Page 1 of House of Soot

1

JENNA

The rich soil crumbles between my fingers as I dig another hole in the garden bed. Spring blooms wait in their plastic containers. Right now, I’m preparing to plant purple bleeding hearts in their new home in the Kean estate's flower beds. I’ve always loved the colorful heart-shaped flowers, but right now, the moment is bittersweet as I remember kneeling beside my mother as a child when this was the Ifrinns’ garden, her hands guiding mine as we planted the pretty bushes.

"Nature knows what it's doing, sweet pea," she'd say, showing me how to pack the soil. "We're just here to give it a helping hand."

I sniff away the sadness, trying to focus on the beauty of nature instead. Mom can't garden anymore. She can barely make it from her bed to the bathroom some days. The doctors say her heart is failing. When I think about losing her, I feel like mine is failing as well.

I grab another bleeding heart, pulling it from its container and lowering it into the hole. Why can’t replacing a heart be as easy as transplanting plants? I suppose it’s because you can’t just run down to the nursery to get a new heart. The transplant list isso long, and Mom's getting weaker. She’s all I have in the world. I’m not sure how I’ll survive without her.

"Girl, if you don't get your butt inside right now, I'm gonna drag you by those muddy gardening gloves!"

I jump at Debbie's voice. She stands at the garden entrance, hands on her hips, giving me her best attempt at a stern look, which mostly makes her nose scrunch up like an angry rabbit.

"Five more minutes?" I pat the soil around the plant's base.

"That's what you said an hour ago." Debbie marches over, her heels sinking into the soft earth. "The flowers will still be here after lunch, but my sanity won't be if I have to watch you skip another meal. You’re gonna waste away into nothing, and since you’re my only friend here, I can’t have that."

"I'm not skipping—" My stomach betrays me with a loud growl.

"Uh-huh." She plucks the trowel from my hand and dangles it just out of reach. "When's the last time you ate?"

I open my mouth, then close it. The breakfast granola bar doesn't count, and we both know it.

"That's what I thought." Debbie tosses the trowel into my garden basket. "Come on, I made those cucumber sandwiches you love. You know, the ones with the fancy cream cheese spread?"

"The ones with dill?"

"And extra pepper, just how you like them." She extends her hand, wiggling her perfectly manicured fingers. "Plus, I need someone to complain to about Mrs. Adams and how she’s making me do all the work in the kitchen."

I laugh as I take her hand and let her pull me up. Debbie is around my age, twenty-three, and much more outgoing and worldly than I am. Aside from my mother, she’s my only real friend.

As Debbie heads toward the house, I pause to gather a few fresh-cut flowers from the west garden bed. The spring blooms are perfect for the foyer. Mrs. Kean always insists on fresh arrangements.

"Just a quick stop at the cutting garden," I call to Debbie, veering off the stone path. My pruning shears snip through green stems.

“Good God, girl, didn’t you already bring in fresh flowers this morning?” Debbie's voice is filled with irritation now.

"These are for the foyer." But I can’t help but wonder if Ronan Kean needs more flowers in his office. The ones I brought him yesterday might be starting to wilt.

My eyes drift to the third-floor window where I know his office sits. I can imagine him there looking powerful and handsome. He’s always been good to me and my mother, taking us in after the Ifrinns’ home burned down.

What a sad tragedy that was. The Ifrinns were good to my mom, letting her keep me around while she worked the gardens when I wasn’t in school. It’s why I know these gardens so well. I grew up in them.

When the Ifrinns were tragically killed in the fire, the Keans, close friends and associates with the Ifrinns, stepped in. They rebuilt the home and kept my mother on as the groundskeeper, and later, as she got ill, they hired me to tend the land and have helped me care for her.

I hurry to catch up with Debbie, careful not to disturb the pretty blooms. The kitchen welcomes us with the aromas of fresh-baked bread and herbs. I place the flowers in a temporary vase while Debbie slides a plate of perfectly triangled sandwiches across the marble counter.

“Did you hear the FBI wants to talk to Mr. Kean?” Debbie leans forward, lowering her voice despite our being alone.

“The father or Ronan?” I really don’t understand what all the hubbub is about. Okay, so I know that the Keans’ business practices aren’t always on the up and up, but what large business ever is? Corporations commit fraud and take advantage of laws all the time.

“The father. Questions about the fire ten years ago.”

I shake my head, not believing the rumors. Several months ago, an article came out questioning whether the fire was an accident and hinting that the Keans may have set it to take over the Ifrinns’ business. I don’t buy it for a minute. The Keans and Ifrinns were friends and business associates. I know Hampton Kean respected Patrick Ifrinn. He’d have never killed Patrick, much less his wife and possibly their four sons, none of whom have been seen in a decade.

I take a bite of sandwich, the cool cucumber and creamy spread almost making me forget my growling stomach. “Society always likes to tear down successful people. The Keans have always been good to this community." They’ve certainly been good to me, helping me with my mother.

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