Page 1 of Holiday Hideaway
DAY 1
Tilly had unloaded her groceries in the kitchen at the Crowe’s Nest when Smoosh, her elderly shelter dog who was sitting in the doorway, waiting for his good-boy treat, perked up his ears and gave a short, sharp bark.
The sound was the Smoosh equivalent of an air-raid siren, and it startled Tilly so badly she nearly dropped her bottle of budget red wine. She ran to the parlor at the front of the house just in time to see a white Jeep pulling up the washed-out gravel drive that ended at the front of this dilapidated Victorian mansion.
“Smoosh, come!” she called, her voice low but urgent. She raced to the kitchen to retrieve the tote bag that contained her essentials, then ran up the back stairway, stopping halfway to scoop up the dog, her sleeping bag from the bedroom, and the trash bag containing her clothes. Then she moved on, awkwardly up another flight of creaking wooden stairs, all the way up to the attic, where she dropped everything but Smoosh, stooped down, and opened the surprisingly small door. She stepped inside, pulled the door shut, and dashed over to a dust-caked window that faced the front of the house. Through leafless treetops (and numerous crow’s nests) she could see Calico Bay, where the setting sun was a dazzling orange, and along the bay’s shoreline she couldsee the twinkle of white lights adorning docks and rooflines and even the masts of sailboats. A New England winter sent plenty of locals down to Florida, but Tilly had always loved her hometown this time of year—the white lights, the cool blue of the sky, and the short days that made it okay to hide away inside with a good book. Looking down now, she could see the Crowe’s Nest’s weed-choked lawn below and the roof of the white Jeep.
What she couldn’t see was the Jeep’s occupant. The motor was still running, sending a plume of smoke into the frigid night air.
Tilly dug her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans and called Ruth, her best friend, who also happened to be the bookkeeper for Piney Point Vacation Rentals, where Tilly was employed as a rental agent.
“Ruth,” she said breathlessly. “Someone just pulled up in front of the Crowe’s Nest. A white Jeep.”
Tilly stood on her tiptoes to look down. The Jeep’s driver’s-side door was now open. A man stepped out. Slender build, darkish hair, probably in his thirties from the way he dressed—hatless, jeans, a puffer jacket, and boots. As she watched, he walked around to the back of the Jeep, opened the tailgate, and lifted out a duffel bag.
“Oh, shit. It’s a guy. And it looks like he’s planning to stay.”
“Who is it? The house hasn’t been booked. Unless it’s someone from the family.”
Tilly watched the stranger approach the house. “Whoever he is, he’s kinda cute.”
“See, I was afraid something like this would happen. I warned you.”
“No. You warned me in eighth grade that cutting my own bangs was a bad idea, but you never warned me that somecute rando would show up here at this house, where not a single soul has stepped foot in at least a year.” Tilly glanced around the gloomy attic. Cobwebs stretched from the eaves to the rough wooden floor. Aged cardboard cartons were stacked haphazardly against the exposed wall studs, and obsolete objects were scattered about: an old brass headboard, a circa-1970s plaid sofa, an ancient console television, a pile of what looked like army-surplus camping equipment, even a dust-covered cello.
“I believe I said that trespassing at vacant properties managed by our company was a terrible idea and that if you got caught, your ex-husband, the sheriff, would happily lock you up for the rest of your life.”
“It’s not like I had a choice,” Tilly said. “Mrs. Langley kicked me out of my apartment because of Smoosh, and you know my new place isn’t available until January. In the meantime, between the first and last month’s rent, security deposit, pet deposit, and utility deposits, I’m broke now. Anyway, I’m not really trespassing. This place is vacant. I’m just doing property-management due diligence, making sure ...”
The man below was standing still, looking out at the bay. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a large brass circlet from which dangled a multitude of old-fashioned keys, which he proceeded to sort through.
“Oh shit. It looks like he’s going to come in,” Tilly said. “He’s got a key, so I guess he’s not a burglar.”
“Where are you?”
Tilly explained what had happened and why she was hiding in the attic. “Geez, it’s cold up here,” she said, her breath forming tiny white puffs of condensation. She dropped down onto the sofa, and when a tiny mouse scurried across the floor, squeaking in protest, she had to clamp her handacross her mouth to keep from screeching. Smoosh had already settled himself at the other end of the sofa, curling himself up into a tight ball. “The man of my dreams,” Tilly said fondly. “Either too old or too loyal to chase another girl.” She scratched the tender spot under his chin. To show his appreciation, he farted softly and promptly fell asleep.
“Tilly! What are you going to do?” Ruth demanded.
Tilly heard footsteps on the wooden porch floor, followed by the loud squeaking of the front door’s rusty hinges as the door opened. “He’s in the house,” she whispered.
“You’ve got to get out of there!” Ruth urged.
Tilly’s work phone vibrated from her other pocket. She pulled it out and glanced down at the caller ID. “Great. Now I’ve got a work call coming in.”
“Don’t take it. Get out of that house. Right now.”
“I gotta. It could be Collette checking up on me. Everyone else in the office is gone until after Christmas.”
Tilly hung up and answered the other call. She moved to the far corner of the attic, farther from the stairs in case the man was headed her way. “Piney Point Vacation Rentals,” she said smoothly. “Happy holidays.”
“Uh, hi,” a man’s voice said. It was deep, resonant. And she realized, with horror, that it was likely coming from two floors below, in the very house where she was currently squatting—er, exercising prudent property-management practices.
“I’ve just arrived at my family’s property here in Piney Point, and I’ve noticed a strange car parked in the driveway.”
Tilly’s blood pressure spiked. She’d pulled her battered Kia up to the back door of the kitchen, intending to move it onto the street after she’d unloaded the groceries.
“Which property is that, sir?” Could he detect the nervousness in her voice?
