appearances, he well knew, were often deceiving.
Deliberately he changed the subject. “Do you know much about the old gardens?”
Despite the change, the stiffness in her shoulders didn’t ease a bit. Would she be against the project? Was she envisioning her inheritance being frittered away on flowers and fountains? “No, Grandmother’s right. I didn’t learn the family history the way a proper Howard should.”
History could be overrated. He knew his own family history for generations, but that still didn’t make them want any contact with him. They didn’t feel any less betrayed; he didn’t feel any less rejected.
“I’ve seen photos from as early as the 1870s,” he went on, his gaze settling on the fountain beside them. Built of marble and brick, with a statue in the middle, it was silent, dirty, the water stagnant in the bottom. “They were incredible. Fountains, pools, terraces.
Wildflowers, herb gardens, roses … They covered this entire area—” he waved one hand in a circle “—and extended into the woods for the shade gardens. Fair Winds once had more varieties of azaleas and crape myrtles than any other garden in the country.”
“And you’re going to replant all that.” Her tone was neutral, no resistance but no enthusiasm, either.
“Probably not all, but as much as we can. We have the original plans, photographs, detailed records from the head gardeners. We can make it look very much like it used to.”
“What happened to the gardens?”
He shrugged. “Apparently, your grandfather had everything removed. The pools were filled in, the statues taken away, the terraces leveled. Miss Willa didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask.”
Reece muttered something, but all he caught was mean and old. She’d missed the funeral, Miss Willa had said. Grandfather or not, apparently Reece wasn’t missing Arthur Howard.
Shadow fell over them, and the wind swirled with a chill absent a few seconds earlier. A few brown leaves rattled against the base of the fountain, then grew still as the air did.
As Reece did. She sat motionless, goose bumps raised all the way down her arms. He considered offering an explanation—a cloud over the sun, though there were no clouds in the sky; a gust of mechanically-cooled air from an open window or door, though he could see none of those, either—but judging by the look on her face, she didn’t need an explanation. She knew better than him the truth behind the odd moment.
Here there really were ghosties.
Did she know what he’d come to find out? Was one of them Glen’s?
Before he could say anything else, the door to the house opened and Miss Willa hustled out, her arms filled with ancient brown accordion folders and books. He rose to carry them for her, but she brushed him off and set them on the table. “These are all the records I could lay my hands on at the moment. Clarice may be able to find more in her grandfather’s boxes while she’s here.”
A look of distaste flashed across Reece’s face—at the use of her given name or the thought of digging through her grandfather’s files?
“Here’s the code to the gate—” Miss Willa slapped a piece of paper on top of the stack, then offered a key “—and the key to the cottage.”
Surprise replaced distaste in Reece’s expression, and witnessing that took Jones a moment longer to hear the words than he should have. Frowning, he looked at Miss Willa. “What cottage?”
“That one.” She pointed across the road. “There’s no place in town worth staying at for more than a night or two besides The Jasmine, and I certainly don’t intend to subsidize The Jasmine when you can stay here and keep your attention on your work.”
He generally liked staying at or near the job site. On long-term jobs, he often moved into a small trailer, which beat a motel any day. But he didn’t particularly appreciate being told where he would stay, or the assumption that he needed to be told to stay focused on his job. He was a responsible man, and while Miss Willa might well be accustomed to giving orders, he wasn’t accustomed to following them, except in the narrow scope of the job.
But he wasn’t stupid enough to argue, not when her high-handedness fit right in with his needs.
“I appreciate the invitation.” His sarcasm sailed right past Miss Willa’s ears, but earned a faint smile from Reece. “I should warn you, my dog travels with me.”
“Keep him quiet, keep him away from my house and clean up after him, and we’ll be fine.” Miss Willa shifted her gaze then to Reece. “Lois is fixing dinner. We’ll talk when that’s over.” With a nod for emphasis, she returned to the house.
The action surprised Jones. Miss Willa hadn’t seen her only granddaughter in years, and yet she casually dismissed her?
But wasn’t that what his own father had done with him? Hell, Big Dan hadn’t just dismissed him; he’d sent him away. Though Jones had betrayed Big Dan. Did Miss Willa think the same of Reece? And was there more to it than Reece missing the old man’s funeral?
Reece wasn’t surprised. Idly she opened one of the books on the table, an oversize title with musty yellow pages and decades-old plates of the most impressive gardens of the post–Civil War South. Jones had a copy in his office back in Louisville. “Grandmother doesn’t like to discuss unpleasant matters at the dinner table,” she said by way of explanation.
“What could be unpleasant about her granddaughter coming for a visit?”
“A long-neglected visit. I haven’t been here since …” Her attention shifted from the book to the house, her gaze taking in the three stories of whiteboard siding and dark green trim, the windows staring back like so many unblinking eyes. “Since I was thirteen,” she finished, the words of little more substance than a sigh.
The summer he and Glen had been there. Why? What had happened to keep her away all that time? A falling-out between her mother and grandparents? A petty argument that had grown to fill the years?
Or something more?
With a slight tremble in her fingers, she closed the book and smiled, but it lacked depth. “Fair Winds isn’t my favorite place in the world. It’s …”
He let a heartbeat pass for effect. Another. Then he softly supplied the word. “Haunted?”
She startled. Her gaze jerked to him and her arms folded across her middle as if to contain the shiver rippling through her. “You believe in ghosts, Mr. Jones?”
“I told you, it’s just Jones. No Mister. Why wouldn’t a house like this have ghosts? It’s nearly two hundred years old. Dozens of people have lived and celebrated and suffered and died here. Some of those spirits are bound to remain.”
“You’ve encountered such spirits before?”
“I have, and lived to tell the tale.”
He grinned, but the gesture didn’t relax her at all. Instead, a brooding darkness settled around her. “Wait until you’ve met Grandfather, if he’s still here. He might change that.”
Jones
