Page 28 of Billionaire's Coastal Haven

“Or what?” My chin ticks up with the challenge in her tone.

“If you don’t agree to our plan, we will petition the Washington Trust for a preservation easement to protect the property.”

“Easement?”

She thumbs through the papers in the folder and hands me a form with the seal for the Washington Trust for Historic Preservation. “When partial legal interest in a historic building is conveyed to a governmental agency with the sole expectation of preserving and restoring the property.” Her elegant script has already fills the form.

I fold the page in half and tuck it into my suit coat. “I know what an easement is.” What she didn’t add to her elementary explanation is that an easement enables the public to have free, unfettered access to the property.

The last thing I need is random tourists knocking on my front door for guided tours, but I’m not rolling over like a submissive pup.

“Site work takes time. If we don’t do it right, those beautiful cabins won’t survive the first snowfall. The house is my priority.”

“You can do it all at the same time. You have billions of dollars at your disposal. Use them.”

“Let me show you what we’re working with.” I plop a hard hat on her head, cup her elbow, and guide her toward the main bedroom. I resist the urge to inhale her cinnamon scent.

“I’ve been in the house.” She tugs her arm free. “I know what it looks like.”

“You haven’t seen it with the sheetrock removed. Things are worse than we expected.”

Collin’s team works quickly. We signed the paperwork days ago and they’ve already gutted several rooms.

We walk over tarps and unassembled scaffolding in the living room, and I push open the door to the main bedroom.

The lopsided, antique four-poster bed dominates the space. We’re waiting for a specialty bio-hazard cleanup crew from Seattle to remove the mattress and bedding due to the nest some animal built.

But that’s not what I want her to see. Through the bathroom where the rusty fixtures have been removed, we stop outside the closet door. She places her hand on the doorknob, but I tug her arm back. “Don’t open that.”

“Didn’t you want to show me something in here?”

“You need these first.” I hand her a face mask and goggles.

She eyes them like they’re infected. “Why?”

“You’ll see.”

She grumbles but dons the protective gear. I do the same.

I step between her and the door and nudge it open, letting light from the windows spill in, rustling dust motes to life.

A wave of stagnant decay hits my nose despite the mask. What once held thousands of dollars’ worth of designer gowns transformed into a meth addict’s moldy den over the last fifty years. Drug paraphernalia litters the shredded blankets on the floor. Mold coats the drywall on three walls.

“We don’t know what we’ll find in the rest of the house or even on the property. Collin and his crew are taking every precaution. Precautions take time. Tell your town council it’s better to do the job right the first time than to let a little kid find an unwanted surprise.” I point at the needles.

Her eyes ravage the space. “And if they don’t believe me?”

“We schedule a fieldtrip.”

She nods, closes the door, and wanders into the main bedroom, removing her mask and goggles. “What else have you found?” Her uncoordinated movements and slightly glazed eyes give away how shaken she is. She didn’t expect her precious house to need so much work.

“Garbage. Broken pipes. Frayed wiring. Time robbed this house of its beauty because no one cared enough to stop it.”

“They wanted to.” She meets my eyes. “Do you care? About the house, I mean?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”