Page 5 of Holiday Hideaway
The dishes were old fashioned but pretty: gold rimmed and painted with delicate blue flowers. She plucked a bowl and a mug from the box, closed it, and then trudged back upstairs to her attic lair after stopping in the second-floor bathroom to reclaim her tube of toothpaste.
A little over two decades earlier, when he’d left Piney Point in his rearview mirror, George had promised himself he’d never return to the hometown he thought of as his own personal purgatory.
A math prodigy, he’d landed at Piney Point High after skipping eighth grade. He’d been a skinny, geeky fifteen-year-old junior, attracting the wrong kind of attention from bullies like Denny Markovich. Too shy to date and too young to drive, George had pedaled his ten-speed to school most days, risking life and limb when Markovich routinely tried to run him off the road with his souped-up muscle car. The happiest day of his life had been the day he’d earned early admission to MIT.
But now that he was back, his curiosity got the better of him. He cruised slowly past his family’s former home.
The brick had been painted white, and dormer windows had been added onto the second story. An inflatable Santa and reindeer danced across the front lawn, and a minivan was parked in the driveway. Another family lived there now, and that made him smile. He wondered if the ancient apple tree still stood in the backyard and whether some little boy pelted his sisters with rotten apples the way he had back in the day.
What would it be like, George wondered idly, to live here now? The past was past, wasn’t it? That skinny oddball was history. He was a wealthy, successful businessman now, and his family had deep roots here, didn’t they? Maybe he’d question Tilly about real estate prices. Just to get a gauge ... he quickly banished the thought as sentimental and ridiculous. His life and work were in Boston now. And then there was Vanessa, with her plans for their future. The Crowe’s Nest and Piney Point played no part in the blueprint she envisioned. How the hell had things gotten this far with her? And how the hell could he disentangle himself?
As he drove toward downtown, George was struck by how dramatically the village had changed since his departure at the age of sixteen. City hall, once located in a converted gas station, had found a new home at the site of the former Porter Brothers Department Store. The downtown business district, once blighted by row upon row of vacant storefronts, was bustling with new businesses with names like Sassy SquirrelGifts and Antiques, the Peppy Pelican Café, and, wonder of wonders, even a Starbucks. Strands of white rope lights crisscrossed Main Street, and every utility pole displayed huge wreaths. When had the town gone upscale?
George was comforted by the lack of change at Moody’s Building Supply. It still smelled of fresh-cut lumber and paint thinner, and he swore the clerk who tallied up his purchases—in pencil, on a yellow legal pad—was the same kindly white-haired woman who’d handed him complimentary sour balls when he’d accompanied his father back in the day.
Once he got back to the house, it took him three trips to bring in all the purchases he’d picked up in town.
He moved his supplies into the parlor and was about to resume his wallpaper-removal project when he noticed the box of dishes he’d unloaded from the corner cupboard. Something about the carton was different; it had been overfull, so he’d left the flaps unfastened. Now, they were neatly closed, and when he looked inside, he could tell that a couple of pieces were missing.
What the hell?He glanced around the room, but nothing else had been disturbed. He checked the front and back doors and was positive the locks hadn’t been tampered with. He walked slowly around the first floor, opening every cupboard and closet. He stared at the contents of the pantry and frowned. He could have sworn he’d spotted a box of Ritz Crackers there just last night, but now it was gone, and the box of instant oatmeal seemed to be short a couple of packets too.
He went up to the second floor and, at first glance, was relieved that nothing was amiss, until he got to the bathroom. The toilet seat was down. Huh? He’d gotten an unreasonable amount of satisfaction these past few days from deliberately leaving the seatupmost of the time, because Vanessa wasconstantly harping on him about leaving it down as a courtesy to her.
George climbed the stairs to the attic, stooping because of the steep pitch of the roof. He tried the door, which was weirdly short, but it was locked. “Huh.” He shrugged and went back downstairs to tackle his seemingly mile-long list of repairs.
Tilly’s heart sank when she spied George unloading the contents of the Jeep. Back and forth he went, with boxes and bags from Moody’s Building Supply. This was what she’d been afraid of—that he’d settle in and start working on the house. And then how would she escape?
A chill went down her spine when she heard him walking around on the first floor, opening and closing cabinets. Next came footsteps on the stairs. He was doing the same thing on the second floor. But he wouldn’t find anything, would he? He kept climbing, and now he was right outside on the landing, on the other side of the attic door, and as she backed away, to the farthest corner of the room, she thought she’d pass out from fear. The knob turned, but the lock held. She froze and found herself holding her breath. Two minutes that felt like two months passed. She heard him mutter something, and then the footsteps receded. She slowly exhaled.
Her phone vibrated with an incoming text. It was from him.
Hey Tilly. Any chance someone else has a key to this house? Strongly suspect someone has been in here. Missing pieces of china and food.
Dammit. She could have kicked herself. She chewed her lower lip while she considered how to reply. He seemed to respond well to sarcasm, so ...
All keys accounted for. Have you considered possibility house is haunted? Guests have reported strange noises, which is why house hasn’t been rented. Suggest you leave and arrange for an exorcism.
His answer came back immediately.
I ain’t scared of no ghosts. In the meantime, maybe you should drop by this afternoon so I can get your opinion on how to get this mausoleum ready to sell? I bought a decent bottle of wine while I was in town. I’ll use that swill that was in your company’s hospitality package to clean my paint brushes.
“Noooo,” she whispered, glancing over at Smoosh, who thumped his tail in agreement.
Sorry. No can do. Company policy forbids fraternization with our homeowners.
His response was quick.
It’s a consultation, not a fraternization. Anyway, I’m selling the house, so I’m technically no longer “your” homeowner.
Tilly glanced over at Smoosh. Was George actually flirting with her? It felt kind of nice. But also kind of scary. She shoved the phone under the sofa cushion so she wouldn’t be tempted to flirt back.
George stared at his phone, willing Tilly to text back, to agree to come over to the house, strictly in a professional capacity, of course. Although, yeah, he was curious to see what this Tilly person looked like in person. When five minutes passed without another message, he sighed and tucked his phone in his back pocket.
Ghosts? He had to laugh. No self-respecting ghost would have taken up residence here. Uncle Gus would have driven them off long ago.
He got out the spray bottle of solvent and was about to tackle the parlor wallpaper when he noticed the old-timey clock radio sitting on top of the fireplace mantel. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such a relic. The hands of the clock had stopped at 11:35, but maybe the radio still worked? He fumbled around with the yellowing plastic knobs, then finally turned one with a satisfying click that filled the room with the bombastic voice of a talk show host debating tax policy with an irate male caller.
His great-uncle had been a big fan of talk radio. George fiddled with the tuner dial until he settled on a station playing what it billed as “All Christmas, All the Time.”
