main house at Ashbourne was a gracefully wrought Greek Revival dwelling of antique cherry-colored brick and Doric columns. Symmetrical wings—two-story where the main house was three—gently embraced the wide rear veranda and flagstone terrace. In Harry’s day the gardens of hollies and mountain laurels, Persian lilacs and wisteria, had been perfectly manicured, never elaborate, but as classic and tasteful as the house itself.
Over the years the gardens had weathered. Ancient maples, mimosas and hickories had fallen to lightning or drought; the boxwood maze that Harry had planted during Maisy’s pregnancy had grown into an impenetrable hedge obstructing movement and sight until a landscaper had removed it. Over the years the meticulous borders of bulbs and perennials had naturalized into a raucous meadow that ate away at grass and shrubs, spreading farther out of bounds each season.
Maisy preferred the garden that way. The house was empty now, and the black-eyed Susans, corn poppies and spikes of chicory and Virginia bluebells warmed and softened its aging exterior. Neither the house nor the gardens had fallen to rack and ruin. She made certain all the necessary maintenance was done. Jake did much of it, a man as handy as he was good-natured. But the property was simply biding its time until Harry’s daughter decided what should be done about it.
Maisy and Jake lived in the caretaker’s cottage, a blue stone fairy-tale dwelling that was the oldest building on the property. The cottage perched on the edge of deep woods where foxes and groundhogs snuggled into comfortable dens and owls kept vigil on the loneliest nights.
The cottage was two-story, with a wide center hallway and cozy rooms that huddled without rhyme or reason, one on top of the other. The furnace and the plumbing groaned and clattered, and the wind whistled through cracks between window frames and ledges. Maisy and Jake were in agreement that the house’s idiosyncrasies were as much a part of its charm as its slate roof or multitude of fireplaces.
The sky was already growing dark by the time Maisy returned from her visit to the Gandy Willson Clinic. Inky cloud layers lapped one over the other, shutting out what sunset there might have been and boding poorly for a starry night. She often darted outside two or three times each evening to glimpse the heavenly show. She made excuses, of course, although Jake was certainly on to her. She fed the barn cats, three aging tortoiseshells named Winken, Blinken and Nod. Sometimes she claimed to check gates for the farmer who rented Ashbourne’s prime pasture land to graze long-horned, shaggy Highland cattle. No excuse was too flimsy if it kept her on the run.
She traversed the wide driveway and pulled the pickup into its space beside the barn, taking a moment to stretch once she was on the ground. Every muscle was kinked, both from sitting still and the lack of functioning shock absorbers. She vowed, as she did every time she drove Jake’s truck, that she would have it hauled away the very next time he turned his back. She had her eye on a lipstick-red Ford Ranger sitting in a lot in Leesburg, and in her imagination, it beeped a siren song every time she passed.
As she’d expected, she found Jake in the barn. There were several on the property. The one that Harry had used to stable his world-renowned hunters was at the other side of the estate, empty of horses now and filled with artists and craftsmen to whom Maisy rented the space as a working gallery.
This barn was the original, smaller, built from hand-hewn chestnut logs and good honest sweat. Jake used it as his repair shop. There was nothing Jake couldn’t take apart and put back together so that it ran the way it was intended. People from all over Loudoun and Fauquier counties brought him toasters and lawnmowers, motor scooters and attic fans. Mostly they were people like Jake himself, who believed that everything deserved a shot at a miracle cure, people who were wealthy enough to buy new goods but maintained a love affair with the past.
When she arrived, Jake was bent over his workbench. Winken crouched at the end, lazily swatting Jake’s elbow every time it swung into range. The three felines were right at home in the barn. Like so much that Jake repaired here, they had been somebody else’s idea of trash. Maisy had found them one winter morning as they tried to claw their way out of a paper bag in the Middleburg Safeway parking lot, tiny mewling fluffballs that she’d fed religiously every two hours with a doll’s bottle, despite a serious allergy to cat dander and a craving for an uninterrupted night of sleep. Now, years later, they kept the barn free of mice and Jake company. Cats, she’d discovered, were serious advocates of quid pro quo.
“I’m back.”
Jake turned to greet her. When he was absorbed in his work he forgot his surroundings. He had the power of concentration she lacked, so much that she often teased that a burglar could steal everything in the barn, including the cobwebs, while he was working on a project.
He wiped his hands on a rag before he came over to kiss her cheek. “Did you see her?”
“Yes, I did. But not without a fight.” She knew he wouldn’t ask what she’d learned. He would wait for whatever information she wanted to reveal. She glanced over his shoulder. Blinken had joined her sister, and the two were investigating Jake’s latest project. “Work going well?”
“Liz Schaeffer brought me a mantel clock that’s been in her family for three generations. Ticking fifty beats to the minute.”
“Can you fix it?”
“I’ll have to see if I can find a new part, but most likely.” He swallowed her in his arms, as if he knew she needed his warmth. “I made chili for dinner. And corn bread’s ready to go in the oven.”
“You’re too good to me.” She relaxed against him, looking up at a face that was growing increasingly lined with age. Jake had never been a handsome man, but he had always been distinguished, well before the age the adjective usually applied. His hair was snow-white, but still as thick and curly as it had been the first time she saw him—and still, as then, a little too long. His eyes were the brown of chinquapins, eyes that promised patience but of late showed a certain fatigue, as well. Sometimes she was afraid that he was simply and finally growing tired of her.
“Let me put things away and I’ll be in to finish the meal.”
She moved away in a flurry of guilt. “Don’t be silly. I’ll put the corn bread in the oven and make a salad.” She paused. “Do we have lettuce?”
He smiled a little. “Uh-huh. I shopped yesterday.”
“Where was I?”
“Holed up in your study.”
“Oh…”
“I like to shop, Maisy. I always see somebody I know. I do more business between the carrots and eggplant than I do on the telephone. Go make a salad.”
She made it to the doorway before she turned. “Would you mind if Julia and Callie came to live with us?”
He looked up from his workbench. “Was that Julia’s idea?”
“I made the offer.” She paused. “I pushed a little.”
“Like a steamroller on autopilot.”
“She shouldn’t be there, Jake. You know that place. She’s miserable.”
“You know Julia and Callie are welcome here.”
“Was I wrong to push?”
“You’re a good mother. You always do what you think is best.”
She knew the dangers of acting on instinct,
