“A hell of a lot,” I said with unexpected vehemence. “He’s a specialist in old houses.” Or at least he wanted to be. “You should see what he’s doing with the place inside.”
“Hmph. Actually, yes, I would like to see what you’re doing inside.”
Worrying I’d overpromised, I opened the front door for him. It still had plywood over the center of it, and someone had spray-painted “KEEP OUT” on it in the spirit of the haunted house. “We’ve barely started, but that’s why we’re having the fundraiser.”
“Ah, yes, the haunted house,” he said dismissively. “You couldn’t do anything more dignified?”
“There’s a VIP party. That’ll be dignified.” I really sounded defensive now. “Besides, how many high teas would we need to bring in the kind of money it’s going to take to get this house renovated?”
Ken looked at me over his glasses. “Your little event is not going to do it either.”
“We’ll see,” I said as diplomatically as I could, but I was fuming, especially because I knew he was probably right.
I gave him a very brief tour of the house, having to usher him along as he hungrily took in details. “I should have brought my camera,” he muttered, and I assured him that we were documenting everything. He got more excited as we went along. The ballroom reflected a great deal of work already, with new-to-us chandeliers I’d found in an antique store in town, and the library had him almost giddy.
I didn’t tell him about the secret closet. I didn’t want him to know just yet. It was weird, but I felt like that was something for me. And Landon. Maybe our friends, too, but you get the idea.
However, I did show him the ledgers, which were still on the library table. “You might find these interesting.”
Ken exclaimed over the mundane entries as if they were a lost folio of Shakespeare’s. “And look,” he said when he got to where the handwriting changed. “This is where Stanford started taking over the records, I bet.”
“Why?”
Ken straightened and looked at me as if I had three heads. “You didn’t know? Flora Fountain died of tuberculosis just a few years after they moved here.”
I gasped. “Her journal says something about the weather being good for her health—”
“You have her journal?” Ken exclaimed. “I must see it.”
“I — it’s at home. It’s really just a gardening record.” I was underplaying it a little, but I wanted to keep it until I’d read the whole thing.
“I don’t think you realize what you have here,” he said, his impatience showing. “This house is a treasure—”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
“—and it’s one of Bohemia’s last links to its founders.”
“Mr. Motebarkle? I get it. Trust me, I get it. But the house is mine now. I will share the journal with you in time, and you and others will be able to experience the house when it’s ready for visitors. Would you like a ticket to the VIP party?” I asked as an afterthought.
“Certainly not,” he said. “But I expect an invitation once these silly theatrics are over so I can do more research.”
I tried hard not to roll my eyes. “I bet the ghost doesn’t think they’re silly.”
“Please. You don’t actually believe that rubbish.”
The house sighed, as was its wont, and a strange fluttering noise emanated from its heart. I really had come to believe it had a heart.
Ken looked around sharply, then “hmphed” again and headed for the door. On the porch, he shook my hand briefly and departed without another word.
I looked over at the workers in the yard. Landon smiled and waved, then did a game-show gesture to indicate the white gazebo, now neatly in place.
I chuckled and gave him a thumbs-up, feeling strangely grateful for this man and this adventure. For the river and the sky. For the gazebo and its promise of music and weddings and life, as I wondered which roses might look best planted next to it.
Chapter 19
It was Thursday. Our VIP opening was Friday. And Milkweed Mansion was in utter chaos.
Landon was directing various crews to clean up their work and stow supplies in a surprisingly attractive shed he’d stuck in the corner of the property. It was in the same style as the gazebo.
