She threw him a generous smile. He found its friendliness unaccountably irritating. “I’m Leah Raven. I was your grandmother’s secretary. Or personal-assistant-slash-researcher. I do her social media marketing, too. I’m never quite sure what to call myself.”
Hopping down from the table, she stuck out a small, pale hand for him to shake. The top of her head could have easily tucked under his chin, and the chunky sweater that almost swallowed her whole looked like it belonged to someone twice Leah’s size. Jackson ignored her hand.
The smile splintered but flared again, the edges of it laced with determined goodwill. “I had a call from the attorney to say you were coming. I planned to cook later—you’re welcome to share if you’re feeling brave. And there’s some banana bread if you’d like a snack? I didn’t make that so it should be nice.”
“Esther is dead. What are you still doing here?”
“I live here. And I’m really sorry for your—”
“I don’t think so.” His own smile was hard. This needed nipping in the bud.
She blinked at him once. Twice. “I don’t really know what to say to that. I’ve been living and working here for more than two years. I have permission to stay.” Her shoulders braced, shadows flickering behind her eyes.
If the pint-sized pixie thought that arrangement was going to continue, she could think again. Jackson spun in the doorway. “Not from me, you don’t. I suggest you start packing, Ms. Raven.”
Halfway back to the living room, he cursed and turned, almost tripping over Leah who had followed him out of the study. She bounced off his chest. Jackson grabbed her shoulders to steady her, releasing his grip almost immediately and pushing her away from him.
“What’s the Wi-Fi password?” He bit out the words, each one covered in ice.
“It’s ‘ghost hyphen pig hyphen OINK.’ All in lower case, apart from the ‘OINK’ which is capitals.”
“Of course it is.”
“The signal’s not great here, but if you stay somewhere near the study you’ll get the clearest reception. And if you’re in the living room, keep the Wi-Fi door open.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The Wi-Fi door. The one from the living room into the back hallway. It keeps the signal out if you shut it.”
Jackson rubbed at his temple. “You know Wi-Fi doesn’t work like that, don’t you?”
Leah’s expression hinted at his naivety. “Sure. You try telling that to the Wi-Fi door.”
He answered her with a glowering silence and stalked out to the car to retrieve his bags. Dumping them in the foyer, Jackson logged onto the Wi-Fi, checked his emails, and placed a call toEsther’s attorney, hanging up with an appointment for ten o’clock the following morning.
Leah appeared in the doorway of the living room. “Want a coffee?”
He pretended not to see the olive branch. “I need a shower.”
“Oh, you might want to wait—”
“No, I don’t.” He had no interest in coffee, small talk, or waiting. “I don’t want a snack, I don’t want a drink, and I don’t want to be here. It’s been a long day, so I plan to find a room in this moth-eaten, time-warp of a house, grab a shower, and try to catch up on all the work I should have gotten done.”
Her lips parted and a small sound came out. Dammit, did she not know when to shut up? Seizing a bag in each hand, Jackson started up the stairs.
The second-floor landing was brighter at least. An enormous, glazed roof lantern filtered natural light from above the third floor into the vast open space. This house could be incredible with an injection of cash and a whole heap of TLC, but its current state was depressing. Looking up, he saw moss, mold, and bird’s mess coating the glass panes. There were damp marks around the frame. Every way he turned there were more signs of decay—and bedroom doors. Jackson wrenched them open, one by one, stirring vague recollections of sunny visits that turned to dust in his mind as he explored.
Room after room lay empty. Many were dated and tired. Some had no furniture in them at all. His grandmother’s bedroom, in contrast, was flowery, pastel-colored, and elegant. Wisps of further memories wound their way around him—warmth, kindness, and caring. He shrugged them off and closed the door quietly, backing away.
Up another flight of stairs, Leah Raven’s room was a small double at the far end of the landing. He knew it was hers as soonas he opened the door because her life was freeze-framed inside: the covers on the bed were thrown back; a sketchpad and another pair of glasses lay haphazardly on the pillow. A furry hot-water bottle had tumbled onto the floor, and a green velvet scrunchie, half a glass of water, and two books sat on the walnut nightstand. She’d tossed a pair of jeans and a sweater over the back of a small armchair near the window, and the doors to a huge double wardrobe gaped open against faded wallpaper. The scent of pears hung in the air.
Jackson recalled Leah’s face from among the people gathered at his grandmother’s funeral.
All his concentration had been on the memorized poem as he’d spoken, eye contact a strict three to five seconds before moving onto the next person. He’d long since mastered the art of public speaking, though he still hated it. And then he’d seen her. Intent gaze communing some kind of message he couldn’t read, dark curls held back from her face by unseen wizardry. A live electric current had zapped through his veins before he’d shut it down with grim determination. He hadn’t let her break his focus then; he sure as hell wouldn’t now. The girl radiated complications and distractions. Jackson had no time or need for either.
He couldn’t remember which rooms had been made up for him and his brother when they were small, so he settled for the one containing the biggest bed. Wide and solid, with a huge mahogany headboard, it sat on old floorboards in a spacious room along the landing from Leah’s. A sun-faded, velvet bedspread hinted of a grand past, while the dust particles in the air admitted to a more neglected present.
Jackson slumped on the edge of the mattress with a sigh, wondering how his life had been upended so swiftly. Taking time away from the office right now was a disaster. His stress levels were through the roof, the hours in each day too few. Keeping the business steady under his father’s brash leadership and inflexibledecision-making was growing increasingly challenging. And now he had to get this gothic house of horrors on the market and sold as soon as possible. Which was going to be easier said than done.
