Page 39 of Falling for the Grumpy Stranger

“His ex-wife showed up, and he started up the ‘I’ve got a lot going on right now’ excuse, and since I am, as you so kindly stated, flighty, I took off as fast as a squirrel up a tree.”

“It’s probably for the best. It’s never great to start a relationship with someone who is carrying a lot of baggage.”

I burst out laughing, and I could hear the same from Dex in the background.

Aria huffed. Another thing she was good at. “Fine, so I did take up with Dex, who had a whole cargo hold of baggage.”

“That might be an exaggeration,” he said.

“Not really,” Aria whispered into the phone. “I called to let you know that I did my best to let him down easily, but now, it seems I was being foolish. He didn’t correct me. I suppose that shows he’s a gentleman.”

I could hear my sigh echo back to me through the phone. “He is and I feel bad for him, but like you said, it’s for the best.”

“Glad you’re all right.”

“Yep, just fine.” I wasn’t entirely sure that was true, and while I’d normally be pouring my heart out to Aria, I just wasn’t in the mood to talk. I was still feeling in a funk about all of it.

“Gosh, I feel so stupid. I’m embarrassed now when I think about my patronizing tone with him. He must think I’m a nutcase.”

“Or a busybody,” I added.

“Yep, deserved that. I’ve got to go. I lost the onion-chopping coin toss. Love ya.”

“Love ya.”

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and pushed away from the rock. I headed back toward the cottage. I could see the light on in Audrey’s cottage. I stopped for a second when a thought swept the wind from me. I stared up at the cottage, a small, white-shingled A-frame with a gray slate roof.

“No way,” I muttered to myself. “It can’t be.” I shook the notion from my head. Why would the ex-wife of a billionaire rent a shabby little cottage in Whisper Cove? Unless, of course, she had nefarious reasons. I shook the idea away again. It was just my imagination running wild.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

RHETT

I’d let the fire die out. I didn’t have any incentive to keep it lit other than to stay warm. I found pulling on a sweater was easier than tending the fire. I thought keeping myself busy packing up the dusty books would take my mind off things, and mostly off Ella. I felt her absence far more keenly than expected, especially given that we hadn’t known each other long. Ella was like that. She was a person who left an impression—a deep impression.

I’d packed up more than half the books and still felt as if I hadn’t made a dent. Most of the books were old, outdated fiction, not classics; just old books that somehow managed to get published and read by a handful of people. Most I’d never heard of. I pulled free a set of books that explored outer space. Their copyright date was 1957, pre-walk on the moon. I placed them in the box. I turned back to the shelf, sneezed for the tenth time and reached for another set of books. A newspaper clipping fell out from between a book about herbal medical cures and cave exploration. The paper was so yellowed and old it felt as if it might crumble into dust in my hand.

It was the front page of theWhisper Gazettefrom 1932. The photo in the middle of the page was grainy and faded, but Iimmediately recognized the coffered ceilings in the front parlor. It was a vast room with a massive marble fireplace and windows that looked out over the hillside. I unfolded the paper carefully, as if it was papyrus from a mummy’s tomb. There were a few permanent folds that I didn’t dare unfold, but I could still read most of the article. On closer inspection of the photo, I saw the focus of what the article was about. The crystal pendants of a massive chandelier were spread out over a polished wood floor. The headline read “Tragedy at Grimstone Manor.”

I sat at the big, wobbly desk. The streaks from the cloth Ella used to wipe the desk clean were still visible. I set the paper down, figuring the less I touched it, the better. Something told me the brittle paper in front of me contained an exciting piece of information about Grimstone Manor’s curse.

For those of you not following local society, it is well known to those who do that the most recent owners of Grimstone Manor, Abel and Agatha Haverton, have been creating a lot of ruckus in our otherwise peaceful town. Their parties annoyed other residents with brassy, jazzy music that played well into the early hours. Well, it seems their last party might truly be the end to the parade of commotion. It’s with great sadness we report the death of Agatha Haverton, her cousin, Mary Ripley, and Betsy Smith, a member of the household staff. The three women were killed last Saturday night when a giant chandelier broke free from its chain in the ceiling, falling directly on the victims. Witnesses believed Mary and Betsy died instantly, but Agatha was not as fortunate. She lingered in a hospital bed, her grieving husband, Abel, at her side, until she took her last breath. The couple had no children. Thisreporter wonders if they had, would Agatha still be alive? If there were children in the house, they might have thought twice about hiring a loud, trumpet-playing band. Local police think the noise from the band caused enough reverberations in the room to loosen the chandelier. The entire unspeakable tragedy has been labeled “a terrible accident” by police, who have concluded their investigation. A memorial service will be held for Agatha Haverton at Cherry Chapel next Friday evening.

Igently picked up the paper and walked to the front parlor. Heavy damask wallpaper hung in faded strips along one side of the room, exposing walls that were covered in a hideous dark red paint. I stood in the same place that was pictured in the photo. I turned my face up to the ceiling. Between the beams I spotted a long crack. The ceiling had been plastered and painted since the incident, but it seemed the original crack, the one that probably led to the chandelier fiasco, was making its way to the surface again. I’d have to remember not to hang a heavy light fixture in that spot.

I debated whether to tell Ella. It was too important to keep from her. It seemed everything in the house’s past pointed to a curse. Margaret’s death seemed circumstantial, and her cousin losing the house at the gaming tables was the result of a lot of bad decisions piled into one. But the lucky man who won the house then met an early death aboard the ill-fatedTitanic. It could be argued that he didn’t die in the house, but that seemed more like a case of semantics than anything else. Wallace was the owner of Grimstone when he drowned in the glacier-riddled ocean. This next piece of evidence was the strongest yet. What were the odds of the owner standing directly beneath achandelier that eventually fell and crushed her? It was a highly unusual way to die. Had the house also tired of the brassy, jazzy parties?

I pulled out my phone and then made an impulsive decision to deliver the news in person. That way I could hand the paper right over to her, and if she sent me on my way after that, I’d be disappointed, but I’d understand.

I pulled on a coat and walked out to the truck. The rumbly, faded old truck was the first thing I bought after selling the company. I could have bought it at any time. Heck, I could have bought a fleet of old, run-down trucks without a second thought. Growing up, when things were tight and every bit of money went toward the basics of living, I worked hard at a local hardware store to earn enough money to buy our neighbor’s old Ford. I loved that truck and felt like quite the big man on campus whenever I pulled into the high school parking lot. Then one day, the transmission decided it had had enough. I never had enough money in my pocket to get a new transmission, and so the truck sat there in the driveway looking sad and lonely, and my heart ached every time I walked or rode past it on my bike. One afternoon, I came home from high school and a tow truck was hauling my old buddy away. Dad just didn’t want it in the driveway anymore. I was mad at first, then I realized it was easier to not see it sitting there, rusting and decaying.

It took a few tries before the engine fired up. I patted the steering wheel. “Good job, buddy. I knew you had it in you.” The weather was almost decent enough for a walk on the beach. If only I was in the mood for one.

I reached the cottage. It had an almost storybook quality about it, especially with the fantasy-worthy view of blue, frothy-edged ocean and equally blue sky. I turned off the truck and realized I was nervous. Most of that came from the distinct possibility that Ella would not even invite me in, and if she did,then what? Christine’s visit had really knocked me off balance. I thought I needed space, and I didn’t want to drag Ella into my life right now, but I was wrong. I’d spent the morning thinking how badly I missed having her there, talking and laughing and being in the light that always seemed to be radiating around her.

I picked up the newspaper clipping I’d found and walked to the door. A tall woman with black hair, green eyes and what I would call the “Lovely sparkle” answered the door. “You must be Rhett,” she said with a friendly smile. “I’m Ava, Ella’s sister. Come on in. She’s out on the back patio. It’s been so nice outside she’s spent most of the day out there.” She motioned me inside.

“You can hang your coat there.” She pointed to a coat rack that was practically falling over with coats and scarves. She laughed. “If you can find a free hook. I can hold that.” I handed her the newspaper.

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