back and said, “I think you’ve had some practice.”

  “I’m working on the ‘getting better acquainted’ part.”

  “So do we call this ‘dating’?”

  “Do we have to call it something?”

  “I’m a retired English teacher. Remember? We like descriptive words. I have to confess, however, I haven’t been on the dating circuit since my husband, Roger, died. Does it take some practice?”

  “I think so. We should get started. Soon. No time like the present.” He moved his hand up her neck to her hair and pulled her in for another kiss. Then, looking closely into her eyes, he added, “I love those dark-brown eyes.”

  “I think I could get used to this,” she whispered. Then she swallowed, flustered, and moved back a step. “I believe we have plenty of time to practice.” She turned, looked up the staircase, and announced, “Let’s check out the second floor.”

  Jeff reluctantly moved to the entranceway and started up the main staircase, grabbing Grace’s hand. She climbed the stairs, looked back, and said, “I’m beginning to catch your enthusiasm.”

  “For us or the house?”

  “Ha, ha. The house,” she said, laughing. “This must have been really something in its day. Can you imagine the lovely couples—women dressed in elegant ball gowns and men in fashionable waistcoats, frock coats, and trousers—walking arm and arm up these stairs to the ballroom? I’ve read that the wealthy actually imported ball gowns from Paris, even here in little Endurance.”

  “Grace, I get crazed with excitement when I think about putting this back together the way it was in its grand days. Think about it. It’s, well, a piece of living history. Just imagine the people who walked through these rooms.” He paused at the top of the stairs, noting the hallway leading from the front to the back of the house. “Here’s the front bedroom, which would have been—” The floor squeaked loudly. “Think I need to make sure that gets fixed. Anyway, this would have been the master bedroom looking out over the street—huge windows, lace curtains, and handmade shades.”

  The squeaky board complained as Grace followed him over to the window. “You’re right. But a loud board means no ghosts can sneak up on you when you’re asleep, if ghosts walk on floorboards. Hmmm . . . actually, they probably don’t.” She stood beside him and gazed out the windows. “They would have had a lovely view. I’m sure the park across the street had its share of events and genteel sports long before television and video games, and you can see out the east window all the way to the square.” She turned toward Jeff, her eyes shining with enthusiasm.

  He put his arms around her again and said, “I know this isn’t easy for you. Me either. You don’t know much about me, and I haven’t exactly been forthcoming—”

  “Oh, geez. Please tell me you’re not married,” said Grace, a look of alarm on her face.

  “No,” he laughed. “Nothing like that. I feel like we’ve gone through a lot together after the craziness in town last summer, not to mention the murders. You’ve really helped me bring the paper back to life, and since you taught so many students who are still around—or their parents are—you’re a real part of this town. I’m just a newcomer.” He looked out toward the high school where Grace had taught for twenty-five years and mused, “So that’s where you were all those years.” Then he turned back to her and answered, “No, not married. Close once. And no, no children. I certainly envy you both of those. It’s not easy for me to do this, however. Settle down, that is. I’ve moved all over the country working on newspapers. I’m not getting any younger, and this move to Endurance is my last move. That’s my plan. I figure the newspaper is just enough work for a semi-retirement job since it comes out three times a week. This house should be a great hobby, and maybe if I fix it up and bring it back to life, the community will begin to look at me as an insider instead of an outsider. But it’s going to take a lot of work.”

  “More like buckets of money,” Grace said, shaking her head as she looked around.

  He laughed and pulled her toward him once again. “Grace, I know once you start researching this place, you’ll get hooked too. It has to have an incredible history. Just look at it.”

  Grace looked at the spacious room for a moment and decided it was time to explore the rest of the upstairs. They walked through the other bedrooms and the bath on the second floor. Each room was like a tattered, but proud, old lady: window shades hanging haphazardly, floors that would need lots of sanding and refinishing, dust everywhere, old gas light fixtures from before the age of electricity, windows that undoubtedly needed new ropes or total replacement, a chimney that would take tuck-pointing, and the list went on and on.

  Then they climbed the stairs to the room Grace had been eagerly anticipating: the ballroom. At the top of the stairs they walked through an arch, which was repeated several times in the room’s architecture. Despite the darkness, a chandelier first caught Grace’s eyes, but only a few of the bulbs were still working, and it was covered with grime. Like the stairway, old gas sconces hung up high on the walls. The elegant room’s faded green wallpaper was darkened with damp spots where mold had taken over, and Grace also saw places where torn strips of paper hung like cascading tears. Even the ceiling had darkened areas, but she could see the hopeful remains of painted cherubs in spots. They stepped on to the floor, the broad widths of wood revealing a perfect area for dancing. Grace almost held her breath when she considered how beautiful this room would be when it was restored.

  “I see where you’ll be all winter,” Grace said. She walked over to the side of the room overlooking the street and peered out the small, grimy windows.

  “Well, not all winter. I’ll still have time for you and the newspaper, of course. This is number three on my list of priorities.”

  She turned to him and said, “By the way, I’ve found out quite a bit about your house.”

  “Really?” His voice took on an excited tone. “Okay. Spill it.”

  “This whole area near the college, north and east of the square, is the historical district. It’s not an official, legal, historical district. People just call it that. The college president’s house is over there”—she pointed out the window—“along with several Victorians—one said to be haunted. No, not yours. Most were built in the late 1800s—the Gilded Age—with money from land speculation, railroad stock, and supplying Civil War needs. Bankers, retired farmers, and a congressman built these painted ladies. Many were eventually turned into apartments in the 1950s postwar boom. Several have been restored so you’ll have some company and probably advice. Judge Charles Lockwood’s house”—Grace spread her arms out—“was built starting in 1885. Seriously, I only know the basics—lots more research to do. He married his first wife in 1888, but then he married again in 1893. Wife Number One died in a fall down those long front stairs. Sadly, her unborn baby died too. They are two possibilities for ghosts. And the good judge died in your front bedroom from some kind of stomach ailment. Next, I’m going to look for the obituaries.”

  “Sounds like a good start.”

  “I’ve been over to the Endurance Genealogical Society and the Douglas County courthouse, but I couldn’t spend a lot of time. I’ll get back to my research again becaus
e I can also use some of this information for another historical piece for the newspaper. I think Alfred Peters, the historian who wrote from 1930 till the 1950s, has some articles that may be helpful. I’ve just barely scratched the surface. However, I can give you the quick version of house ownership.”

  “I’m listening,” Jeff said, leaning back against the wall.

  “When the judge built this house, he owned part of a railroad, a dry-goods store, the First National Bank, a pottery, the brickyard, a lumberyard, several properties in town, and some farmland.”

  “Wow. Wasn’t there some conflict of interest going on in some of his cases?”

  Grace shook her head. “I don’t think it applied back then.”

  “How long did he live here?”

  “Not long at all. The next owner of record was in 1905. A First National Bank president, Jeremiah Baldwin, lived here with his wife and four kids. By then the carriage house on the north side was gone, and a small building, perhaps a garage for a Model-T Ford, was there. Baldwin was killed in World War I, and his widow sold to someone named Malone. The west entrance disappeared, and I suppose the ballroom was more of a storage attic. Malone was a doctor with a wife and three kids. He owned it until 1937, and that was the end of the good times for the house.”

  “The Depression, I suppose.”

  “Yes. It took its toll on the whole town. But this house, in particular, stood empty, and eventually went into receivership with the lending bank. It wasn’t lived in again until 1942, and the upstairs was divided into apartments. An attorney. He divided the upstairs, lived downstairs, and put in a second bathroom.”

  “So that’s where all the damage was done to the original structure. I suppose it makes sense. It would give him income to keep it up.”

  Grace walked over to the north end of the ballroom and opened the door to a servant’s bedroom. “You can see down there that only some concrete remains of what might have been part of a driveway. When the attorney sold the house in 1950, a real estate agent bought it and rented out rooms to pilots learning to fly for the Korean War. They trained them down the road in Woodbury. A couple of people owned the house after that, but by 2003, it was on the market again.”

  “Quite a bit of research.”

  “As far as I’ve managed to dig. But I’m still working on it.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to go.”

  They went back down to the second floor and stopped at the squeaky board once again.

  “Why is that the only squeaky place in this floor?” asked Jeff.

  “The boards don’t look like they fit exactly as they should.” Grace got down on her knees and checked the cracks between the boards. Then she looked at the surrounding floor. “It doesn’t look like this board fits square, almost as if the years have either warped the edges, or the original measurements weren’t precise enough.” She pushed her fingernails into the small crack between the boards and found she could wiggle them. “I don’t suppose you brought a crowbar?”

  He laughed. “Sure. Right here in my back pocket. I do have a few tools in my truck. Ah, maybe a screwdriver would do it.” He disappeared and she could hear him heading down the stairs. Grace glanced around and shook her head. It would take so much work just to get this room into shape, let alone the entire house.

  Then Jeff returned and gently began lifting an edge of the board she was guarding. It groaned a bit and then moved considerably. He lifted one end and pulled it up gingerly so as not to break the board, and then he put his hand into the hole. “I think I can feel something that isn’t solid,” he said.

  Grace moved over and got down on the floor beside him. She watched as he pulled out an object wrapped in a faded piece of burlap. Slowly, he unfolded the edges to reveal a book, its cover partly torn but its pages still remarkably intact.

  Grace’s eyes grew big. “It’s a diary. Look, Jeff. The name on it is ‘Olivia Havelock Lockwood.’ This has to go way back.”

  “You’re right. I know Lockwood’s the name of the judge who originally built the house. Do you suppose this was his wife’s? Or a daughter’s?”

  “Hmm. I don’t know. Could be one of the two wives. This definitely calls for more research. I can smell a great story for the paper.”

  He smiled, a huge grin, and handed her the diary. “Here, you take it. Along with the history of the house, it should make a great story.”

  Grace opened the cover and saw a slight stain. “Water, I wonder? Maybe a tear? Hard to know. Perhaps we’ll find out about the ghosts you mentioned, or it might help you figure out how to restore the house. I guess it depends on how much she described of the interior. Oh, Jeff. This could be a priceless historical artifact. I’ll bet Sam Oliver, the history department head at Endurance College, would love to get his hands on this! But do you care if I read it first? It would shine some light on the period when the Lockwood family lived in this house. I can’t wait to read it.”

  “Sure. Take it with you. Just don’t let it haunt you.”

  She touched the cover one last time, rewrapped it, and said, “Meanwhile, I have to go put out a fire.”

  “A fire?”

  “Lettie. She has her nose out of joint because of the contractor working on my kitchen. I should probably send you since you can charm her.” She slowly shook her head. “I can tell this is a disaster in the making I need to stop.”

  She turned around, tiptoed her way across the floor, headed downstairs with the editor right behind her, and gave him a kiss. Then she was out the door quickly, but carefully, on the icy steps, holding the burlap-covered diary close to her chest. She stopped, halfway to her car, and looked back toward the house, imagining the twilight falling on the towers, and the shadows deepening within the circle of dense pine trees surrounding the house. She shivered and raced to her car.

  “I hope you have a good explanation for the interloper in my kitchen when I came over yesterday,” Lettie said, before Grace even made it completely through the kitchen door. Lettisha Kimball, Grace’s sister-in-law, was sixty-nine, but had the energy of a thirty-year-old. Her garden was the envy of neighbors and friends alike, and everyone said she had a natural green thumb. But she was also an amazing cook, and she continued to cook at Grace’s even though the children were grown and gone, and Roger—Lettie’s brother and Grace’s husband—had been dead for twenty-seven years. He had a heart attack—way too young.

  Grace set her laptop down on the counter, pulled off her wet boots, and draped her coat over a chair. Then she turned to her sister-in-law, a woman she loved dearly, but also a woman who could be somewhat irritating. First, she took a deep breath.

  “Lettie, the kitchen needs updating.”

  “Updating? Humph. It’s been here as long as you have—even longer—and it’s worked just fine.”

  “Look around, Lettie: green, laminate counters, a 1970s wall oven, no dishwasher.”

  “Don’t really need a dishwasher. These two hands are just fine. And don’t send Jeff Maitlin over here to sweet talk me either.”

  Grace sat down on a chair and pointed at the appliances. “Lettie, the refrigerator is on its last legs, the gasket around the oven door is gone so heat escapes, and the microwave is circa 1985 and probably is making both of us radioactive. The floor was put in when the kids were little. The paint and wallpaper are relics from the 1980s.”

  “Well, aside from that?”

  Grace shook her head. “Lettie, you might as well surrender on this one. I love what you do in my kitchen—the pies, soups, and amazing meals. But I also need a more updated look here. I’ll talk to Del Novak and see if he can manage to keep it a working kitchen while he’s remodeling, but some of the time he’ll have to turn off the water and power.”

  “How am I going to work in that?”

  “We’ll have to muddle along as best we can. Oh, and I’m sure you’ve heard, since you seem to be a main line on the gossip in town, that Jeff bought the Lockwood house.”

  “I heard something about
that, but I didn’t believe it. That monstrosity? He’s crazy to buy that. He has the sense of a . . . well, I don’t know, a nincompoop, which means he has no sense. That place will be a total money pit. I can tell you this right now: when word of this sale gets out, every materials supplier in town will be poised on his broken-down porch with their computer billing programs.”

  Grace paused, thoughtfully, before she spoke. “We might invite him to come over occasionally for dinner while his kitchen is being updated.”

  “Updated? Are you kidding? They might as well bring in a demolition team and gut it.” Lettie walked to the refrigerator and grabbed some milk, setting it on the counter. Then she turned, her hands on her hips, and looked speculatively at Grace. “Jeff over here for dinner, huh. Does he know you can’t cook?”

  “I was hoping we could fool him.”

  Lettie put her hands in the air. “We? All right, all right. I surrender. Just remember the food may not be up to snuff while that terrorist is here pounding away, and plaster dust is flying into the food.” She turned to the sink, her back to Grace, and then swung around again. “Is Jeff Maitlin the reason you’re updating the kitchen? Don’t tell me you’re considering moving to his place! You know, we still don’t know anything about the man. Where did he come from?”

  “New York City,” Grace said quickly, a trace of defensiveness in her voice.

  Lettie threw her hands up in the air. “I know that. But what else do we know? Absolutely nothing. Why did he move from the enormous city to this little town? He must be hiding or running from something. Mildred at the bakery thinks he may be in the witness protection program. Have you checked on that?”