“They sure don’t make them like this anymore,” he said, removing his sunglasses to reveal pale grey eyes, lighter than mine. I gulped, then gulped again when I spotted the dimple in his chin.
What the hell was in the coffee around here? That made two out of three local men qualifying as unreasonably hot.
No ring, I noted, though that meant little these days. But real estate agents were gross, I reminded myself. And not my type. I preferred my hook-ups without bells, whistles, and hair mousse. Give me some rough and experienced hands that promised to forget me and I was in.
Plus, this guy looked like he was still in his twenties; I’d eat him alive.
“Please make yourself at home,” June said as she joined us on the stairs. My mouth curved, and the man looked between us like he was trying to decide whether to meet her sarcasm or be apologetic. He opted for awkward instead.
“Want a tour?” he asked. “I’ve shown every inch of this place during open homes. There’s nothing about the building or its history I don’t know.”
“Really?” June’s tone suggested she was moments away from proving otherwise. “Tell me, Mark, did you come here as a child?”
I pressed my lips together to hold back a grin, dropping my gaze to my mahogany ankle boots. Mark’s polished smilewithdrew from his lips as he realised his agent speak would not work here.
“I didn’t,” he said.
June’s arm folded across her chest as she raised her chin to him.
“So, do you think there may be things about the history that you don’t know? Or are you clairvoyant?” she pierced her gaze into his. I turned around to face the brick pillar as a snort escaped from my throat. He stammered and stepped back, his artificial composure dropping again. A tiny part of me felt sorry for him squirming under June’s scrutiny, so I threw him a line.
“Do you want to lead the way? It’s been a while since we were here.” I passed him the keychain, the brass jangling as it landed in his hand. June shot me a look like I’d just let the dog on the sofa.
“Ladies first,” he said, pushing open the white door with ease.
June stepped inside without hesitation. I followed, faking bravery.
“Thank you,” Mark whispered as I passed him.
“She can be a little scary,” I whispered back.
He grinned, teeth bright, and something zinged down my spine.No, Riley. Down girl.
The musty scent hit me the moment I stepped into the foyer. So did the long wooden benches lining each wall—benches I’d spent long nights sitting on wishing I could go home.
The swirling in my stomach became a tornado, as did the feeling of sadness calling from somewhere within my body like a lost child I couldn’t locate. There was mould growing from the corners of the ceiling and around the window frames, and each step we took made footprints in the thick dust that obscured the faded green carpets. Mark walked around automatically, opening the windows to air the place out.
“All the sash windows down here open but none of the upstairs ones…” he began, before trailing off as he caught sight of June’s twisted expression, eyebrows tented.
“You don’t say? And why do you think that is?” she asked, head tilted. I saw Mark open his mouth to speak again and threw him a warning glance. He wouldn’t win.
“Go on,give us the spiel,”June said. She circled the day room, whose wallpaper now hung at half-mast as if it had lost the chastisement that kept it up. Mark looked at me for a moment, and I nodded, walking past my sister towards the kitchen with its roller window open so that the sun from the day room streamed in. The padlocks had been removed from the cupboards, but the reminder of the bolt was still firmly on the door. With-holding food and water was standard punishment here. At least it had been then.
Mark cleared his throat.
“This home was built and opened in 1925, in memory of Margaret, the late wife of Harold Bellamy. He donated the house and land to the community in her honour. She loved children but couldn’t have any of her own. Nuns initially ran it and followed Christian teachings until 1965, when Harold died, leaving no funding to continue their mission. The property was then purchased from his estate by the crown, and a mainstream approach to care was adopted. As the nuns left their work here, trained care workers replaced them.”
I snorted, and June coughed the word“trained,”like it was a hairball.
Mark hesitated for a beat before continuing.
“Downstairs boasts a large day room, a commercial kitchen, two offices—both suitable for additional bedrooms—and a games-room-sized lounge. Perfect for large groups or events. Upstairs, you’ll find eight spacious bedrooms, four on each side of the corridor, another small bedroom or office at the end, andtwo commercial bathrooms, each with five sinks, showers, and toilets.”
“You forgot the basement,” I said, voice flat. “The one with the drain in the floor.”
“Ah, yes. Plenty of storage down there, easily accessible from outside.”
“Great place for children too,” June muttered, running a finger along a dusty windowsill.
