“It’s not a story we get to share often.” His smile warmed his gray eyes, and she was glad he could share it with her. “In the 1970s, my aunt and grandmother decided Haven House should become a refuge for other women who needed a safe place.”
“Hence the ghosts.”
He shrugged. “No use trying to dissuade people. The lights have been known to scare off those who make their way around the gate at night.”
“Clever.” She stood to look at a photograph displayed on the mantel, Olivia Belle holding a bundle of calla lilies beside the fireplace below. It was the same picture she’d seen inLady of the Lake.
“But then there are those who trespass during the day...”
Her cheeks burned. “I wasn’t chasing ghosts.”
“I think you might have been.”
And in part, he was right. “It’s wonderful that you’ve opened up a shelter.”
“Members from the local churches quietly support our efforts, and unless there’s trouble, Aunt Deidre manages the day-to-day.”
“Wait.” That name, familiar to her in the past week. “Deidre from The Book Barn?”
“Yep. Flexible hours there.”
“So I was classified as trouble for both of you.”
He grinned. “You were definitely trouble.”
She was pleased to hear him use the past tense. “Where do these women come from?”
“Most are from the Philadelphia area. We don’t advertise, but we havea few friends in law enforcement and a lawyer who often sends women and their children our way.”
“Brett?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Of course not.” She twirled once, her dress fluttering around her knees as she took it all in. “This is brilliant!”
“And very secretive. If word got out—”
“I won’t say a thing,” she promised. “Does Olivia’s estate pay for all of this?”
“It has for years, but we’ll be needing a new source of income soon to keep the house open.”
“Like a movie?”
“Which might seem like a good option except we don’t want media attention.” He led her up the staircase and down a hall. The doors were closed, but she heard squeals of laughter behind one. Children, she suspected, battling against bedtime.
At the end of the hall, on the second floor, was a large bedroom that doubled as a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on the non-windowed wall.
Finn pointed at a stairwell tucked away by the closet. “Go ahead.”
She didn’t hesitate, climbing the wooden steps alone.
The tower, like the rest of the house, looked like it hadn’t changed much since the 1940s. Dust clung to the shelved books and a mound of paper stacked on the desk beside an old typewriter. Ten mail slots were built into a panel between bookcases, each one labeled in cursive.
Church. Readers. Herring. Grocer. Milk.
She crossed the floor and picked up a handblown globe from the desk, a blue water lily floating inside. Olivia had described this very piece in one of her books. In fact, as Harper glanced around the room, she remembered a scene fromGrace Havendescribing a room very much like this one with its half shelf of books. A formal fireplace between twowindows, and—Harper closed her eyes, trying to recall the details—a sliding panel, if she remembered correctly, beside the fireplace. In the book, the main character hid a ledger inside.
Finn’s head popped up at the staircase. “What do you think?”
