Jesse's Hideout (Bluegrass Spirits 1)

by Kallypso Masters

  Again, she seemed less than enthusiastic as she insisted they leave the room while she finished tidying up. He and Derek soon found themselves immersed in a battle on the Civil War chessboard. He’d been so fascinated with this set as a boy that he’d scoured online auction sites until he’d found one close to it. He’d played hours and hours of chess with his grandmother, who had skunked him royally every single time, even that last visit, despite his having been one of the best members of his middle-school chess team.

  His son knew nothing about the finer points of the game, but had enjoyed playing with toy soldiers. He moved the pieces around the board with abandon trying to find ways to attack his Daddy’s blue-coated army.

  As Derek’s knight charged up to attack Greg’s king, Tillie entered the room. “Who’s winning?”

  When she smiled at Greg, all thoughts of defending his army flew out the window.

  Knocking over Greg’s king, Derek proudly proclaimed his victory. “I am, Miss Tillie!”

  She carried a tray with a pitcher of milk, several glasses, and a mountain of cookies. “It appears you certainly are, Derek. After such a hard-fought battle, I thought these might hit the spot.”

  Despite the filling meal, he wouldn’t turn them down. “I do believe those might soften my bitter defeat.”

  Setting the tray on the nearby coffee table, she began pouring milk into glasses. “Milk and cookies are the cure for everything.”

  “You sound like Gra—” He stopped himself before revealing too much. She couldn’t know he’d almost said Gram or revealed who she really was, but he needed to be careful. “My grandmother used to say the same thing.”

  “Another gem I learned from Mrs. Foster—among so many others.”

  Once again, he found himself wanting to understand their relationship more. She seemed to be more than a hired caretaker. He joined her at the coffee table. “Sounds like she meant a lot to you.”

  “She was like a mother to me.” Tillie dropped her gaze to the rug. “Anyone would have been an improvement over my own, who was messed up on prescription drugs. Some people have no business having a child.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” His own mother wasn’t particularly warm and affectionate, but she made sure his needs were met. His physical ones, at least.

  She smiled again. “I was lucky enough to find Mrs. Foster when I was eight. She made up for my mother’s negligence and my father’s absence. Absentee fathers are a theme in my family dating to at least my grandmother, and probably her mother, too, although I don’t know anything about her.”

  While his own father had been emotionally distant, he’d been present in Greg’s life for the important events like graduations and such. The story she told began to affect his resolve to expose her as a charlatan. It sounded as though she’d had a tough childhood. Maybe she found comfort believing in imaginary friends—and ghosts.

  No longer making eye contact with him, she set another saucer on the table for Derek. “I apologize. What on earth got into me to go on like that?”

  An unexpected tenderness suffused his heart. He could imagine how the neglected girl won over his grandmother, especially since it must have been about the same time his own mother had rejected Gram.

  “Never apologize for being honest, Tillie.”

  She muttered her thanks under her breath and handed Derek his milk. Greg worried about the fine crystal she’d chosen to serve them in. “Should I get his no-spill cup?”

  Tillie turned to Derek. “Can you handle this glass without breaking it?”

  Derek sobered. “I’m a big boy now. Mommy says I grow more every night while I’m sleeping.”

  To Greg, she smiled and said, “He’ll do fine.”

  Greg accepted his along with a saucer holding two cookies and took a seat on the brocade sofa. Derek chose to use the coffee table and knelt on the floor. “You seem to know a lot about kids. You’d make a great mother.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth, he wanted to call them back. “Pardon me. None of my business.”

  She laughed and pushed away his concern with a wave of her hand as she took her own seat across the sofa from him. “I’ve never been serious enough about anyone to even think about marriage, much less having children. I think I’m meant to be an auntie to other people’s kids. I can spoil them and send them home.”

  The affection that shone from her eyes as she regarded Derek spoke volumes, but he detected a hint of regret, too. Did she keep herself buried in the inn to avoid romantic attachments? Most of her clients probably were couples. Not much of a chance of her meeting anyone eligible within these walls.

  But he couldn’t picture her anywhere else. She belonged here. His grandmother must have seen that, too.

  Wait. Don’t forget why you’re here.

  If Tillie loved Gram so much, she wouldn’t be exploiting her memory. As for Tillie’s love life—or the lack thereof—that was none of his concern.

  Now, if he told himself that often enough, he might start to believe it.

  What the hell’s gotten into you? Truly the woman was a sorceress.

  Chapter Four

  Tillie’s hands shook as she took a sip of milk, but she had difficulty swallowing and set down the glass. She hadn’t thought about her mother in a long time. Perhaps with so much going wrong today, her defenses were down.

  Thoughts of the children she’d probably never have pained her, too. She believed she’d do a much better job raising them than her mother had, but because she chose to avoid serious relationships with men, it was a moot point.

  Her pulse quickened as she continued to avert her gaze. The urge to tell him her story nearly overwhelmed her, but she needed to remember he was her guest, not a friend.

  Derek had returned to the chess table near the window, moving the Civil War styled pieces around as he made battle sounds.

  “I’ll begin putting up my biggest Christmas tree in here this week in that same spot.” She pointed to the chess table. The enormous tree would be filled with Mrs. Foster’s treasured ornaments, more than two thousand miniature lights, and dozens of strands of beaded garland. While she would have Christmas trees and other decorations in every room, the parlor tree was always Tillie’s favorite, conjuring up memories of so many Christmases together with Mrs. Foster before…

  “Isn’t it a little early?”

  She smiled at him, happy they’d found a safe topic of conversation again. “Wait until you see the size of it. I probably won’t finish until a week before Thanksgiving.”

  “I can’t wait.” She searched his face for a trace of sarcasm, but he seemed genuinely interested. “And I’d love a tour of the house tomorrow, if you have time.”

  “I’m happy to show you the rest tonight, if you’d like. I love showing off this place to newcomers, although you seem to know a lot about this type of house already.”

  “I took a lot of courses in classic design.”

  Ah, that explained his inordinate knowledge of the place.

  “Although the en suite bathroom is a nice change from the original 1820s to 1840s design that only offered an outhouse or privy,” he said.

  She nodded. “Agreed! I was able to renovate two bedrooms to include bathrooms. Modern-day guests aren’t keen on standing in their bathrobes in the hallway or making use of privies and chamber pots as travelers once did.”

  “True enough.” He grinned. “Having Derek’s and my rooms adjoining each other is perfect. Choosing a room with a private bath was a plus, too.”

  Images of the man soaking in the claw-foot tub upstairs heated her cheeks.

  Do not picture your guests naked, Matilda!

  He stared down at his saucer a moment as though uncomfortable. She hoped he hadn’t read her thoughts.

  Shifting her mind in a different direction, she noted the lack of a wedding band on his ring finger. She wouldn’t think an architect would have a particularly dangerous job requiring him to remove his rings, sparking curiosity again abou
t his marital status.

  She had no business wondering such things, but couldn’t control where her mind wandered.

  “So how long have you been running an inn from this house?” Greg asked, taking another bite of his cookie.

  “This is my eleventh year. I opened soon after I graduated from college.” His eyebrows rose in surprise. She must not look her thirty-two years. “I’ve loved this house since I was a little girl when Mrs. Foster took me under her wing. I think she must have seen how lost I was.”

  “How did you meet Mrs. Foster and become so close?”

  Hoping to put to rest any discussion of the past without going into much more detail, she responded, “Mrs. Foster helped me escape poverty and neglect, giving me my first moments of joy during visits with her.”

  “I’m sorry to hear things were so bad for you growing up.”

  She waved away his concern and picked up a cookie to nibble on. Small bites. Her throat remained somewhat closed off as memories of the past bombarded her. Thank God Mrs. Foster had been there when she needed her. Tillie had been eight, living in a rundown shack nearby when the two first met.

  “One of her cats strayed across my path one day.” The words came out without her consciously deciding to continue, but now she’d have to go on.

  “How did you know it belonged to her?”

  “I roamed the neighborhood most days, preferring not to go home until as late as possible. I’d often seen the tabby on her porch and wanted to make sure he made it safely home.”

  “Why don’t you have a cat?”

  “I inherited Mrs. Foster’s last two, and when they died, I didn’t want to bring in more because so many of my guests are allergic to them.” She would have enjoyed the companionship of one, especially during the post-holiday months when she had few guests, but Tillie opted to accommodate her guests’ needs instead.

  Where was she and how had she strayed to the topic of cats? “Anyway, kids in the neighborhood had dubbed this place haunted and Mrs. Foster a witch.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” The anger in his eyes seemed a bit over the top considering he hadn’t known the woman, but in retrospect, she hated that people had been so hard on her benefactor.

  Which only made her next words harder to express. “I’ll admit I had my fears, too, so with more than a little trepidation I ventured up the then-gravel drive to knock. Mrs. Foster opened the dining-room door that day and welcomed me home along with her cat.”

  Most days after that, Tillie spent her days here in this grand old house, having tea parties with the octogenarian, listening to her stories of a fascinating life, and learning how to bake and cook. “Mrs. Foster had learned to bake and cook while working as a domestic in the home of a well-to-do family in Old Louisville, all the while earning money to go to nursing school. She served as a nurse in World War II at the rank of captain.”

  Greg nodded as if he already knew.

  No matter. Tillie fell short of admitting to this stranger that this house captivated her as much as the old woman did, both of them providing a refuge from the apathy she suffered at home and giving her a sense of belonging.

  To this day, Jesse’s Hideout remained her sanctuary from an unpredictable, sometimes uncivil, frightening world—one she didn’t belong in.

  “I miss her terribly.”

  “Is that why you make up the stories about her haunting the place, because you can’t let go of those memories?” The minute the scowl returned to Greg’s face, she knew the pleasantries were over. Oh well. They’d had a slight break in the tension at least. How the man could be charming one minute and surly the next was beyond her.

  His intense gaze and rude question made the pulse pound in Tillie’s ears. “I beg your pardon?” What exactly did he mean by “make up”? Hadn’t she already addressed this accusation in the cellar a few hours ago?

  Remain civil and professional.

  The man was a paying guest, after all. Drawing a deep breath and plastering her face with her most saccharine Scarlett O’Hara smile, she faced him again. “You sound as though you don’t believe someone can reach beyond the grave to communicate with the living.”

  She hoped her choice of words wouldn’t alarm the boy across the room, but a peek in his direction showed he was making shooting sounds and engaging in a mock battle, not the least bit interested in the grown-up talk across the room.

  Neither am I, quite honestly.

  “Mrs. Foster only wants to help me. I don’t think she has any concern about any of my guests.” Not completely true, though. Her presence was stronger today than it had been in a long time.

  Greg set his empty glass on the coffee table. “You said she leaves you recipe cards from her private collection.”

  “She does. Would you like to see one?”

  He glanced at Derek, and then seemingly satisfied his son wasn’t paying attention to the grown-up talk, Greg faced her again. “As a matter of fact, I would.”

  Tillie stood. Good! I’ll show him!

  “Wait here. I’ll grab the one she left me this afternoon right after you arrived.” She walked into the kitchen, trying to slow down her pulse by breathing deeply and slowly. Opening the recipe box where she kept the treasured new recipes Mrs. Foster had delivered separate from the ones already published in the first cookbook, Tillie plucked out the oatmeal-raisin one and, in the parlor once again, handed it to him.

  “Here.” She waited as he scrutinized it. A whiff of the coveted cookies came to her. Greg sniffed the air as well, wrinkling his brow.

  “You smell them, too?” she asked. No other guest had ever been able to detect Mrs. Foster’s presence before.

  “Smell what? Your cookies?”

  Tillie shook her head. “We aren’t smelling these,” she said, pointing toward the few remaining ones on the plate. “You’re smelling the oatmeal-raisin ones from the recipe card you’re holding.”

  He lifted the card to his nose and sniffed again, but of course he wouldn’t find the scent on the card. He met her gaze. “You have a batch of these in the oven.”

  “No. I can’t make them until the final ingredient is delivered tomorrow.”

  He focused his attention to the card once again, and she thought he muttered something about “her handwriting” and “my favorite.”

  “I assure you that isn’t my handwriting.”

  He met her gaze, seeming at a loss for words. “I know it’s not,” he whispered.

  She fought the smile threatening to erupt on her face. Were they making some progress? Did he believe her now?

  His eyelids narrowed. “Why won’t you simply admit you found these cards in the house when you inherited it?”

  Or not.

  She shook her head and drew a deep breath before exhaling slowly. She spoke deliberately, as if to a child. “No. Mrs. Foster’s recipes were nowhere to be found when she died. Believe me, I searched high and low, especially for this one. She hasn’t given them to me all at once, either, for whatever reason. Instead, she delivers one whenever she feels like it—or perhaps when she thinks I need one. This past spring, while I worked on the cookbook, they were arriving a few each day, but since then, they’ve trickled off. In fact, this is the first I’ve received in months. As I said earlier, it was the one I wanted most of all.”

  He regarded at the card again. “Why that one?”

  Tillie couldn’t contain her smile. “Wait until you taste one. You’ll never forget them.” He nodded in seeming understanding. “Knowing the elusive ingredient that has plagued me for years—Chinese five-spice powder—I can’t wait to bake a batch. Tomorrow, if the package arrives.”

  He read the recipe card some more before giving it back to her with seeming reluctance. “What difference could one ingredient make?”

  “Bless your heart.” Was he familiar with the southern phrase’s true meaning? Well, she didn’t care. “If Mrs. Foster specified it in the recipe, then it makes a difference. She also specified the manufacturer,
so I didn’t want to take a chance on using one that’s not the exact same compound.”

  He shrugged. “If you say so. I can’t wait to try one ag…to try one of yours.”

  “Thank you.” While she hadn’t changed his mind about how she’d come to possess this recipe card, maybe she could warm his skeptical little heart through his stomach.

  Derek yawned loudly, drawing both of their gazes.

  “Sport, I think we’d better be heading up to bed.”

  Derek plopped on the floor and folded his hands in front of his chest. “I’m not sleeping nowhere.”

  “I’m not sleeping anywhere,” Greg corrected.

  “Me, neither!”

  Tillie had to bite the inside of her lower lip to keep from laughing, but didn’t want to undermine his parental authority. A muscle spasmed in Greg’s jaw as he struggled to keep a straight face. Unaware of the adults’ response to his inadvertent joke, Derek stuck out his lower lip.

  “No pouting. We have a lot to see and do while we’re here. We need our rest.”

  The pout disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Like what?”

  “Oh, all kinds of things.”

  Thinking his evasiveness might mean he didn’t know what things a little boy might enjoy doing around here, she spoke up, hoping he wouldn’t think her interfering.

  “When I was growing up around here, I loved to walk on the railroad tracks, play baseball, and wander around in the cemetery.”

  “You have a graveyard?” Derek asked, wide-eyed.

  Perhaps this wasn’t the best thing to be talking about right before Derek went bed, but pride in her community’s history kept her talking. “Of course we do! The earliest burials date to almost two centuries ago.”

  “I know what happens in graveyards.”

  She cocked her head to the side, surprised a five-year-old would have given such places any thought. “You do?”

  He nodded with great assuredness. “When you die, you get buried there. Then your hand pokes up out of the dirt, and you turn into a zombie.”

  Tillie was at a loss for what to say and sought Greg’s help, only to find him fighting back another grin. This kid could be a stand-up comic. She’d have to tackle this one on her own and said to Derek, “I’m afraid you aren’t going to find any zombies in our old church cemetery.”