by D. L. Wood
“Sounds great,” Jack said.
Deidre sighed. “Good. That’s settled.” She smiled, and Chloe was struck by how beautiful the woman was. Her light brown skin was radiant with a rosy blossom on her cheeks and golden highlights across their ridges. Deep set, dark walnut eyes fringed by thick black eyelashes that went on for days were made only more mesmerizing by her choice of silvery-gray eyeshadow. She wore her ebony hair straight, parted down the center and extending to the middle of her upper arms. Her navy suit was impeccably pressed, her name tag perfectly straight.
Ms. Nolan.
Deidre must have caught Chloe eyeing it, because she said, “Normally we use first names, since that’s what would have been used in the estate’s heyday, but a surname would have been used for my position.”
“I think that’s a marvelous touch,” Chloe said. “Have you managed other properties for the company before coming here?”
“I’m actually not the permanent manager,” Deidre explained. “I’m the project development manager. My job is to oversee the hotel from breaking ground to opening. Then I move on. Typically.”
Jack pursed his lips and cocked his head. “Typically?”
Deidre sighed. “Unfortunately, there’s been nothing typical about this project. We lost our general manager two days ago. I’m stepping in until a replacement is named, which could be a while.”
Jack’s eyebrows went up. “What happened?”
Deidre paused, perhaps trying to decide whether to share the information. “Poached.”
“Really?” Chloe asked. “By who?”
Deidre tilted her head in the direction of the river, the same direction Nate Lewis had indicated during his tirade. “The competition. Patrick Kingsford’s resort is about five miles north of here. He’s building a vintage-looking hotel, but it’s brand new. No history. No charisma.”
“Stealing your manager.” Jack shook his head. “That’s a pretty decent setback. Especially this close to the grand opening.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Deidre started, then caught herself, her breath hitching in her throat. “You know what? You don’t need to worry about all that. I’ve got it in hand. You’re here to relax, to celebrate, and that’s all you’re going to do.” She tapped a few more keys on the computer as footsteps sounded behind them. Chloe turned to see a man approaching from the rear of the foyer wearing a waistcoat uniform that could have been lifted right out of Downton Abbey.
“Martin, these are the Bartholomews. Would you please escort them to the bridal suite?” Deidre asked.
“Absolutely,” he replied.
“If you follow Martin, he’ll take you up, and your luggage will follow shortly after. I’ll call up in a bit to check on you and make sure you don’t need anything. You’re our only guests for the next two nights, until the soft opening on the twenty-eighth, so you’ll have the run of the place.” She handed Chloe a navy folder with the Stonehall Estate Resort logo embossed in gold on the front. “This will tell you everything there is to know about the facilities, as well as give you a condensed history of the estate. We can do the tour and the full story first thing in the morning.” She inclined her head and spoke more softly. “There’s some tidbits that aren’t in there. Some of the staff even think the legend surrounding this place might be responsible for the troubles we’re having.”
“Well, now I’m not sure I can wait,” Chloe said.
Deidre smiled. “Are you still planning on dinner at seven?”
“Actually,” Jack said, “and you don’t need to go to a fuss if you’re running into issues, but Chloe hasn’t eaten since early this morning. Could we move dinner to as soon as possible?”
“Not a problem. Would you rather have room service? I imagine you’re exhausted after today’s travels. I can have it brought up right away.”
“That would be heaven,” Chloe said as, once again, her stomach rumbled its opinion. But as hungry as she was, she was more anxious to begin digging into the history of Stonehall Estate and the legend that still had people on edge nearly a century later.
4
Their corner suite faced the rear of the property and the woods to the south. Their journey through the mansion to get to it was best described as just that—a journey. It was one delight after another—antique furniture, priceless works of art, vases full of flowers, thick rugs, and hallways shooting off in all directions. Chloe couldn’t wait to explore. After taking the grand staircase—there were no elevators other than a single service elevator for employees—then another set of stairs up to the third floor, they wound through a sitting room, an opulent library, and one final hallway before finally arriving at the bridal suite.
The room was gorgeous, though not especially large. Martin assured them that it was larger than most of the other rooms, having originally been the master bedroom and explaining that the bedrooms during the time of the mansion’s construction tended to be smaller. Apparently, laws relating to historical preservation precluded certain changes to the structure itself, hence the absence of guest elevators and resized guest rooms.
It didn’t matter to Chloe. She could feel her blood pressure drop just at the sight of the logs beginning to burn and crackle in the fireplace.
How did they get that going so fast?
There was a four-poster canopied king-size bed smothered in a lofty, gold down comforter, and a warm glow from the lamps on the bedside tables. Three large windows wrapped the outside corner, providing not only a view of the woods, but also of the rear property filled with dormant rose gardens, a hedge maze, and countless architectural features—statues, benches, fountains and more. Finally, a gentle slope led down to the Hudson River. Its waters occasionally sparkled beneath the moonlight when it managed to shine through breaks in the clouds currently shedding white over the land.
Swiveling back toward the room’s center, she saw their luggage already neatly arranged by the closet.
Ahh. Someone else must’ve raced up here to bring it up. And get the fire going. She looked to Martin to compliment the hotel’s service. He was watching her, but quickly averted his eyes as if caught doing something wrong. Something about it felt distinctly…odd. Slightly…invasive somehow. Then the vibe disintegrated as Martin focused his gaze on Jack and promised that dinner would be there within the half hour before leaving the couple to themselves.
Jack flopped down backward on the bed. “I’m not moving until tomorrow.”
Chloe lay down beside him, and leaned into his shoulder just as she spotted a silver ice bucket and tray on the Queen Anne vanity. The bucket held two bottles of Evian and a bottle of champagne. The tray held crystal flutes and tumblers, a bowl filled with chocolate-covered strawberries, and a plate with assorted cheeses and crackers.
Chloe jumped up. “Oh, look!” she said, reaching for the note propped against the bowl. “Have a wonderful time. Love, Mom & Dad,” she read. “Aw, that was so nice of them.”
Jack’s eyes were still closed. “They do love you.”
“Of course they do.” She popped a strawberry in her mouth, sighing in satisfaction as she swallowed it, her hollow stomach finally getting some relief. “I’m awesome.” She poured two glasses of water, carried one to Jack, then returned to the tray, where she consumed gouda and cheddar on crackers, one after the other. “Oh, my goodness. I was starving.”
Jack rolled over to look at her and laughed, his green eyes alight.
She shrunk back. “What?”
“You’ve got cracker crumbs in your hair.”
“What?” She spun toward the vanity mirror. Sure enough, crumbs were caught in her loose tawny waves. “Good grief.” She brushed them out and took stock of her appearance. After a full day of being on the road, she looked every bit the part of a weary traveler and a tad older than her thirty-five years—amber eyes tired and red, clothes rumpled, and makeup worn off. The whole effect left her fair complexion a bit bleak, and now there was food in her hair. The slightest stab of in
security coursed through her. Quite a departure from the put-together Deidre Nolan downstairs. Tomorrow she’d have to—
A sudden jerk from behind launched her backward onto the bed, where she landed beside Jack, his arms securely around her middle. He whispered in her ear. “I think you’re perfect. Crumbs and all.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she muttered skeptically.
“You don’t believe me?” he questioned, his voice low.
“I…um.” Her heart beat faster, as it always did when he was this close. “I think—”
A sharp rapping on the door cut her off.
Jack flopped onto his back again. “What happened to thirty minutes before dinner would arrive?” he groaned.
“Come on, mister.” She sat up and punched his arm. “Your woman’s starving to death.”
She started off the bed, but he gently grabbed her arm, pulled her back, and kissed her, bringing one hand to her face, gently running it through her hair before letting go. Heat and light swirled in her, her eyes remaining closed as the rap on the door came again. “What did happen to those thirty minutes?” she said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jack teased, hopping up. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
5
How had it come to this? All the work, all the effort, pitted against a clock ticking down…and now time was nearly up. And with nothing to show for it. Plans were still going ahead, full steam, in spite of everything. Every sacrifice, every risk, had fallen short.
And today, guests had arrived. Which made it even harder. It severely limited options and created problems that weren’t even an issue before. It also demanded an answer to the question, how far are you willing to go to make sure, in the end, you come out on top?
There was only one answer.
As far as it takes.
6
Chloe’s heart jumped, and she woke, her breath catching in her chest. Jack slept beside her, rolled onto his side facing the wall. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand—an ornate vintage one, not a modern digital version.
Two thirty in the morning. What woke me?
Though Jack was a habitual snorer—probably a candidate for a sleep study even at thirty-nine years old—she had become accustomed to it. It rarely bothered her anymore. Besides, he wasn’t snoring now.
Moonlight streamed through the sheers covering the windows. She eased herself from beneath the comforter and stepped gently to the window seat. Her plaid pajama pant-set kept her cozy as she scooted onto the satin-covered cushion and pulled her feet beneath her, tucking a soft cable-knit throw around herself. The snow had dwindled to flurries, now illuminated by the moonlight and the scattered lampposts that dotted the property.
The gentle sight sent waves of peace through her. It was a welcome thing. Most nights when she woke like this, a nagging sensation that something was wrong rippled through her after about three seconds of consciousness. There was still a heaviness in her soul, but here, staring out this window, it seemed to lessen. There was something so pure about a snowfall, so cleansing. So full of possibilities. Her eyes drifted across the window panes to the rear of the property. Though not visible in the darkness, she tried to imagine the Hudson River at the estate’s edge. The image of frigid water dotted with chunks of ice scrolled through her mind and she nearly shivered. Her eyes darted to the fireplace, seeking out its warmth, but the fire from earlier was reduced to mere glowing embers.
A faint light flickered outside the window—somewhere off to the left and toward the front of the mansion—catching her attention. She pressed her face against the glass, trying to see as far in that direction as she could. In the distance, a swath of light, very small from this far away—maybe from a flashlight or cell phone—painted the air and the snow beneath it. It moved slightly. Which meant someone was holding it. But who would be out in this weather at this time of night?
Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Creak.
The sound came from behind her. Tendrils of electricity coursed through Chloe’s body as she whipped her head around, her gaze sweeping across the room.
What in the world?
Again it came. Tap-tap. Creak. Creak. Tap-tap.
She rose from the cushion, her eyes scanning the space, trying to zero-in on the sound’s origin, which seemed to be the wall directly opposite.
The bathroom wall.
Her gaze fell to Jack. He was still sound asleep, mouth slightly open. Before they were married, he explained that he had been a light sleeper, given his military background. But now he slept like the dead. Jack said she must’ve changed him. That maybe contentment allowed him a deeper rest than he had known previously. Right now, she wished he wasn’t quite so content.
Tap-tap. Tap-tap.
Chloe stepped across the room toward the wall.
Creak. Tap—
The board beneath Chloe’s foot betrayed her with a loud squeak just as she reached the wall. She froze as the tapping ceased mid-squeak.
Chloe held her breath, pressing her ear against the wall.
Nothing.
“What are you doing?”
Startled, Chloe jerked around, her knees nearly buckling from fright.
Jack, now standing behind her, caught her by the arms, amusement plastered on his face.
She gasped for breath. “Why would you do that?” she whispered, willing her heart to stop racing.
“Why are you listening to the wall?”
“I heard something. You didn’t hear it?”
He shook his head. “It’s probably nothing. Just an old house.”
“Maybe. But it sounded like it was moving. Like it was headed for the hall. Then it just stopped when I made the floor squeak. It was creepy.”
She sidestepped him and flung open their suite door, revealing the hallway beyond. The long corridor, with its dark paneling, deep-red carpet, and gas lamp sconces, was completely empty.
7
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t the pipes,” Chloe insisted at breakfast the next morning. Despite the odd disturbance, it hadn’t taken her long to fall back to sleep. By eight, they were both awake, dressed, and headed downstairs.
“Settling then,” Jack offered, taking a bite of a buttered English muffin with homemade blood orange marmalade. The dining area was in a room purposed as a parlor when the place was built, where the women would retire after dinner while the men smoked and enjoyed brandy in the library. It was the only restaurant in the hotel and cheekily named “The Dining Room.”
The ten tables, all prepared for two guests each, were spread throughout the room, offering a modest amount of privacy. Crisp white tablecloths were topped with white china rimmed with gold, aged but thoroughly-polished silverware, and crystal glasses and goblets of varying sizes for beverages.
Ten tables didn’t seem like a lot for the resort, but the reading material about the facilities explained that Stonehall Estate originally had only—only—twenty bedrooms, not including the staff accommodations on the fourth floor. More bedrooms might have been added, but the owner, Harold Stone, had insisted each bedroom have a private lavatory, which limited the space available for bedrooms. Ultimately, that had been a good thing for the modern-day use of the mansion as a resort.
The number of rooms, however, meant that Stonehall Estate was a boutique resort, capable of housing a maximum of only forty guests at a time. It also meant two separate seatings for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The small number of guests would make stays cozy but lavish, rewarding visitors with a small staff-to-guest ratio, including a private butler for every four rooms. It also meant no overcrowding at the spa, where the mansion’s indoor lap pool and changing rooms had once been.
“Since when did a settling house—or pipes for that matter—stop making noise when they heard a squeak?” Chloe pressed, skewering the last of her mushroom-onion omelet and relishing the final bite. Whatever may have been the case regarding the spoiled food they had heard about the day before, the resort had managed to prepare a
delectable breakfast of omelets, grapefruit, assorted breads, and a blackberry oat milk smoothie. Trevor, the footman serving them, appeared at Chloe’s elbow to whisk away her empty plate and refill her china cup with more robust French-pressed coffee.
“Well, maybe it was a ghost then,” Jack teased before downing the last of his coffee. He politely declined a refill when Trevor tried to top it off.
“Did I hear someone mention a ghost?” Deidre said, smiling as she approached their table. She wore a slightly different style navy pantsuit than she had the day before and modest black heels. Her hair was twisted into a low bun, and a thin gold chain graced her neck. She looked, if possible, even more elegant today. Chloe was grateful she had made an effort that morning, choosing a cream cashmere sweater, her favorite fitted khaki pants, and cocoa-colored ankle boots.
“Chloe thinks she heard something last night,” Jack said, “in the walls.” He raised his eyebrows ominously.
A flicker of embarrassment curdled in Chloe’s gut, and she glanced up at Deidre to explain, expecting the woman’s smile to have widened in amusement. But instead, Deidre gave a confident nod and pursed her lips in satisfaction.
“So,” Deidre said, “you’ve met Lily.”
After breakfast, Jack bowed out of the tour of the mansion, having come up with some ideas for his book and wanting to get a jump on that. Chloe went with Deidre, who insisted the tour had to start at the top of the grand staircase. They stood there now, before a larger-than-life-portrait of four individuals in an ornate gold frame centered on the back wall of the grand staircase’s landing. Long hallways extended on either side of the main landing, continuing into the depths of the mansion beyond. Also extending from the main landing, jutting back out over the foyer, were two smaller landings, more than a dozen feet squared each, supported by columns beneath.