Jesse's Hideout (Bluegrass Spirits 1)

by Kallypso Masters

  “It’s a hobo sack, Daddy!” Derek bounded down the porch stairs to the patio. “It has hamburger, potatoes, and carrots. No onions or mushrooms. I don’t like those.”

  “He’s going to be quite the chef someday,” Tillie said.

  Usually, Derek didn’t like carrots, either, but apparently, having a hand in the process made him more adventurous. Greg didn’t want Derek to grow up being picky and not knowing his way around the kitchen. Did Nancy include him in meal preparation? Were there some simple things Greg could learn to make where he could request Derek’s help?

  “Can I go on the slide?”

  Greg smiled. His short attention span would require that it be fast. “Sure. I’ll keep an eye on you from here.”

  The boy scampered off. “How do you like your steak, Greg?”

  “Medium.”

  “Me, too. Be right back.”

  Greg scanned the nearby woods, making sure there weren’t any threats. Maybe he was being overly cautious. Three small incidents—a shattered window, broken jam jar, and suspicious driver—didn’t portend doom. So why did he feel the person driving by was waiting for him to leave?

  And he’d need to leave in a couple of days because he’d promised Derek excursions to the zoo and Louisville science and history museums. Would Tillie go with them? If she were with them, he wouldn’t be so uneasy.

  He stepped up onto the porch just in time to open the door and let Tillie out with the platter of steaks. She’d already seasoned and tenderized the meat, so they were ready for the grill. He almost offered to take over the grilling, but instinct told him not to encroach on her territory. After all, he was a guest, despite how domestic this scene might be.

  A tendril of hair had come loose from her bun. Her hair fascinated him for some reason. Nancy’s was short, but Tillie’s was long and thick. What would it feel like to bury his hands in the locks? He fought the urge to curl a loosened strand around the shell of her ear. Overwhelmed by the desire to touch her, he shoved his hands in his pockets.

  He hadn’t been attracted to a woman in so long, and his sex-starved mind kept telling him Tillie was the perfect one. Except for the fact she lived seven hundred miles away and in a vastly different world. Not a good recipe to ensure compatibility and happiness. Then again, Nancy had been the daughter of his former partner. She understood his career, his life—and it hadn’t worked out, either.

  Greg accepted a lot of the blame, though. His marriage had been more a partnership than a love match, although he’d loved Nancy in his own way. In retrospect, he’d merely followed his own parents’ dysfunctional model for marriage and parenting. Both were workaholics who stayed away from home more than Greg had. While they ran their own business, they rarely took time to parent. He couldn’t say that they even loved each other, but they did enjoy pursuing deals and working nonstop. Growing up, he’d never spent time doing kid things with either of them. Their clients had been more inclined to give him Christmas presents than his parents had. That had been the best part of Christmas back then.

  What the hell had prompted this critique of his marriage?

  “There. We’ll let everything grill for a while. Last one to the swing set is a rotten egg.”

  Oh yeah. Tillie.

  She bolted across the yard toward the playground and Derek. He’d wondered earlier if she ever indulged in the playground swings. Apparently, he had his answer. He didn’t stand a chance at beating her, but managed to almost catch up before she claimed one. Her laughter was infectious.

  “I wanna swing!” Derek left the slide and came over to join them.

  Greg settled him into the seat, gave him a push, then took his place on the one between them. Every now and then, he’d reach out to give Derek another boost. Tillie continued to go higher with each pass, leaning back and letting more of her hair escape from its confines.

  “I love swinging. Have since I was little, so I made sure I could enjoy my playground when I designed and built it.”

  “You designed it yourself?”

  “Well, design might be a strong word. But I did choose the components and came up with this configuration.”

  “You did an excellent job.”

  “Thanks.” The corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled. “I can get so busy that I forget to come out here for some much-needed swing therapy.”

  “It’s easy to do.” He enjoyed watching her give in to her playful side. Perhaps, like him, she focused too much on work and not enough on herself and her friends and family. He wondered if she even had much of a social life. There seemed no indication of it. “Do you ever have the house to yourself without any guests?”

  “More often than my bank account would like.” She shrugged.

  He had no clue how many reservations were needed to make ends meet with a place like this. “I guess that’s why you put so much effort into the holiday season. Sounds like you pack them in then.”

  “I do. Also during the annual festivals. People enjoy the experience of staying at a historic inn, rather than a modern chain hotel in the city. It’s a lot quieter in the country. I’ve had people from as far away as Tokyo stay here.”

  He hadn’t thought about this out-of-the-way place attracting a worldwide clientele—the entire county seemed isolated. “Do they find you on the web?”

  She nodded. “On my web page, which is linked to county tourism sites, as well as on vacation home and B&B sites. Being a full-service inn has made mine a favorite among many, especially older couples who don’t want to drive to and from the city for supper after dark.”

  Again, he found himself wishing he could book a stay during the holidays. To be in the home where his grandmother had entertained him as a boy might be just the connection he needed to make with Gram to fill the hole that had been left. But he couldn’t justify another vacation right away. His team wouldn’t know what to think if he gallivanted off again so soon.

  Sometimes, he wished he could do as he pleased and not have to think about keeping things going for his employees and their families.

  Maybe he was burning out.

  “Oh, I’d better go turn the steaks.” Tillie jumped off mid-swing and ran toward the patio. He watched as she tried to tame her hair on the way, finally deciding to ditch the band holding it up and letting the tresses spill over her shoulders.

  Man, he needed to put an end to this fixation with her hair. But something told him he wouldn’t until he’d finally had a chance to let his fingers dive in.

  Chapter Ten

  “Wow! That’s the biggest tree ever!” Greg agreed with his son’s enthusiastic assessment.

  Tillie laughed as she turned to greet them, clearly not having heard them enter the house a few yards away with her Christmas music blaring so loudly. What if he’d been someone breaking in?

  She crossed the room to the stereo and lowered the volume. “How were the museums?”

  “Big,” Greg answered. “We must have logged twenty-thousand steps.”

  “I got to dig for dinosaur bones, Miss Tillie! And climb on giant blocks!”

  “Sounds like fun. Sorry I couldn’t go with you.”

  So am I.

  Derek approached the tree in utter awe, and Greg followed, picking him up to view it better.

  “Why didn’t you wait for me to haul down those boxes?” How had she managed to do all this alone? Not that she seemed to be one to rely on anyone’s assistance. A number of bins lay empty after holding the 14-foot artificial tree she’d assembled in the parlor while he and Derek were at the history and science museums in Louisville today. Three plastic bins had been stacked near the tree filled with decorations.

  “Actually, I still need to bring down more bins from the attic. These are only the lights and beaded garland.”

  Setting down his son, he said, “Derek, why don’t you bring some toys into the dining room so you’ll be closer to where we are?”

  “Can’t I come with you?”

  “I don’t thi
nk you need to be going up to the attic.”

  After they had him settled, Tillie opened the door leading to her bedroom. “Watch your head in the low doorway and be careful on these narrow pie steps.”

  He had been much shorter when he’d walked up those stairs before so heeded the warning.

  “I appreciate your help. Normally, I give myself a week to finish decorating that tree, but I had a call from the historic preservation society this morning. They need a new place to hold their annual supper on Monday and chose my inn, so I need to get moving. They’ll enjoy seeing the tree lit and some of the other decorations up in the common areas during their visit.” She led the way upstairs. “You’re welcome to join us if you’re not busy Monday evening.”

  “Thanks. I’d love to hear about the projects they’re working on.” He had missed grown-up conversation while traveling with Derek. The times he and Tillie had engaged had been enjoyable—as long as they stayed away from ghosts.

  “I think they’d enjoy the chance to share them, and maybe even get some expert advice on any renovation challenges the group might be struggling with. They can’t afford to keep an architect on retainer. I could let them know you’ll be joining them, but then they might bring over blueprints for you to study. Why don’t we surprise them?” She grinned.

  “I don’t mind.” He did pro bono work for one of the nonprofits in Minneapolis that rehabbed buildings for those in need of low-income housing. Maybe he wasn’t burning out after all.

  As he followed her up the stairs, he did his damnedest not to stare at her ass encased in tight jeans. Epic fail. Usually she wore flowing skirts and dresses, so how could he help but notice?

  “The attic is accessed through this door.”

  While he didn’t mean to let his gaze stray to her personal living space, this had been the last bedroom he’d stayed in while Gram was alive. At the top of the stairs, they simply landed in the bedroom.

  The room equaled the size of his bedroom at the other end of the house. The unusual four-poster pencil bed still dominated one side of the room.

  “This part of the house used to be for travelers on the stagecoach or train. Originally, this room as well as the dining room, kitchen, and the bathroom that once was a mudroom would be completely locked off from the birthing room, office, parlor, and the second floor rooms where you’re staying. I chose to make the travelers’ bedroom my own, though, so that I can maintain my privacy in a smaller space by locking off this room and the attic. It gives my guests full use of the rest of the house to relax in during their visits. The suite where you’re staying is more of a moneymaker than this one could have been.”

  “Interesting.” He knew much of the house’s history already, but what he found most intriguing was that most of the furniture had been here when he and his mother had stayed during that last visit. His mind flashed to the afternoon when Mother had hurriedly packed their things while he’d begged her not to leave until he and Gram finished whatever it had been they were doing during the big blow-up between the two women.

  “That rope bed frame is so massive,” she continued, “that Mrs. Foster had to take out the entire window frame over there to get it in. No way would it make it around those pie stairs leading up here. Needless to say, this bed will be in this house forever.”

  Not wanting to appear to know more than he should, he asked, “What style is it?”

  “I’m not really sure. Obviously primitive and handmade, possibly a mix of styles. It’s been dated to the mid-nineteenth century—soon after the Civil War—but that’s as much as anyone could tell.”

  He approached the foot of the bed. Well-worn federal blue paint covered the exposed pine. “Appears to be the original paint.”

  “I believe it is, too. I’m grateful no one refinished it. Oh, and the tops of the pencil posts have finials that can be unscrewed. No doubt so that summer and winter canopies could have been used to capture or release heat and prohibit drafts.”

  The foot rail reminded him of a double-ended writing instrument, more like a fountain pen than the “pencils” that made up the four corner posts. He’d been fascinated by the bed as a boy. He wondered if the bed had been commissioned for either a writer or student.

  A yellow appliqued quilt and white dust ruffle gave the double bed a quaint air, fitting Tillie to a tee. At the base of the bed sat an old cedar chest with three drawers. That, too, had been there before.

  A quick glance at the end table and his heart skipped a beat.

  Gram.

  And a sad-eyed little girl who had to be Tillie. The two appeared to be dressed in Sunday clothes. She’d died about ten years after his last visit. The backs of his eyelids stung as he fought the urge to pick up the frame for closer inspection.

  “That’s Mrs. Foster, the woman who owned this house, and me when I was twelve. A photographer came to do a church directory, and she asked me to join her. She was like a mother and grandmother to me, all in one.”

  “I’m glad you two found one another.” And he truly was, because without Tillie, Gram’s final years might have been lonely beyond measure.

  She cleared her throat as if overcome with emotion, too. “I suppose we should head on up to the attic now that we’ve caught our breath.”

  Greg nodded, not the least bit out of breath. He supposed she wanted him out of her sanctuary. He could well imagine how his inordinate interest in her bed might come across.

  Joining her near the window, he indicated for Tillie to precede him upstairs to the attic. How had he never been up here? If he remembered correctly, Gram had placed a large wardrobe that would have blocked the way, so he wouldn’t have been able to explore if he wanted to. He honestly hadn’t known another floor existed.

  As they ascended into what he anticipated would be a tight space under the slope of the roof, he was surprised to find that the ceiling was at least eight feet tall in the center, sloping toward the walls on either side. There were two twin beds surrounded by shelves and bins along one wall filled with vintage toys.

  “Do you rent out this room, too?”

  “Rarely, because it requires me to move out of my own bedroom. But I do offer it as an option for larger groups or families wanting to rent the whole house.”

  “Then where do you sleep?” It was none of his business, but he couldn’t help but be curious.

  “I put a cot in the birthing room.”

  The woman would go to any extreme to accommodate guests, it appeared. Always the perfect hostess. Was there truly a victim here? No. Gram might even get a kick out of being immortalized in such a way. Her quirky sense of humor had brought her to life again in the pages of her journals.

  One entire wall had stacks and stacks of clear plastic bins filled with red, green, gold, silver, and royal blue decorations. Some were labeled for which room they should be used in.

  At the far end of the attic, he saw a long section of raw plaster framed with brown-stained wood. He wondered why the plaster hadn’t been painted over. Upon closer inspection, he saw it had been etched with names and initials.

  “Mrs. Foster told me those are the former children of the house spanning one-and-a-half centuries,” Tillie explained. “This must have been a playroom for them. Mrs. Foster didn’t want to lose that part of the house’s heritage, so when she replastered the room, she framed this section of the wall so no one destroyed it. She told me she even took down a row of trees she and her husband planted in the front yard near the driveway after a devastating tornado came through here in 1974. She feared one might blow over and destroy the wall. It meant that much to her.”

  Seeing Matilda had been added to the wall, he said, “I see you were able to put your name here, too.” Had Gram intended for him to be memorialized here if they hadn’t departed so abruptly?

  “I was about ten and had begun to hang out here more than at home when she invited me to do that. She’d called me Tillie almost from the moment we met, but I chose to put my real name there. It seem
ed like a solemn historical record to me even at the time.”

  Clearly, this place meant a lot to Tillie, too. When she went back to the bins again, he took a closer look at the names etched in the plaster. Effie, Ethel, Mary Alice, Iva, C.S., Vernon, and so many others. Finally, he found the one he searched for—Margaret. While childishly written, it resembled the way she wrote her “g” to this day.

  “Mother,” he whispered, pressing the tips of his fingers over her name. The precise cursive used showed the care she’d taken. Would she remember placing her name on this childhood wall of fame? Had she done so with Gram’s permission or merely to be remembered with the other children?

  He gave in to the urge to take out his cell phone and snap a picture. Someday when they were speaking to one another again, maybe he would coax her to return to the house she’d grown up in and see it through his eyes. How could she have been anything but charmed by this place?

  Maybe not, but it would be worth a try.

  A hand on his arm jarred him in more ways than one. Being so close to Tillie in a moment when his nerves were already frayed overwhelmed him.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  He chose to focus on the obvious and not reveal his attraction to her. “Yeah, sorry I’m not being much help. The history represented on that wall is astounding.”

  “It is, indeed.”

  Glancing around the attic for a distraction, he noticed a hatch in the ceiling. “Where does this lead to?”

  “The roof. I like to think that was how Jesse escaped authorities the night his brother Frank surrendered down the road at the old store.”

  “How would he go undetected?”

  “He’d have climbed over the peak of this roof, onto the L-wing, then into the herb garden, and out into the woods.”

  “Fascinating.” If Jesse had indeed faked his own death and come here in the 1930s, Greg doubted he’d have been spry enough to make an escape through that hatch during that visit. Not that Gram would have sent him running. The two seemed to have been friends.