nodded. “If I don’t have to replace the entire septic system, it’s possible to be in in a couple days. But don’t bank on it.” He tipped his ball cap. “Night, Miss Taylor.”
“Please, call me Jillian,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.” Bob hurried toward his four-door truck with Bob’s Building written in faded red lettering across the side panel. His team of carpenters was already inside, ready to go home.
Jillian opened the screen door. Every time she did, she had the tingly sensation of déjà vu.
A loud thump was followed by a string of curses at the back of the house.
Following the sounds, Jillian arrived in the kitchen, where Mitchell Knowlton held one thumb with his other hand, dancing around the yellowed linoleum floor.
“Are you all right?” Jillian asked.
Mitchell turned so fast he didn’t take into account the corner of the old upper cabinets, which had yet to be thrown out, and smacked his head on the sharp edge. He clamped his lips tightly together, his face turning a bright red. “Smashed my thumb,” he finally grumbled, alternating between pressing his fingers to his forehead and his battered thumb. “Should have listened to my wife.”
Jillian chuckled. “Did she tell you not to hit your thumb?”
“No.” He frowned. “She told me not to take this job.”
“Why?” Jillian asked, taken aback by Mitchell’s revelation.
“She says the place is haunted. Something bad happened here almost two decades ago. When the last owners moved out, no one would buy it. All the old-timers think it’s because it’s haunted.”
This wasn’t the first time she’d heard the stories. No matter what everyone else said, the house called to her like no other. She’d be damned if she was scared off by tales of ghosts. “You’re not an old-timer, Mitchell.” Jillian crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you believe this place is haunted?”
He shrugged and gathered his hammer. “No offense, but I think you’re crazy trying to restore this big ol’ house. It’s more than a single lady can manage on her own, much less maintain the yard.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” She tapped her toe, her brows raised in challenge.
Mitchell shoved a hand through his sandy hair. “Don’t know about ghosts, but I have a weird feeling about this place. None of the other old houses I’ve rewired made me feel like that.”
“Well, I think it’s a grand ol’ house. And if there are ghosts, I bet they’re just as grand as the house. If it makes you feel any better, plan your work when there are others in the house. Maybe ghosts don’t like crowds.”
“Ah, now, Miss Taylor.”
“Jillian,” she corrected.
“I better stick to Miss Taylor. If my wife hears me callin’ you Jillian, she’ll let me have it.”
Mitchell wasn’t much older than Jillian, but he and his wife had been married for seven years and had two small boys.
“In fact, I should leave if you’re going to be here for a while. She doesn’t like me to hang around after hours. Especially...”
“If I’m here.” Jillian smiled. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan on stealin’ Caroline’s man.” She winked. “I’m not in the market for a relationship, legitimate or clandestine. I just want my house fixed so I can move in as soon as possible.”
Mitchell’s face reddened. “Sorry. Being eight months pregnant, Caroline’s a little jealous when I’m working around pretty single women.”
Jillian beamed. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Tell Caroline she has nothing to worry about. I have too much to keep me busy to bother with men right now. Between renovating this house, running my real estate business and planning Molly McGregor’s wedding, I barely have time to sleep.”
“Ever think you might have taken on too much?”
A slightly hysterical giggle left Jillian’s lips. “Yup.”
Mitchell shook his head. “When is the construction crew going to start the demolition of the kitchen and bathrooms?”
Jillian’s mouth twisted and she glanced around. “They were supposed to start today. But I can see nothing’s been done.”
“What time is it anyway?” Mitchell glanced at his watch and blinked. “Holy smokes. I have to pick up the boys at Mother’s Day Out.” He gathered his tools and slung them into a tool bag.
“Mitchell, don’t let the stories keep you from rewiring my house. I have it from one of the top Realtors in Cape Churn that you’re the best electrician for the job. I’m counting on you to bring the house up to code without burning it down.”
Mitchell paused with his hand on the door. He stared past her, his gaze taking in the sweeping staircase and the rooms at the front of the house. “I’ll do the job. With a baby on the way, I need the money. Hopefully it won’t take long.”
Otherwise he wouldn’t be doing the job. Jillian heard the unspoken words. She didn’t care, as long as the job got done. “Thank you, Mitchell. Say hello to Caroline for me.” If it helped, she’d stop by with some fresh-baked cookies for the family. When she had a kitchen to bake them in.
Mitchell drove away in a cloud of dust. Someday, when she could afford it, she’d have the driveway paved. That particular upgrade was way down the list of priorities.
Finally, she had the house to herself. Jillian wandered around, with a keen eye for what flooring, cabinets and countertops would be best in each room. She’d been a real estate agent long enough to know what she liked and what fit with the style of house she’d purchased. As she went through the kitchen, she stopped in front of the window over the sink and stared out at the overgrown backyard, reminding herself that the house came first, then the yard.
A movement in the corner of her eye made her turn her head. Had Mitchell or Bob forgotten something and returned to the house? Jillian stepped out the back door to check, a salty breeze lifting her hair off the nape of her neck. No one was there. She reentered the house, shaking her head. Mitchell and some of the older residents of Cape Churn, with all their talk about ghosts and missing persons, had her spooked.
Determined to shake it off, Jillian opened and closed the kitchen cabinet doors, checking one last time for any leftover items that needed to be removed before demolition started. All she found was an old soda bottle.
With one last glance at the kitchen, Jillian was in the process of turning to leave when she noticed the door to the basement standing ajar. She didn’t remember the door being open when she’d first entered the kitchen. Perhaps the breeze from the back door had opened it.
Jillian strode across the kitchen, grasped the doorknob and started to push it closed when she heard the plaintive cry of a kitten.
She froze with her hand on the knob and tilted her head, listening.
Again, she heard
