The Attic Read online

  At the end of the long hallway was a set of floor-to-ceiling lancet windows overlooking the back property and bright with sunlight. At the other end, mounted on the wall above the staircase, was an oil painting portrait. It was of a man she presumed to be her late grandfather: sombre with a hoary beard, spectacles, and receding hairline.

  Deciding to examine the painting in greater detail later, she went back inside her room and let out an exclamation of wonder as she drank in the contents; contents she'd failed to notice just moments prior, having been so distracted by Hannah's vague explanation of Ian.

  To her right was a mahogany chest of drawers with a pattern of unicorns inlaying its surface. Against the right-side wall was a queen bed with a mahogany headboard also hand-carved with intertwining mythical creatures; its four tapered posts nearly grazing the wood-paneled ceiling. On either side of the bed was a tall window with crimson drapery. The left side of the rectangular room was a sitting area with a marble fireplace topped by a gilded mirror. And the fireplace was surrounded by two Victorian settees upholstered with golden damask. Lily crossed the room to one of them, bending to admire the pattern carved into the crest rail. A Persian rug filled the expanse beneath an inlaid coffee table and the two settees. Above, hung a brass and iron chandelier with electric candles.

  Every way she turned was a feast for the eyes, from a stuffed peacock staged on a perch, to tin-glazed ceramics filled with blossoming flowers, and Cordoba-leather walls.

  “Ms. Kline?”

  Fairly jumping in surprise, Lily spun around to face the owner of the smooth, masculine voice which had spoken her name.

  A man with mocha hair leaned against the open door frame, his arms crossed over his chest and biceps straining against the long sleeves of his cotton shirt. She gathered he was in his late-twenties or early thirties, heartbeat picking up a notch as she took in his mild brown eyes and the grin tugging at his mouth.

  Realizing she was gaping, she threw on a smile and closed the wide gap between them, shaking his hand. “Yes, I'm Lily Kline. Are you Mike?”

  He nodded, meeting her eyes keenly and straightening up. “Hannah sent me up here, said you needed my help.” An easy smile spread across his handsome face.

  “Yes. She said you would help me carry up my bags—though I haven't many and I can certainly carry them up myself.” She smiled again.

  “No problem. Happy to help. Let's say we get started.”

  She nodded. “Well, like I said, there isn't much—just two suitcases.”

  “Not planning to stay long?” He backed into the hallway, stuffing his thumbs through his belt loops as he waited for her to join him.

  She blushed. “Actually, I'm—moving in. Didn't figure I'd need to bring along any furniture, you know?” She let out a nervous laugh.

  A look of pleasure lit his face. “Here to stay then. Excellent! Well, all right—lead the way to your vehicle, madame. I am at your service.”

  Less than ten minutes later, they had returned to Lily's room and Mike set both the suitcases down at the foot of her bed.

  “Do you live here too?” she asked.

  He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops again, nodding. “Yeah. For about five years now.”

  “Then you must know so much about this place! Do you think you could take me for a tour?”

  Maybe Mike could tell her all about her grandfather as well. She knew next to nothing.

  He grinned. “I'd love to. Wish I could right now but I'm in the middle of a project I need to finish up before dinner. I can show you around after dinner though, if you don't mind waiting.”

  “That would be really nice.” She smiled. “Thank you.”

  He made his way toward the door and Lily followed after him, blurting out the question still rolling about in her mind. “Hey, Mike—” He paused on the threshold and turned, meeting her gaze with a look of intrigue. “Hannah said something unusual about Ian Hawke,” she went on. “Said he was taken in as a child but never adopted. Was he a foster child? I haven't met him yet and actually don't know a thing about him.”

  Mike rubbed his smooth chin and knit his brow. He seemed uncertain. “I think you'd be better to ask Ian that question . . . ”

  She frowned. “All I know is that he's my joint heir, yet he's not a relative.”

  “Well, your guess is as good as mine on that front. He's no more than a couple years older than yourself.”

  Only a couple years older?

  A brand new image materialized in her mind's eye, vanquishing the old. Up until now, she'd been picturing a middle-aged man.

  “Do you know where he is right now?” she asked. “The housekeeper, Hannah, wasn't sure.”

  Mike moved out into the hallway. “He might be in his workshop. It's out back in the woods. But I'd wait till dinner to meet him if I were you. I don't think you should be heading out into the woods alone, even if it is the middle of the day.” The corner of his mouth dipped into a frown and he looked away—resuming his course for the staircase.

  She nearly laughed aloud. What was there to be afraid of in the backyard of a gated estate? Bears? She was used to braving the lamp-lit streets of a dangerous metropolitan city night after night, year after year: a quiet country forest seemed like a walk in the park.

  “I think I can take care of myself,” she said with a warm chuckle as he glanced over his shoulder. “Just point me in the right direction and I'll head over there now. I'm eager to meet Mr. Hawke.”

  He seemed reluctant but nodded, and she followed him down the staircase to the main floor.

  Chapter 2

  Mike led Lily out the front entrance doors, having no time to show her some of the more direct exits just now. He decided he would simply lead her around the building to the backyard and let her be on her own from there. He didn't want to get involved.

  And why had Hannah mentioned Ian's childhood anyway?

  Ian wasn't going to be pleased about that. They'd never talked about it together but Mike knew a fair bit about it; at least what he'd put together as an explanation from the snatched bits and pieces of story he'd overhead Hannah and Christopher discussing from time to time over the years. What he knew for sure was that Ian refused to discuss it whenever he brought it up; and if Ian wanted his original arrival to this mansion kept a secret, then Mike wasn't about to be the one to blab the details to this Lily Kline.

  She was on her own.

  When they reached the backyard, Lily thanked Mike again for his help with her luggage, and they parted ways.

  An elderly man was crossing the far backyard with a pair of pruning sheers in his hand. She figured he must be Christopher, the gardener. He didn't look her way and she didn't bother to call out to him. There'd be plenty of time to get to know one another in the days ahead.

  The backyard and its gardens were as meticulously kept as the ones in front, and like the front, the greensward back here was at least an acre in square footage.

  In the center of the back lot was a courtyard surrounded by rosebushes and hosting a beautiful fountain statue—a life-size woman carved out of marble, hair flowing in waves around her body and her garments like liquid silk. She held a jug in her hand, pouring rivulets of water into the pond submerging her feet.

  Lily approached the fountain and peered into the translucent water surrounding it. Koi fish glided beneath teacup lily pads. But though the statue was fascinating, Lily was eager to find this Ian Hawke, and she left the courtyard to be inspected later on, heading across the remaining expanse of greensward toward the looming forest. Behind her, the Gothic mansion was open to full view. It was going to be so fascinating to explore all those inner rooms, corridors and turrets; to be able to look up at those vine-shrouded lancet windows and actually know what lay behind their leaded glass. For now she could only guess.

  Lily turned her gaze back to the forest. There was no sight of any work shed though. Beyond the trees was nothing but darkness—the fol
iage so thick that sunlight failed to penetrate their depths. She scanned the tree line, squinting, and stopped short at the sight of a gloomy statue dappled by sun and nearly hidden from view where it sat between two elm trees. It was too short to be human but didn't appear to be a child or an animal either. Pulse quickening in anticipation, she set across the sunny half acre of grass ahead and soon reached it.

  The statue was an ebony gargoyle, dull with age. The beast—a chimera—was in mid-roar, red jewels embedded in its eye sockets. An outstretched paw held a smooth white orb.

  It was then she noticed the well-worn pathway next to it, leading into the forest.

  Squinting to see into the tree-shaded darkness, she realized the dirt path was lined with more gargoyle statues, of all shapes and sizes. They each encased a white orb in an outstretched hand. Like a row of unlit lamp stands.

  She entered the forest.

  As she passed the first gargoyle chimera, the orb in its paw lit up brightly. And like Dominoes, the rest of the globes lining the pathway switched on in quick succession, casting a pallor across the savage faces of the chimeras and lighting the dirt pathway between them. She gasped and raised a hand to her throat in delight, figuring motion detectors had set them off.

  With a little laugh, she followed the pathway an additional twenty feet into the woods where it curved to the right; trees and undergrowth closing in around it. She stopped walking, considering. Despite the faintly-lit orbs, the trail ahead was dark and narrow with little sunlight penetrating the canopy above. The earth smelled damp, like wet moss and animal droppings. She vacillated between turning back or going deeper into the forest. Was this even the route to Ian's shed or was it located somewhere else?

  She walked a little further and glanced behind. The greensward was no longer in sight, swallowed up by the foliage. It was like walking through the woods at dusk rather than midday. Surely it was her imagination, but the gargoyles and their glowing orbs seemed to be tightening up—the space between each one lessening. She had passed at least twenty of them by now.

  Heartbeat picking up a notch, she increased her pace, rounding another sharp bend in the path; this time to the left. Straight ahead some fifty feet, beams of incandescent light permeated the gaps in the lower tree boughs and leaves, suggesting a lighted building was beyond them. She let out an exhale and smiled. It must be Ian's work shed.

  Lily's pulse had just begun to slow when something grabbed her foot.

  Unable to catch her balance, she let out a cry and tumbled to the ground, losing a shoe, and scuffing her palms.

  She whipped onto her back, heart racing, fully expecting to see a ferocious bear.

  But there was nothing.

  Only a gnarled root hooked over the tip of her dress shoe.

  Relief washed over her as she retrieved her shoe and stood up, frowning at a tear in her nylons. She rubbed the dirt from her palms, squared her shoulders, and started toward the shed again. Tear or no tear, she was determined to find Ian.

  She stopped short and blinked.

  A tall figure was standing nearby in the shadows of a pitch pine, his profile blotting out some of the light from the presumed shed.

  A chill surged up her spine and she spun around, intending to run.

  “Wait—” a voice called out.

  She hesitated, wobbling on her high heels.

  He jogged toward her, closing the gap between them.

  “Who are you?” she squeaked, arms outstretched to catch her balance. Was it too late to run?

  “Name's Ian,” he said, reaching her.

  Her legs nearly gave way beneath her and she laughed, letting out a long exhale. “Oh, for Pete's sake,” she said, lifting a hand to her heart and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, laughing some more. “You scared the daylights out of me.”

  “I'm sorry,” he said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. She squinted to see his facial features in the shadows but was unable to see his eyes, only the contours.

  “I saw you fall a moment ago and wanted to make sure you were okay,” he went on, his voice a subdued tenor. “Didn't mean to scare you. Are you all right?”

  “Oh, I'm fine. Just a few little scrapes and bruises. Nothing I can't handle.” She smoothed her skirt, hoping he wouldn't think her a silly ninny. She'd worked hard to present herself as a confident, independent woman—and his first sight of her had been the face-plant over the tree root.

  “What are you doing out here alone?” he asked. “There are wolves.”

  “Wolves?” She couldn't suppress a smirk. Was he for real? “I was looking for you, actually.” She smiled. Best to get to the point—draw attention off herself and onto him. She disliked being scrutinized. “I was told you might be in your work shed.”

  “I'm sorry, but—who are you?”

  “I'm Lily Kline.”

  “Oh—” He seemed surprised, though she couldn't read his expression. They might as well have been standing in a cave.

  “You're here already,” he said. “I thought it would be a few more weeks—” He uncrossed his arms and then crossed them again.

  How could he not know she was coming? Hadn't the lawyers arranged all that? Heat prickled her cheeks. She should have contacted Ian herself; at least called ahead. Why had she assumed they'd be expecting her?

  “So, when did you get here?” he asked, dropping his arms to his sides. “Are you here for a visit or—?”

  “Actually, I . . . I'm here to stay. You didn't know? I thought the lawyers—!”

  “Didn't know what? That we're joint-heirs?” His voice tightened. “Of course I know. But I assumed you'd want to sell and split the profits. Don't you have a house and family of your own?”

  “I have no family,” she said frankly. “My mother died years ago.”

  A handful of seconds passed, neither of them speaking.

  She shifted her position, trying to think of what to say next. Standing in a dim forest with a strange man who stood at least a foot taller than she, was not the conventional meet and greet she'd envisaged.

  “So . . . why was it you were looking for me?” he finally asked.

  It was not the response she'd expected; she was going to have to spell it out for him.

  “Oh, I don't know,” she said, trying to subdue the sarcasm in her voice, “because we're going to be sharing the same house? because we've never met before?” She didn't want to sound rude but his lack of interest and curiosity in meeting her was bizarre; and downright offensive, if she was honest.

  He said nothing.

  Just stood there with his arms crossed, eyes nothing more than two black patches on his shadowed face.

  “I'm dying to know who you are,” she said, growing jittery and cold but trying to sound friendly. She rubbed an arm. “How um, did you know my grandfather?”

  “Yes, of course you'd want to know those things,” he said brusquely, with resignation. “All legitimate questions. But I think we should leave the forest first. It's safer if we get you back inside. The forest gets dark . . . quickly.”

  She let out a laugh. “News flash, Mr. Hawke—it's already dark.”

  He unfolded his arms but said nothing.

  “Is that your work shed back there?” she asked, pointing past him.

  “Yes,” he said, “but you can't just come out here anytime you want looking for me.” He took her elbow gently and turned her whole body, guiding her back down the gargoyle-lit trail—rather than toward the shed.

  What was the deal with these men? The handyman had also suggested she shouldn't be out here by herself. It was disparaging, to say the least.

  “Fine, I'll bring someone with me next time,” she said, pulling her arm from his grasp. She strode ahead of him with brisk steps, eying the path for roots. He followed behind with a slower gait, footsteps crunching on twigs and dry leaves.

  The greensward appeared up ahead beyond the gap in the trees and she emerged from the
trail, squinting in the bright sunlight. When her eyes had adjusted, she turned around to face Ian Hawke.

  Standing next to the ebony gargoyle was an athletic man wearing jeans and a dark zip-up sweater. His eyes were like black coffee, dark hair short on the sides and spiked on top. His gaze was calm but unreadable. She gaped at him for the half second it took to compose herself. There was a wild look about him that made her mouth go dry.

  “How long have you lived here?” she asked, swallowing, blatantly aware of the rip in her nylons and the smudge of dirt on both palms. She shifted her weight to one foot and placed a hand on her hip to look confident.

  He walked by her and started across the greensward, motioning for her to follow him with a little wave of his hand.

  “I came here when I was eleven,” he said as she fell into step beside him and hurried to keep up. “So that would be twenty-one years now.” He glanced up at the blue sky and then down at her.

  She decided to be candid. “Your housekeeper, Hannah—she said you were . . . unofficially adopted?”

  He quickened his pace, frowned. “She said that? Well—there you have it then. You know my life story.”

  “Um, would you mind elaborating on it?”

  “Yes.”

  An awkward silence fell between them as they made their way back to the estate and entered through a back door which happened to be at the far end of the vaulted corridor. At the front end of the long hall, sunlight streamed through the quatrefoil window above the oak doors, making a flower-shaped image on the Persian rug.

  Ian's demeanor was stiff despite his agile form. He seemed angry or annoyed or self-conscious—or something. She couldn't decide.

  He stopped beside a portal leading into a library and stuck his hands on his hips, staring down at her like a stern father. She wished she'd been more delicate in her questioning about his childhood (evidently it was a touchy subject), but it was too late now.

  “So . . . ” she said, burdened to make smalltalk, “that was a neat setup you had back there—the pathway with all the gargoyles. Did you build the path yourself or was it already here?”