Unintended Detour: A Christian Suspense Novel (The Unintended Series Book 3)

by D. L. Wood

  Greg put a hand on Vanessa’s arm. “Mrs. Bartholomew doesn’t want to hear all that.”

  “Sorry,” Vanessa said. “You don’t. We’ve just been living it for the full fourteen months of the renovation. Anyway, we were already here for more than a year before Bartholomew Hotels bought the place. We live in the groundskeeper’s cottage out behind the stable. You’ll see it on the edge of the woods when you leave. Since we knew the place inside and out, Bartholomew Hotels asked us to stay. I was raised on a Tennessee Walking Horse farm, so managing the stable was a perfect fit.”

  “Seems like a lot of horses for a resort that can only house forty guests at a time,” Chloe remarked.

  “We’re open to the community as well, or at least we will be once the place is fully up and running. I’ve got a couple of stable hands who’ll cycle through the week, also helping with guided rides. What about you? Do you ride?”

  “I can. I have. I used to work for a travel magazine, reviewing resorts. Sometimes that involved riding horses.”

  “Then you’ll have to take one out. You and your husband. There are beautiful trails winding through the woods, and it’s especially gorgeous with the snow.”

  “We’ll do that. Jack’s writing—he’s here working primarily—but he’ll need a break now and again. I know he’d love it.”

  “Great. Just call down, and we’ll saddle them up for you.”

  Chloe’s gaze drifted to the kids, who had worked their way halfway down the stable. “How old are they?”

  “Six going on twenty,” Greg said, and Vanessa chuckled.

  “This is a great place to spend your childhood.”

  “I think they feel a little caged in at times. They’re not supposed to be seen or heard, except in the stable,” Greg said.

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s a luxury resort. The last thing guests want is a couple of kids running around. We were asked to keep them out of sight. So don’t be surprised if you don’t see much of them,” Vanessa replied.

  Chloe wasn’t sure how to respond to that. She was glad Bartholomew Hotels didn’t give the Praters the boot just because they had children. But having to keep them out of sight seemed a little unfair and hard on the kids. “They seem perfectly behaved to me. You have a lovely family.”

  A lovely family. The thought brought on a familiar sinking feeling and a wave of lightheadedness rolled over Chloe. She looked past Vanessa, out a window at the back of the stable, focusing on the trees beyond and inhaled a slow breath.

  “You all right, Mrs. Bartholomew?”

  Chloe heard Vanessa Prater as if underwater and shook her head. “Sorry, what?”

  “Are you all right? You looked like you disappeared on us for a second.”

  “No, I… It’s just been a long day already and it’s only half through. And please, call me Chloe.” She desperately wanted to switch the focus off of her. Chloe patted Crocker once more, running a hand down the side of his neck, then over his black mane. “I guess I’d better get back. But I promise I’ll be calling about that ride soon. Maybe we could go out together?”

  “Sounds great,” Vanessa said. “Looking forward to it.”

  Chloe left the four of them behind and headed for the main house. As she walked the path back, she steeled herself, shoving the lingering wistfulness plaguing her insides as far down as it would go.

  11

  Chloe sat on the floor in front of the fire in their room on a fluffy white rug, sipping a cup of hot cocoa. Three different kinds of marshmallows in cute little crystal decanters sat atop the silver tray room service had delivered the mugs on. Jack laid on the floor opposite Chloe, propped on a pillow he’d pulled from one of the two upholstered gliders facing the hearth, holding his nearly empty mug.

  That afternoon, after her time in the stable, she had pulled him away from his writing long enough for Martin, the footman, to give them an hour-long tour of the house and grounds. Deidre was tied up with issues surrounding Nate’s death, so she had Martin step in. Chloe was surprised at how knowledgeable Martin was about it all, including the tragic events of the 1930 New Year’s Eve Ball and the areas of the mansion involved, particularly since he’d said tours weren’t typically part of his duties. By the end, she was grateful to have the background information and a broader understanding of the estate before getting started on the exhibit.

  When they were finished, Jack returned to his writing for a while and she headed to the gallery to begin wading through everything, trying to get a sense of what was what and where to start. Eventually they met back up for dinner on the back terrace. Gas-powered heaters warmed them while they overlooked the Hudson, the occasional boat cutting through the frigid waters, lights bobbing up and down in the darkness as the sound of old jazz serenaded them. The beef Wellington, garlic butter broccolini, and smashed red potatoes left them feeling as if they should be rolled to their room. When they arrived, a tray of hot chocolate awaited them.

  Jack hadn’t wanted to talk about his book’s progress but instead peppered her with questions about the history of the estate. She had already shared the main parts of the tragic tale with him and was now delving into the deeper parts of the story she had uncovered during the afternoon. Several letters were spread out beside her, along with a photo album and file from the original police investigation.

  “Oh…and I can’t believe I haven’t even gotten to the part about the rest of the family,” she said, tossing back another swig of rich, chocolatey smoothness topped with frothy melted vanilla marshmallows.

  Jack set his mug down, and eyed her with amusement. “You’ve got a mustache.” He kissed it off her lip, then leaned back again. “So tell me the rest of it.”

  “Cora, the sister, didn’t speak for nearly six months. She wouldn’t leave Mary’s side—”

  “Sorry, who’s Mary?”

  “Oh, sorry, Mary Graves, Lily’s lady’s maid, who also served as Cora’s nanny. Eventually, Cora went on to marry and live a normal life, but the rest of the family didn’t fare so well. The mother never recovered.”

  “It’s understandable,” Jack said. “Can you imagine watching your own child shot in front of you?”

  Chloe preferred not to imagine it at all and kept her thoughts focused on the mystery. “Florence became a raging alcoholic. She was killed in a car crash eight years later while driving drunk.”

  “And the father?” Jack asked.

  “Harold Stone was never the same. He apparently had never been a very affectionate person, but after Lily’s death, he fully shut himself off from his family. Between that and his dwindling finances, it was just too much for him. His businesses never recovered, and by 1933 he was bankrupt. The ironic thing was that the estate was paid for, but because he didn’t have the cash flow to maintain it, he had to put it up for auction. Some holding company bought it, and then it went through decades of changing hands. I don’t know the whole story yet, but my plan is to map it out, make it part of the exhibit.”

  “It sounds like a lot of work. Are you sure you want to take it on?”

  “Honestly, Jack, I’ve been sucked into it. I love looking at these old photographs and putting the story of these people together. It’s always what I wondered about when I took shots of people on my travels, imagining who they were and what their stories were. Now, I get to find out and tell this one. Plus, I get the sense that there’s so much more to it than has already been fleshed out.”

  “That’s a lot to do with just days until the opening. Their historian really left them in a lurch.”

  Chloe’s full stomach suddenly felt hollow as she swiveled her gaze to the roaring fire. She had wondered when this would come up. “It wasn’t her fault. She was eight months pregnant and fell down the stairs. She’s fine, but they put her on bed rest. It just happened last week—but even before that she was already falling behind, something about pieces that kept going missing or something.”

  She expected to see it in his face when she gl
anced back at him. That knowing look. That sadness.

  No, not sadness. Pity.

  And every time she saw that look on his face, it cut to the quick, a knife made of disappointment, self-doubt, and worse, failure. More than once she wondered if that was what he saw in her face when he’d been at his worst after being shot in the leg a couple years ago, before it improved to the point that it rarely bothered him. But back in the early days of the injury, in those difficult times, he never liked to talk about it, and she thought maybe she understood that a little better now. When you couldn’t fix it, when you couldn’t do anything to make your pain better, sometimes talking about it only made it worse. And so did seeing that pain reflected in the eyes of the person you loved most in the world. Only this time, it wasn’t only her pain. It was his too.

  She expected to see all of that in his expression, but he surprised her.

  His chiseled face, with the square jaw and scratchy stubble, instantly softened, his eyes even misting a bit. “She was pregnant?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  “Is pregnant,” Chloe corrected. “Deidre said she’s fine.”

  “But…oh, Chlo.” He scooted onto his knees, took the mug from her and, after setting it down, gathered her in his arms. She leaned into him, breathing in the fresh, clean scent of his soap. “That couldn’t have been easy.”

  She wanted to tell him to stop treating her like this. To stop acting as if she were a fragile doll, in danger of breaking any time she came across someone who was pregnant. She wanted to tell him that, but the truth was, she was that fragile sometimes. And at the very least, it did sting a little every time she heard of another pregnancy or saw young children in action. Like it had today. First with the gallery historian, then with the Prater family in the stable. Everything she wanted, hoped for, dreamed of, had been pushed right in her face with that sweet family. Everything she wanted but so far had been denied. After two miscarriages in two years, she couldn’t help wondering if it would ever happen for them.

  She hated that she felt that way, and a flash of anger at herself seared through her. Because it wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful. God had given her a husband—an amazing husband, the love of her life, in fact. And he had returned her family to her—her father, as well as a half-sister and half-brother she adored. But she couldn’t help grieving the child she desperately wanted but thus far had been unable to carry. Would she ever be able to? What would it mean to Jack if she couldn’t? It would break his heart, and the weight of that sat in her belly like a stone.

  All this and more would have shown on her face if she had turned toward Jack at that moment. She could feel it burning, the swell of heat on her skin as she fought back tears. So instead she stared at the fire, willing the feeling to pass. “It was fine,” she finally said, and managed to keep her voice from shaking. “Honestly, I think I’m starting to get numb to it.”

  “Don’t be brave with me.” He leaned back so he could see her face, and she felt the tears gathering. He wiped them away, one eye at a time. “I’m sorry that happened. One of the reasons we came here was to give you time to process this. Not have it thrust in your face.”

  “Maybe that’s part of it, Jack. Maybe it’s not about escaping the situation but coming to terms with it. Coming to terms with the wait.”

  The wait. That was something she had come to know well in the last year and a half. She knew no one liked to wait. That was no surprise. But for her, waiting on things she couldn’t control was torture. Especially when her heart was so wrapped up in it. This thing she wanted more than anything was something God was asking her to wait on. To wait to see if there would ever be a yes. To wait to see if, instead, she and the unbelievably precious man before her, who had saved her every way a person could be saved, whom she loved more than anything, would be denied this blessing. Could she come to terms with something like that? Or was it just too hard?

  “Maybe this gallery exhibit is something for me to dig into so I don’t dwell on it,” she suggested.

  He raised his eyebrows doubtfully.

  “Okay, so maybe at least I don’t obsess about it. I haven’t had something to pour myself into since leaving Terra Traveler a month ago. And without a job or a career plan, and all this up in the air, I’ve been a little, well…lost.”

  “You didn’t have to quit without a plan. If that was a mistake, you could still go back to it—”

  “No. I don’t want us to be apart that much. Whatever’s next, it’s not returning to a job that keeps me away from you two weeks out of every month.”

  “So that’s a decision made, right?” he said. “One down. You’ll find your next thing eventually.”

  “When the timing’s right.”

  “When the timing’s right,” he echoed, his green eyes full of confidence.

  “I just wish God and I had the same idea about what constitutes good timing,” she said wryly.

  “Until then, if you think this gallery thing will help, if it’s sparking interest in you, then I say go for it. Dive in and make it the best it can be. I know Dad will be grateful if you save the day.”

  “Chloe to the rescue,” she said, flashing him a half-grin.

  “This time. I recall one or two times I rescued you.”

  “Is that so?” she teased.

  “Or three or four,” he said, leaning down to kiss her.

  Chloe shot up in bed, this time precisely aware of what had woken her. And it wasn’t some ghostly legend or pipes rattling or the old house settling.

  It was what she remembered.

  The light. The light outside the window I saw last night just before hearing those sounds. I was so distracted by them, and then Lily’s story, I forgot all about it.

  That light had come from the front of the house, on the same side as the outbuilding. Was it close to the outbuilding?

  What had it been? Two? Two thirty?

  Could it have been Nate Lewis?

  Or someone with him?

  So far, it was her understanding that the police hadn’t indicated whether Nate’s death was considered an accident or foul play.

  Her eyes shot to Jack in the darkness, his silhouette outlined by the moonlight streaming in through the windows, falling across the thick duvet that covered him. He was in a deep sleep.

  Should I wake him?

  No. There wasn’t anything to be done tonight. But she would need to get in touch with the police first thing in the morning.

  She felt the corners of her mouth turn down as frustration soured her stomach.

  How could I forget something like that? They interviewed me and everything! I can’t believe I didn’t think about it.

  Would it have changed anything, though? So she had seen a light. So what? She couldn’t even be sure it came from the outbuilding.

  It would put a time on some kind of activity happening near there though.

  Had they found a flashlight? She didn’t remember seeing one in the outbuilding. Would the lack of one prove someone else was there with Nate? Then again, even if a flashlight hadn’t been found, the light could have come from a flashlight app on Nate’s phone.

  So maybe it didn’t mean anything.

  But had they found his cell phone on him?

  Everything in her wanted to wake Jack and run it by him, but she didn’t have the heart to rouse him.

  This could wait. Even so, it was another hour before thoughts of that light and what it might mean stopped circling her brain, allowing her to fall into a restless sleep, her subconscious itching for morning to come.

  12

  Chloe lasted until six thirty.

  After tossing several times and realizing any more movement was going to wake Jack, she slipped out of bed and dressed in lined yoga pants and a heavy sweater. She pulled on her waterproof snow boots and grabbed her parka, hat, and gloves, then went into the hall, holding the door so that it quietly clicked shut behind her.

  The hallway was abandoned but wouldn’t be fo
r long. The rest of the guests would begin arriving that night up until the grand opening on New Year’s Eve when, according to Deidre, every guest room would be filled.

  There was something eerie about the corridor and its silence, gas lamps flickering as they guided her toward the stairs. Chloe still wasn’t used to the lack of an elevator. It made sense that historic preservation rules precluded that kind of modernization. She could only imagine the awful gutting of a part of the house that would have been required to accommodate an elevator.

  She made it all the way to the second-floor grand staircase landing before seeing another human being. A housemaid outfitted in a black dress overlaid with a simple, full-body apron trimmed in plain lace was headed toward her from the direction of the gallery. She must have been distracted because when she saw Chloe, she jumped.

  “Sorry!” Chloe exclaimed, her heart going out to the young woman who clearly had not expected to see anyone.

  “No, it’s fine. You just startled me,” the maid said, approaching Chloe with a hand to her chest.

  “It’s pretty early for you to be up and about, isn’t it?” Chloe asked. “Especially with no other guests here?”

  “We’ve been operating as if there are guests for over two weeks, ma’am. Preparing for the real thing. Is there something you need? Can I get someone for you?”

  “Actually, I was hoping to find a stout cup of coffee that I could take with me. I wanted to walk the grounds out back. Take a look at the river.”

  The maid—“Nina” according to her name tag—looked Chloe up and down. “You sure you’ll be warm enough? The wind off the river can be pretty frosty.”

  Chloe had already checked the temperature—forty degrees—and was pretty sure her ski parka could handle it. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

  “Okay. There’s fresh coffee in the reception foyer every morning by five thirty, so it’ll be out now.”

  “Great, thanks.” Chloe left Nina to her work and headed down the stairs. The coffee station, for lack of a better term, was set up on an antique sideboard across from the check-in desk, which was currently unmanned. Three brilliantly polished samovars contained, going by their brass-plated tags, regular coffee, decaf, and hot water. The hot water was presumably for the endless varieties of teas and hot chocolates displayed in an open wooden box. Although china cups and artisan mugs were both available, Chloe selected a to-go cup with the Stonehall logo on it. After filling it with full-octane coffee, doctoring it with cream and sugar, and giving the cinnamon a quick shake over it for interest, she popped on a plastic lid and headed out the front door.