The Haunting of Alcott Manor, page 5
part #1 of Alcott Manor Series
Stuck energy didn’t take too long to find. Her clearing work was most effective when she knew the history of the home, as well as the most intimate details of the people who had lived there. Healing specific events was far more powerful than just working on generally stagnant areas.
She knew if she could heal the land and the tragic memories that were held within it, there would be a domino effect for anyone affiliated with Alcott Manor.
First and foremost, the home would be fully restored, and the Alcott family members who owned the property would be able to keep their ancestral home. Benjamin, the ghost who probably still lived in the house, might finally be able to cross over. Her father and his company would get paid, their debts would be satisfied, and he could retire. He could then sell his company, which would allow his employees, many of whom were either family or like family, to keep their jobs. Most importantly, her dad’s pride and honor would be intact.
She scanned the area to make sure no one was watching, then placed one palm firmly on the curve of one of the pillars. It was her way of reading the manor's energetic meter. She felt a slow vibration then heard a low moan, the kind of deep suffering that rose from the depths of a man's soul. She jerked her hand away. The moan subsided.
"My God." This dark energy ran deeper than she’d suspected. She held her hand just to the outside of the pillar. With her eyes slightly open, she hummed a low chant, the pattern of it just like her mother had learned from her ancestors. It was designed to call up the negativity trapped in an object, and with concentration and intent, it did.
She envisioned a violet flame next to her, one she would use to destroy the darkness. As if it were ready to leave, a swell of black energy rose to her palm. She let it fill her hand until it finally broke free. Nonchalantly, she tossed it into the flame and a burning scent filled the air.
She gazed up at the manor and pressed her teeth together. There was a tiny bit of free in the house now. A handful of light that was a signal to the manor and its spectral inhabitants that transformation was coming and good things were on the way.
She shifted into restoration mode now and made a few notes while she strolled along the wide front porch: Get four white, armed rocking chairs (what old Southern home would be complete without them?), two square planters (consider large blooms, maybe blue, lots of green, trailing ivy), place wind chimes in alcoves before judge's visit for subtle aesthetics and to imprint/encourage more positive reactions in the area.
She knew it would have been faster if she could have typed all her notes electronically on her tablet, but the muscles of her hand much preferred the feel of script against paper as opposed to the tapping of icons.
It was the end of the day and a few workers walked toward the dirt drive by way of the side of the house. She caught sight of one man who stood at the edge. The ocean breeze blew his thin, brown hair away from his face. It was Asher. The man she'd seen at The Iron Skillet that morning. What the hell was he—
“Ah!” Her foot gave way to an unexpected hole and she fell to her knee.
She hissed inward through her teeth and pressed her stinging palms against her jeans. She carefully removed her leg from the hole and examined the boards that were new and freshly painted. The edges of the wood were splintered as though someone had used a crowbar or hammer to break into it. She clicked her ballpoint pen and made a note inside her portfolio: Repair front porch.
Old hinges from the double front door groaned, and she stepped around to see who’d opened it. A young man in his early thirties stared at her with greenish-brown eyes so unique she found herself wondering their exact color. Cinnamon, she wanted to say. But with a heavy dash of seafoam-green that kept them from being too dark.
His countenance was thick and well-guarded. His lips were full and smooth, and with an uncharacteristic appetite, she wanted to run her fingertips against them, to feel the life and warmth that ran beneath.
There was no greeting, just an intense stare that questioned the reason for her presence. She cleared her throat to return herself to her more typical stance of professionalism. “I’m Gemma Stewart.” Tom must have forgotten to tell him she was coming today.
“Are you…Henry Alcott? I think you know my father, who worked onsite for the past year.” She put her hand out and pressed her lips together in her most professional smile. It was the smile that pulled a little tight but showed a lot of effort and willingness to get along. People usually responded well to that smile.
His stare intensified for a moment so long that she thought maybe he wasn’t her father's client. He sighed in apparent and deliberate consideration of her. "I am,” he finally said, with a long, rounded I. His genteel Southern dialect was seductive, its slowness matching the lazy cadence of their surroundings. He extended his hand to meet her own. “Henry Alcott.”
To her surprise, his wasn't the overly aggressive handshake that many successful men offered. It was firm and slow and gave her the impression that he hadn't been expecting her, as though he were somehow trying to figure her out.
“I hope Tom let you know that I was on my way.”
He eyed their still-joined hands. A distant light sparked in his eyes, and one corner of his mouth tipped up in the slightest of grins. As if it were fresh and new, as if he didn't smile that often, and as if something about her or the way they touched had inspired it.
She silently cursed his too-good looks: Perfection. Also known as fool's bait. The central part of her heart slipped itself into a knot in an effort to resist feeling the temptation at hand.
“Tom? With the Historic District Commission? Was he able to let you know I was coming today?”
“Tom's out today. But you must be with Stewart Historical Renovation.”
“Yes. Sorry. I—yes. Glenn Stewart is my father, and I'm helping him out for a few months.”
Henry Alcott stood a towering six-feet-four and was far younger than she'd expected. And since he had invested several million on this historic renovation, she had an older image in mind. Older and pudgier. Maybe even pasty from all those hours spent inside of an office earning money.
Here he stood, on his mostly finished front porch, a near shoulder-length tumble of black, wavy hair, a self-possessed, brooding expression, and a thin, inch-long scar beneath his right eye. He was a rough and steady picture of fitness and health with a tool belt slung low around his hips. The sleeves of his loose white shirt were rolled to the elbow and revealed strong, tanned forearms smudged with dark brown dirt and touches of white paint.
Her suspicions were now confirmed as to why her father wanted her to meet Henry Alcott. He was handsome, wealthy, evidently successful, and in a word—perfect. Everything a father would want for his daughter. If this was what the wind was trying to sell her into, she wasn't buying.
“You're doing a little work on the house yourself?” She pointed to the tool belt and shifted her weight. Nerves over his unexpected attractiveness made her body feel gangly and not quite her own. She struggled with where to put her free hand, trying it across her waist, then hanging straight. She finally decided on her hip.
“As much as I can.”
She distracted herself with the history that sheltered its owner. “My father tells me that some of the bigger issues we tackled a year or so ago have been wrapped up. We have a tight deadline, so my goal will be to get the remaining work done early. We don't want to worry about meeting the judge's inspection deadline, so I've asked Tom to double the workforce. Maybe put a night shift in place. As long as we can push straight through our list without interruptions, we should be fine.”
“Except those are something of a problem around here.” His hypnotic stare flustered the professional boundary she'd brought with her, and she felt her typically pale cheeks flush warm.
“Yes, I’ve heard about them. The interruptions. Could this be a minor example?” She pointed to the hole in the porch without turning her head.
He turned slowly, his gaze the last to follow. His sigh was exasperated, slow and heavy. He kneeled and peered inside the hole. “Clear view to the underworld of my front porch. Whatever that got them.”
“You know who did this?"
"Possibly."
"Prowlers or someone more…paranormal?"
"Prowlers, I believe.” Henry's face was steady and unbothered by the suggestion of a paranormal source of destruction. But a chill fell over his tone, and the light she’d noticed just a moment ago was now gone. Damage to property or a project could do that.
She looked around for the man from the cafe who had been standing to the side of the house, but no one was there.
"I would guess they threaded a small camera below to see if they could find anything.”
"Why would prowlers look under your front porch?"
He dusted his hands on his thighs. “The manor is rumored to have all sorts of treasures hidden within its walls, Ms. Stewart. From Anna Alcott's missing suicide note to valuable pieces of her jewelry to property deeds to Benjamin Alcott himself. If you plan to work on this restoration, I hope you know what you're getting into.” His tone reflected a mix of irritation, bitter impatience, and perhaps a loss of faith.
She simultaneously shivered at the thought of Benjamin Alcott being on the other side of that front door and bristled at Henry's hostile tone. “Any truth to those rumors?”
Factual. Keep it factual. Objective. I am not going to be scared away from this job. Or pushed away, either, for that matter.
Henry welcomed her inside the manor with a gentlemanly wave of his arm, though his face remained unemotional. “This home has a unique history. I would caution you to think twice before engaging in any work here.”
When she crossed the threshold, a subtle force tugged at the center of her being and welcomed her into the home. It was the same sensation she'd felt yesterday at the hospital and last week on the beach. The house seemed to be the origin of it.
She quickly felt a part of the manor, as though she'd just been accepted into the family. She took it as a good sign that bode well for the healing work she needed to do. Maybe it was also a sign that she was where she needed to be—some guidance, perhaps. Maybe this change would be a positive, as her dad had suggested.
She rubbed the back of her neck and noticed that her body wasn't buying into her own words of comfort. But that really didn’t matter. This was where she had to be. For now, anyway.
“I'm aware of this home’s history, Mr. Alcott, as well as its eccentricities. None of that is a concern. I'm here to finish a job for my father's company. It's very important that I meet this deadline. As I think it would be for you, as well.”
Henry Alcott’s mouth parted in apparent consideration—or maybe it was surprise—in light of her firm response. When he finally spoke, he said, “Well, I doubt you are aware of all the home's ‘eccentricities’, as you put it. And I must say, I question how much of the restoration you can complete in the time we have left. Your car accident placed our restoration dreams firmly in the past." His stare was cold enough that it left a chill on her skin, but his words lit a flame of fury in her gut.
Jackass. It's all about you, isn't it? Never mind the fact that we almost lost our lives. Self-obsessed clients were one of the many reasons why she had lost interest in historical renovations.
“I don't know nearly as much about this home as I need to know for my work. I'm hoping you'll educate me on all the facets of its personality and history. In terms of what we can get done, I’ve had plenty of experience running large restoration jobs like this.” She placed both hands out in front as if she could ward off the curse of an objection. “I know you've had setbacks, and the accident didn't help any of us. But I'm not running the job alone. Tom will still be onsite to help. We're going to get this done.”
She flashed her most professional smile, once again, as a show of respect. Only this time, she felt the fury from her gut filter through her stare. This may be his house, but he was not going to get in the way of the job she had to do.
Henry didn't offer a response and his solemn expression didn't give any clues as to how he felt about her taking her father's place. She knew she was his last hope to save his ancestral home. And she knew that if Benjamin was indeed in this house that the proverbial deck was stacked against them. Henry needed her. And she needed him, too. She had to know what he knew about the house and its history so she could get her clearing work done.
The house was filled with the distant and intermittent harshness of banging hammers and whirring electric saws. Muscled men in yellow safety vests, jeans, and light brown work boots lumbered through the far end of the foyer. The circus of activity, along with bright work lights and a flood of natural sunlight, calmed her. She had grown up around restorations, and she felt quite at home around them.
Even in a sketchy situation like Alcott Manor, there could be protection in numbers. With enough people around twenty-four-seven, she might be able to get through this after all.
Besides, she thought optimistically, on a job several years ago where she helped her mother clear some land, her mother told Gemma she had walked right through a ghost. She never even noticed. So, if there was a ghost in this house, maybe she wouldn't notice this time, either.
"I'll be completely honest with you, Ms. Stewart. I don't have much faith left that this restoration can be completed, by you or anyone else. But especially not by you.”
Jackass. Jackass. Unbelievable Jackass!
“Really, Mr. Alcott?” She gave him a broader version of the professional smile she'd flashed him twice already, and she hoped this one irritated him. This was her political smile—her say-what-you-will-you-won't-get-to-me smile. “And why is that?"
"Aside from the fact that we hardly have any time left before the deadline hits and you've lost two-thirds of your management team? I have my reasons."
"I'm going to assume that those reasons have to do with your past disappointments and not because I'm a female and working this project without our silver-haired patriarch. I have a contractual and familial obligation to be here and to complete this work. Doing so will be a lot more effective with your help. But if I have to complete this work without your support—you should know that I will.”
She nodded at the end of her last sentence to hopefully land on a note of finality. That needed to be the end of that.
Jackass.
She turned toward the focal point of the black and white marbled entrance hall, which was a large, gold, six-paneled chandelier. Its bright light shone against faux-marbled walls.
Faux. Who in the hell puts faux in a house that was on the National Register?
Two security cameras were nearly hidden in the corners.
“Ms. Stewart. I would ask you one last time to reconsider your intent to restore this home. You can't possibly be aware—”
“I've done my research. I know about the paranormal nature of the home's identity. I'm also aware that you—we—have had a lot of setbacks. I'm prepared to help with that and to meet this deadline. Come hell or high water." She didn't discuss how she would help. It wasn't necessary for him to be aware of her gifts or how she planned to use them. She spoke with such strength that she almost had herself convinced that she wouldn't be bothered by anything that went bump in the night.
“We have had more than our fair share of setbacks. And hell and high water, as well. None of that will stop just because you're here.”
She studied the walls and the faux treatment, and while her back was toward Henry, she rolled her eyes at his arrogance. He was too much like Preston—too much money, too good looking, and it all added up to a deficit in character.
When she spun around, she noticed a black curl that had fallen to the side of his forehead. She wanted to punch him for his crap attitude and then lick that place on his neck, right next to the length of another curl.
She cleared her throat. "I'm up to the challenge. I’m going to assume you are, as well."
Henry tipped his chin up just a little and looked over her face, as if he measured her strength, as if he considered her comments. And maybe, in that slight softening of his stare, as if he appreciated her appearance. Finally, he nodded. “All right. If you really are, then I am, as well.”
Gemma tapped the wall with her finger and tried to ignore how her body acted. Or reacted. She didn't need another gorgeous jerk in her life. Even if she were willing to eat from this beautiful, poisonous Alcott tree, she couldn't. This man was her father's client, and he was smack in the eye of a no-touch territory.
“Good. You don't have to like me, Mr. Alcott. But I do know how to move this job forward. All we have to do is get through the next few weeks together to meet this deadline. After that, my father will be back to run the show, I'll go back to my own business, and you'll never have to lay eyes on me again.”
“There will be a condition to my support—”
Gemma was already across the room and scratching at the faux with her fingernail, her teeth set firm. She closed her eyes against a wave of frustration.
No. No conditions.
She would do this her way, not his way. He had no clue how to fix the problems of this house.
She moved on. He would have to catch the hint. "Whose call was the faux marble treatment? I can't imagine that the original plans for the house called for faux.”
“Ah, Tom hired a rather young woman named Paisley to help with some design and management issues while you were delayed. I believe the faux may have been her call.” His tone was drizzled with bitterness, and she knew he caught the hint.
“Paisley? As in—the print?” She made another note in her portfolio and shook her head.
“Yes, exactly. She's not very tactful, but she seems to have some talent for tying together the many loose ends of a large project.”
“Mmm.”
“From what I've seen so far, anyway."
She examined the faux treatment. She definitely didn't agree with this choice, but if the gal had some good project management skills, maybe she could make use of that. Gemma needed time to figure out where the heaviest imprints were, then she had to go about her process of healing them. In a house this big, that would take time. Maybe she could rely on Paisley to take a few things over.
