Better Homes and Hauntings (7 page)

“Really?” Nina cackled. “She bought you with cookies?”

“Every man has his weakness,” he said. “Mine happens to be delicious homemade baked goods.”

“Well, if I ever foul up the flower beds, I’ll just whip up a batch of snickerdoodles.”

An expression of pure want flashed across his eyes, and Nina felt vaguely insulted that said expression centered on cookies. He pressed his hand over his heart. “Don’t toy with me, Ms. Linden.”

“I never joke about my snickerdoodles,” she said, her voice dropping to a seductive, teasing octave that even she didn’t recognize.

Tugging at his collar, Deacon cleared his throat. “Jake said you’ve been uneasy about the house?”

Nina’s flirty tone disappeared. She cleared her throat. “I thought I saw something yesterday, but it was probably just a trick of light or a hallucination brought on by seasickness meds. Really.”

“I know the house has a reputation,” he said, carefully placing his hand on her shoulder. And then, remembering his own scrupulously written corporate policies on sexual harassment in the workplace—even if that workplace was his own backyard—he quickly pulled his hand away and held it behind his back. “And that can put people on edge, make them misinterpret things or see things that aren’t there. But really, it’s just an old, beat-up house on an old, beat-up island. There’s nothing supernatural going on here.”

There was a desperate tone in his assurance, Nina thought, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as her. She asked, “If it’s just an old, beat-up house on an old, beat-up island, why do you want to live here?”

“A convoluted idea of family loyalty?” he said, perching on the edge of the fountain and squinting up at her.

She fished around in her tool kit until she found a faded green baseball cap embroidered with the lotus-like Demeter Designs logo. She pressed it into his hands and sent a significant look at his high, surprisingly elegant forehead.

AFTER A MOMENT
of debating whether Jake would make fun of him for wearing it, Deacon slapped the cap onto his head. There were a lot of reasons for wanting to reclaim Whitney Island, but he doubted that sweet-faced, skittish Nina had the patience to hear that particular dissertation.

He’d anticipated complications with this project. One didn’t simply walk into Mordor, and one didn’t restore a one-hundred-plus-year-old house without some problems. He knew it was optimistic to expect to carry a full workload while he was staying on the island, which was why he had promoted Vi from his assistant to vice president of “distance operations,” covering the holes in Deacon’s schedule and chain of command while he was off getting closure. Vi now had her own assistant and a corner office with a mini-fridge stocked with her favorite obscure Jones sodas. He shuddered. Gravy should not be a soda flavor.

Deacon had grown up with a name that had traditionally meant wealth and privilege to many in Newport. Unfortunately, tradition and present-day reality weren’t necessarily the same thing. The reality was like being the crown prince of a defunct country. Deacon was raised on tales of what could have been, what should have been. His dad had made a decent living practicing law, but his income wasn’t what his Main
Line Philadelphia–born
Mayflower
mother was used to, and she couldn’t seem to adjust her spending habits. The fights about money were constant, loud, and sometimes public. His parents were more than well-educated. They could order dinner in several languages. They could traverse the social landscape of their moneyed neighbors, but they just couldn’t seem to get a grasp on ordinary adult obligations—such as the mortgage, car payments, or insurance. Somehow, his mother’s outstanding accounts at Saks and Elizabeth Arden took precedence. And his father couldn’t allow the family membership at the Newport Country Club to lapse. That would be shameful.

His father couldn’t let go of the “Whitney tradition,” even when it would have been more practical for the family to live in a smaller house or for Deacon to go to public school instead of the fancy private school the family’s “peers” attended. So Deacon was treated to condescending stares and outright hostility from his classmates, as if they thought “poor” was contagious.

When he earned a computer-science scholarship to Harvard, the only school his father would consider letting him attend, kids from the same old-money families looked down their noses at him, the kid whose parents’ car was repossessed from the school parking lot at parent-teacher night, the kid who bought school uniforms secondhand. Other scholarship kids resented him for stealing a spot from an underprivileged student. Mothers at the country club prayed he wouldn’t notice their daughters.

The only thing the family had to its name was this
particular pile of rocks under his feet, which was held in a trust that wouldn’t let it be sold. So when they had money troubles that couldn’t be solved by opening a credit card in Deacon’s name, his parents honored the family tradition of rummaging through the house for any overlooked knickknacks that could be hocked or sold outright.

Nina’s background check had been an interesting, but troubling, read. He knew about the bankruptcy, the fraud charges, the trouble she’d had obtaining her own business loans and license. He felt a certain kinship with her. That combined with the fact that she was so lushly beautiful had made him fidgety and somewhat awkward during their initial interview at his office. He’d tried to converse with her professionally, as if she was any other contractor involved in the Crane’s Nest project, but he’d ended up dropping the cup of piping-hot espresso his assistant had just delivered directly onto his left hand. Nina had rounded the desk in no time, quietly and competently using her purse-sized first-aid kit to apply ointment and a bandage to his burned skin. The fact that she was so ill at ease but still managed to function and care for another person told him all he needed to know about Nina Linden.

But still, possible shared trauma and his family’s sordid financial history seemed like a lot of information to pile into a near-stranger’s lap. So instead, he finally answered, “For years, this house was a symbol of my family’s bad luck, of failure, shame, tragedy. I want to be able to show people that things have changed, to restore the family name to where it was, maybe even a little bit better.”

“I suppose adding ‘because now you have more money than they do’ is a vulgar way to put it?”

Deacon chuckled. “Probably, but no less vulgar than me wanting to prove that I’ve made something of myself. Genes, even if they link you to some of the unluckiest bastards on the planet, do not determine destiny. So we’re going to fix this place up and prove it to the world.”

Nina’s expression slid from concerned to slightly disappointed. His answer made sense. It was a crappy, shallow answer, but it made sense.

Deacon noticed Nina’s frown. “Hoping for something a little more altruistic?”

Before she could respond to his oh-so-cheerful observations, Nina turned toward the sound of loud arguing as Cindy and Jake, yelling at the top of their lungs, were practically jogging across the lawn toward the fountain, arms waving. Anthony followed at a leisurely pace, as if his colleagues weren’t going insane before his very eyes. Deacon sighed and walked toward them.

“What now?” he huffed.

Anthony continued past them, taking a seat next to Nina on the fountain. “Did Jake go too far with his version of quote-unquote flirting?” she asked quietly.

Anthony shook his balding gray head, folding his hands over his beer belly. “I’m not sure. I was in the grand ballroom with my crew and ran to do damage control when I heard the yelling. Blood is hell to get out of parquet flooring.”

“Surely it won’t go that far,” Nina murmured.

“You missed the part where she threatened him with grout cleaner.”

“Well, there’s a complex history there,” she started, but Anthony cut her off.

“They’ll either stab each other or sleep together before the first month is out. Given the grout cleaner, I’d be willing to put a twenty on stabbing.”

“That would be completely wrong and unethical and . . .” Nina said just as Cindy called Jake an “overgelled, classless troll” in a tone so sweet it sounded like a compliment. Nina lowered her voice to say, “I’ll put thirty on sleeping together.”

Anthony gave an exaggerated mock gasp. “And you seem like such a nice girl!”

“Whit, would you tell this woman that she has no right to move entire rooms around on my blueprints?” Jake demanded.

Cindy was all acidic smiles and saccharine sweetness. “Mr. Whitney, would you please explain to your architect that these storage areas are part of an organization plan that you approved?” she practically cooed. “You asked Anthony to knock out one of the walls between guest rooms to create storage and display space for your collectibles.”

“Collectibles?” Nina whispered.

“I’ve seen the sketches,” Anthony whispered back. “The guy’s a
big
fan of those weird sci-fi/fantasy movies.
Flash Gordon
.
Krull
.
Tron
.
Ladyhawke.
Did you know they made
Krull
action figures? Because I sure didn’t. I’ve never even heard of that movie.”

Nina shook her head. “I did not know that. But now that I know that there’s a tiny posable Liam Neeson out there, I sort of want one.” The look Anthony gave her was equal parts confusion and speculation. She just shrugged. “Don’t judge me.”

Deacon asked. “Jake, didn’t we have this conversation about the storage rooms last week?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you were serious!” Jake exclaimed.

“Why not?” Deacon asked.

“Because when you told me about those plans, I said, ‘That’s fine, as long as you’re OK with two of the guest rooms collapsing on themselves, because you’re removing a load-bearing wall.’ Remember?”

Deacon frowned. “No, I’m pretty sure I tuned you out after you said, ‘That’s fine.’ ”

“
Gah!
” Jake threw his arms skyward. At Nina’s snicker, he turned on her. “Quiet, you.”

Nina mimed zipping her lips and tossing the key to Anthony, who “caught” it.

“I was up to my ears in code!” Deacon exclaimed. “You know we have that new EyeChat feature launching—”

“I knew you weren’t listening!” Jake cried, scraping his fingers through his thick sandy hair, making it stand up.

“Can’t you make up some sort of hand signal or something so I know when a conversation is important and I need to pay attention?”

“Most people don’t need hand signals to listen when their best friend is speaking, they just pay attention, whether it’s critical or not,” Jake grumped.

Deacon sighed and turned. “Cindy, I’m sorry. It seems that our plans for expanding the guest room into a collectibles room are not possible due to a structural issue. Would you mind looking into an alternative space in the family wing? Maybe the bedroom on the southwest corner of the third floor?”

Cindy nodded and gave Deacon a sunny smile. “Absolutely. That’s no problem.”

Jake sputtered indignantly, “Wha—Why does he get ‘That’s no problem’ and a smile? I asked you to do the same thing, and you threated to grout my face.”

“Because he explained it to me in a rational, polite fashion,” she said. “And he signs my checks. Also, I like him better than you.”

JAKE AND CINDY
eventually calmed down because Deacon offered to share some of his ill-gotten cookies from Marie. Delicious baked goods were the great workplace hostility equalizer, no matter how unorthodox the workplace.

The days that followed were strained, with Cindy and Jake pointedly avoiding each other in the house and ignoring each other completely at dinner unless asked a direct work-related question. Deacon and Nina had to find something to talk about, or meals would have been completely silent, convent-like affairs. So they talked about their mutual love of
Flash Gordon
, which led to an in-depth discussion of 1980s cartoons and Nina’s inappropriate attachment to Popples. Nothing, including baiting Jake about the size of his Garbage Pail Kids card collection, could draw the other two into the conversation. Nina was grateful that Deacon was
willing to return to the servants’ quarters at a decent hour each night; otherwise, she would have been better off having dinner with the garden statuary.

When Jake wasn’t around, Cindy became her usual talkative and cheerful self. Without a TV to keep them entertained, the ladies usually retreated into the female staff quarters each night to watch DVDs on Cindy’s laptop while snacking on popcorn and sodas liberated from Deacon’s stash. Cindy had a weakness for old black-and-white movies, anything involving Bette Davis, Billy Wilder, or Alfred Hitchcock—although considering their surroundings, they did skip
Psycho
. They wanted to be able to shower without a buddy system.

They fell into a daily routine—wake up at six, group breakfast and discussion of plans for the day’s progress, wait for the construction crews to arrive on the ferry at eight sharp, work until five, break for dinner and progress reports. Lather, rinse, repeat. Anthony’s arrival each morning seemed to bring normalcy, or at least good cookies. Marie’s much-appreciated contributions were kept in an R2-D2-shaped cookie jar on the shared kitchen counter.