by D. L. Wood
“We barely made it as it was.”
“I can stop, if you want.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s what, five more minutes? I can make it.” But her stomach rumbled, causing them both to chuckle.
“First order, then,” he said, “when we reach the resort.”
She was definitely ready to be there. Having been employed as a photojournalist for the online magazine, Terra Traveler, for several years, she was an expert traveler, used to long and even uncomfortable journeys. So the length of this day hadn’t fazed her. The hard part had been what she had left behind. In the old days, it would have only been her golden retriever, Jonah. But this time she had left her family bright and early on the day after Christmas, flying out of Nashville at six in the morning. It had felt so wrong to hurry to the airport after years of wishing she had that kind of family.
But she and Jack had good reasons for making this particular trip. So they had dragged themselves, bleary-eyed, onto the non-stop flight into LaGuardia Airport in Queens, then taxied from there to a metro stop in Upper Manhattan, then raced—literally as they’d had only five minutes to spare—onto the Metro-North Railroad Hudson Line. The journey along the rails often seemed impossibly close to the river’s edge. It afforded gorgeous views of the wide expanse of the Hudson, with its steep cliffs as they left Manhattan, eventually transitioning into sloping edges that plunged into the frigid water, where ice was beginning to form at its banks.
This December had been uncharacteristically cold, bringing the area foot-plus snows already. The remains of the last blizzard, just two weeks before Christmas, still lingered. Despite temperatures rising above freezing at times, the drifts and stretches of white refused to melt. Around four p.m., they had disembarked in Poughkeepsie, picked up their rented SUV, and settled in for the twenty-minute drive to Stonehall Estate Resort.
The resort was the latest jewel in the crown of Bartholomew Hotels, Inc. The historic early twentieth-century estate was nestled near Hyde Park among the homes of Roosevelts and Rockefellers, purchased by the company to be converted into a relaxing retreat just a train ride north of Manhattan. Chloe hadn’t always known about Jack’s family’s business—which operated a slew of high-end hotels all over the world. It wasn’t until several weeks after meeting him that he had finally spilled the beans about it. Jack liked to keep the existence of his family money quiet when dating someone, to avoid drawing in the wrong person for the wrong reasons. He had been burned in that department before by his ex-wife, Lila.
Despite Jack’s lack of involvement with the company, the couple had a standing offer to visit any of the hotels at any time. It was an incredible gift, but she and Jack rarely made use of it, not wanting to travel any more than their jobs already required. Jack, a retired Navy SEAL turned literary professor and a bestselling writer, often traveled as a military consultant on movie projects. That, combined with Chloe’s work travel, meant they were apart a lot.
But this situation was different. This was their second anniversary, something they both desperately wanted to celebrate. So when Jack’s father suggested the couple make use of this resort’s grand opening as a second anniversary getaway, they jumped at the chance. Normally, warm tropical breezes, sea, and sand came to mind as the perfect destination for such a vacation—especially this time of year with the frigid temperatures, snow, and the three layers a person had to don before venturing into the New York air. But this year, there was something appealing about curling up by a fire, hot cocoa in hand, watching the snow fall outside the window against the glow of candlelight. With all they had going on at the moment, being tucked away from the rest of the world sounded perfect.
The thought of cocoa intensified Chloe’s hunger, but it wouldn’t be long now. Minutes before, they had passed the turnoff for Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s homestead. Though the land along this stretch of the Hudson River boasted more than a dozen mansions constructed in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, none was as well-known as that one. Stonehall Estate was situated on an enormous wooded tract about a mile north of President Roosevelt’s home. One mile beyond Stonehall Estate was the Vanderbilt Mansion.
The area was rich in history, steeped in lore and, from what Chloe understood, the source of more than its share of ghostly legends. The thought of learning about them triggered a flutter of anticipation in her belly. Jack had begged her not to research first—something she desperately loved to do before visiting a place, a convenient fact, as research was a requirement of her job. However, this time he had wanted her to experience the area as a tourist herself. To take it all in as it came. No pressure, no planning. She had reluctantly agreed, and more than once had forced herself to slam the computer shut to avoid running searches on Stonehall Estate and the surrounding area.
Snow was falling, large wet flakes that stuck to the windshield and left watery streaks as the wipers brushed them aside. “Wow, those are really beautiful,” Chloe said, following one of the fat flakes with her gaze as a sign for Stonehall Estate appeared on the right. “There it is,” she alerted Jack. The sign gave directions to turn left at the intersection onto a street appropriately named Stonehall Avenue.
“Here we go.” Jack turned onto the private, brown-gravel drive marked by short, hefty stone walls along each side of the gated entrance. Woods thick with pines and firs and bare deciduous trees bordered both curbs of the narrow roadway. The evergreen branches dipped, laden with remnants of previous snows, while the bony branches of the maple and birch trees looked like sticks with their top sides dipped in white chocolate. After half a mile, the view broke open before them, lampposts and landscape lighting casting an inviting glow across the vast grounds of Stonehall Estate spread wide beneath the gray, frost-laden sky.
A gasp escaped Chloe, eliciting a hefty laugh from Jack. “You kept your promise, then,” he said, smiling. “I can’t believe you didn’t look it up. I wasn’t sure you could stop yourself.”
She nodded and stared at the house in the distance, although “house” wasn’t an adequate word for the structure before them. This truly was a mansion. One of the largest homes Chloe had ever seen. The best comparison upon first impression was a miniature version of the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina. Although “miniature” wasn’t fair either. As she recalled, the Biltmore measured well over one hundred fifty thousand square feet. If she had to guess from what she could see, Stonehall Estate was going to come in at around half that. The design reminded her of the Biltmore as well. There was a heavy French Renaissance feel to it, with its creamy limestone, pointed turrets, steep roofline, and arched windows adorned with decorative scrolled woodwork.
The expansive grounds were mostly covered in white, with grass peeking through in a few places where the snow had melted, but was now slowly being covered again. Two enormous rectangular concrete reflective pools stretched end-to-end through the middle. Carved marble fountains rose from their centers. The edges of the pools were landscaped with meticulously trimmed boxwoods of varying heights.
“This is absolutely amazing,” Chloe said, as a peace washed over her. This was what she needed. What they needed. Time away. Seclusion in this gorgeous place where they could work through it all. Jack took her hand, gently rubbing the diamond of her engagement ring with his index finger.
The drive took them down one side of the pools to the entrance of the mansion and a large gravel parking lot situated directly in front of it. From there, the drive continued around the other side of the pools, presumably forming a circle where it reconnected to itself somewhere near where the view had first opened up.
It wasn’t until they reached the gravel lot and Jack pulled in that Chloe could finally see down the left side of the mansion. Parked not far down a gravel drive on that side of the house was a sheriff’s department patrol car. Two deputies stood beside it, speaking with a woman dressed in a navy suit who was animatedly gesticulating with her hands. A man dressed in work khakis and a heavy pea coat stoo
d behind her, interjecting as well, forcefully jabbing a finger at the deputies.
Chloe’s sense of peace instantly evaporated.
“I’m not having it! That’s it. I’m going over there and having words with that guy!” The man in the pea coat and a gray knit hat was yelling, swinging an arm to point west of the mansion, across the Hudson toward whatever lay beyond.
Chloe and Jack walked slowly toward the group, able to hear what was being said—or rather yelled—as they quietly closed the thirty-yard distance. Though the bellowing man was short with a modest bulge around his center, the fire-red sheen of his face was plenty intimidating.
“Sir, if you’ll just calm down,” a female deputy was saying.
The woman in the navy suit reached for the man’s arm. “Nate, come on, it’s all right,” she said, a soothing lilt to her voice, though her grip was tight enough to wrinkle his coat where she grasped it. She wore no coat and must have been cold because her words had an audible shakiness to them.
Nate jerked his arm, flinging off her grip. “No, it’s not all right. It’s anything but all right! You see that?” Now he swung his hand up toward the mansion’s roofline. There was a spotlight and what appeared to be a CCTV camera affixed to it. “Broken! It’s broken. Cracked lens. Can’t make out a thing. Which means we don’t have a clue who went in there and”—he pointed to a small outbuilding on the side of the mansion made of stacked stone—“killed our backup generator.”
“Sir—” began the other deputy, a tall male with his shoulders rigid and set back.
“This is the last straw,” Nate said. “You know what happens when you’ve had a couple of above-freezing days, your power goes out and your backup generator dies in the middle of the night? And then the electricity doesn’t come back on until later the next afternoon? I’ll tell you what. The food for all the incoming guests in your commercial freezer starts to defrost, and you lose thousands in supplies. Once that stuff starts defrosting, you can’t just refreeze it. They’ve been sticking food out in the cold all day just trying to keep it frozen.”
The female deputy sighed. “Sir, it’s just an unfortunate coincidence. The transformer right up the road was involved in an accident last night—”
Nate guffawed. “Coincidence? Was the roof collapsing in the stable a coincidence? What about the replacement pipes delivered three weeks late? The contaminated water supply? Or the fountain pump on the front reflecting pool that died, causing the lines to freeze, requiring the whole system be dug up? The flat tires on the backhoe? The exploding electrical panel—”
“Okay, Nate, they get it,” the woman urged.
“I’m going to see him.” Nate took a step back as if he were going right then. “I’m driving over there and having it out.”
“Sir, I wouldn’t advise that.” The female deputy’s tone was firm. “I know your theories—”
“You know my theories?” Nate’s voice rose in pitch. “Then why haven’t you done anything about them?”
“Because, Mr. Lewis, they are just that. Theories. You’ve got no evidence to prove them. If you had anything to support your claims—”
“You’d do just what you’re doing now. Which is nothing! You’re just letting Kingsford continue to make trouble, destroying what we’re doing here.”
The female deputy’s gaze flicked from the angry man to Jack and Chloe, who were now just ten yards away. The rest of the group followed suit, turning toward them.
“Sir,” the male officer said to Jack, “we’re handling a matter here. If you wouldn’t mind just stepping away and giving us some space.”
“Of course,” Jack said. “I just wanted to see if I could do anything to help. I’m associated with the owners.”
The eyes of the woman in the navy suit widened, her head tilting back in embarrassed recognition. “Mr. Bartholomew?” She stepped away from Nate Lewis and walked to Jack, her hand extended. “I’m Deidre Nolan, the hotel manager. I’m so sorry about this. Time got away from me.” She glanced at the silver watch around her wrist, her face falling further. “I knew you were arriving. I’d planned to receive you myself.” Her ebony eyes cut to Chloe. “And you must be Mrs. Bartholomew,” she said, shaking Chloe’s hand.
Jack smiled. “No worries. Seems like you have a little something going on here.”
“Yes.” Ms. Nolan pressed her lips together before continuing. “If you’ll head inside to the front desk, I’ll be right there. I’m sorry the footman isn’t here to assist. He’s dealing with an issue downstairs—”
“It’s no problem. We’re fine. Bags and all,” Jack assured her.
“I’ll just be a minute,” she said, taking a few steps back toward the group. “We’re nearly done here.”
Jack and Chloe walked back to their car, Nate Lewis’s irate voice still booming at their backs.
“I’m not sure this was what Dad had in mind when he offered us a peaceful getaway,” Jack mumbled as they reached their car. He popped the trunk.
“I’m certain it’s not what I had in mind,” Chloe grumbled, immediately regretting her words.
Get over yourself. Make the best of it. It’ll be fine. Though her stomach rumbled as if to disagree.
“Sorry.” She lifted her face to his, intentionally painting on a smile. “I’m done complaining.”
Jack put his arm around her and drew her close. “Excellent.” He bent down to kiss her. “I mean, come on. No electricity, spoiled food, sketchy plumbing—it’s going to be paradise.”
3
All of Chloe’s trepidation disappeared the moment they stepped through the giant iron-scrolled front doors into the mansion’s marble-tiled, two-story foyer.
Oh. My. Goodness.
The foyer had to be thirty feet square, with a small garden and fountain at the center. Gold-embossed wallpaper stretched across the walls, broken into sections by ceiling-to-floor mahogany panels trimmed in elaborate molding. Enormous twin Christmas trees bedecked in red ribbon and oversized glittering ornaments stood on opposite sides of the room. A chandelier of cascading crystals shed rainbows of light throughout, their beams eventually drawing her eye to the grand staircase at the rear of the foyer.
Chloe’s mind immediately recalled images of the Titanic's Grand Staircase. Where the base met the floor, the staircase was triple the width of any normal staircase. Curving, polished brass railings affixed to polished wood led smoothly upward, the stairs narrowing to a mere double-width at the landing on the second level. This landing split to hallways on either side, which really weren’t hallways at all but were expansive enough to be rooms in and of themselves. A deep red-gold-and-olive Persian rug woven to the precise measurements of the staircase blanketed the steps, held in place on each by a brass rod.
To their left was a bar-height mahogany counter about a dozen feet long. It looked new but had been designed to fit in with the decor as if it had been there all along. Signage on brass plaques affixed to the counter’s front indicated one end was “Guest Services” and the other, the “Concierge.” The entire counter was unmanned. In fact, to Chloe’s surprise, there was no staff in the foyer at all. Jack dropped the luggage at the desk, then spun in a slow circle, taking it all in.
“Whoa,” he said.
Chloe nodded. “I know.”
“You should have seen it when the company first bought it.” Chloe turned to see Deidre Nolan closing the front door behind her. She walked toward them, her face pinched.
“Again, I have to apologize, Mr. Bartholomew.”
Jack held up a hand. “Please, stop. It’s Jack. And this is Chloe,” he said, tilting his head toward her.
“Your father called me yesterday to make sure we were ready for you. I hate to disappoint.”
“Well, he won’t hear a thing from me.”
Deidre’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and her expression eased. “We’ve been dealing with some…um…unusual hiccups in the last few weeks. Last night was another.”
“Sounded lik
e it,” Jack replied.
“I can give you a run-down, if you’d like. Bring you up to speed.”
“It’s not necessary. I’m not part of the company, Ms. Nolan—”
“Deidre, please.”
“Deidre. And you don’t owe me a thing. I’m not here to check up on your progress. I’m here to write, and my bride is getting a little R and R.”
“And it’s your second wedding anniversary. Correct? Your father was quite clear about that.”
Jack chuckled. “I’m sure he was.”
Jack’s family had welcomed Chloe with open arms, doting on her whenever they got the chance. His mother in particular had gushed about how grateful they were that Jack had found her after he had been unhappy for so long. Chloe wasn’t surprised his father had gone out of his way to make everything perfect for them here. Her insides tightened. Deidre was right to be a bit concerned. If Jack’s father found out things were less than perfect for them, it probably would result in an unpleasant conversation for her.
“We’ve got the bridal suite all ready for you.”
Chloe’s eyes darted around the room at her use of the word “we.” Deidre must have noticed because she grimaced.
“I know it seems empty now, but I promise you there are more staff here than just me. Right now, most of them are downstairs dealing with the refrigeration issues from last night. It’s not quite as bad as Nate made it sound, but we did experience some loss. The electricity only came back on a couple of hours ago.” She stepped behind the desk and tapped a few keys on the computer keyboard. “I’m calling one of the footmen up.”
“Footmen?”
Deidre smiled. “We use the vernacular from the time this place was built. Do you know much about Stonehall Estate’s history?”
“Not as much as I’d like to.” She bumped a shoulder into Jack. “He wouldn’t let me do my own research. Wanted me to wait until I got here.”
“I’d be happy to give you the grand tour and history myself. And,” she said, eyeing Jack, “walk you through the restoration of the resort. I know you’re not part of the company officially, but it’s still very interesting.”