Dreams of Idlewood Read online

  Still sounding perky, but obviously disappointed, Detra Ann wore a small frown as she shuffled through her file keeper and pulled out a few papers. “I wish you had told me that earlier.” She took a deep breath and handed a sheet to Rachel. “But I came prepared. Use this script, and how about you and Angus take the parlor? Henri and I will hold our presentation in the bachelor’s quarters. Can either of you play the piano? We thought that would be a nice touch.”

  Rachel scanned the paper and gave one of those long, exasperated sighs, like a teenager. “Heck no, unless it’s a CD player or a karaoke machine. Oh, wait! Angus can play the guitar! Is that okay?”

  “Um, no. I don’t think this is the guitar crowd.” To me, Detra Ann said, “There is some sheet music on the piano; tell Ashland to use it. He took piano lessons in middle school.” To Rachel she said, “No guitars for this, I’m afraid.”

  “Just as well. I doubt he has it with him. So CJ and Ashland take the conservatory, and we take the parlor? What am I supposed to do in there? Hand out cigars? Read poetry?”

  “Yes to all of that. You know what the goal is, sell our restoration services to the community. I know this seems crazy, but trust me, it will put Cotton City Restoration on the map! There’s no time to teach you the script, but use it as a guide. Serve drinks, regale them with some stories about the house. Talk about some of the processes you’ve used in restoring the parlor, point out the features. But most importantly, sell them on the idea of preserving Old Mobile. That’s what I had planned to do. You know enough about Idlewood to keep them intrigued. Stay focused on the goal. We want to sell our services but behave as professionals.” I could see Rachel’s unspoken comment: In these dresses? Thankfully she kept her mouth shut because Detra Ann was a hair away from breaking down in tears. I knew her well enough to know she hated surprises. At least in business.

  “And let’s keep Desmond Taylor happy. No ghost stories or mentions of this Shadow Man. Let’s put on happy faces and do this! Those people down there want to invest in Mobile. Let’s save the old houses! We can do this, y’all!”

  Through watery, itchy eyes I smiled at her. You could take the girl out of the cheerleading squad, but you couldn’t take the cheerleading out of the girl. Or something like that.

  Gee, my head feels fuzzy. Please tell me I didn’t take the wrong allergy pill. That’s all I need, to pass out in front of a pool of potential clients.

  If I was a drinking woman, I’d have had a few nips to keep me going before making the long stroll down the staircase and into the conservatory. Whose bright idea was it to dress up like this anyway? We were a professional restoration company now. Did we really need a gimmicky stunt like this? I sighed, stood up and tried to tamp down my ruffles. “Well, you’re the PR expert, Detra Ann. We’re all in your hands.”

  “Then trust me. This kind of stuff works.”

  We walked down the long staircase one at a time. Each of us paused on the steps below, stacked behind one another for our photos. Yep, Detra Ann had even sprung for a professional photographer. I prayed to God that I wouldn’t end up on the front page of the Mobile Press Register this weekend. Our “menfolk” were waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. Naturally, Ashland looked like he’d stepped right out of the past, handsome and “put together perfectly” as the old-time Southerners used to say. He wore a light brown morning suit, with a white collar and blue cravat. He’d been talking with some of the visitors until they noticed us take to the stairs.

  Someone whistled, and I blushed even though I was sure it was for Detra Ann. But it was Angus whistling at Rachel, and despite her earlier misgivings about her dress, she was beaming from ear to ear now. He offered her his hand as she took the last step. I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn’t tripped during our processional. “Carrie Jo, you look lovely,” Ashland said with a smile. The watching crowd politely clapped at our arrival. I blushed or flushed; I couldn’t tell which because I thought I was running a fever now.

  “Thanks,” I said through a stuffy nose.

  Of all of us, Angus was the one who looked the most historically accurate, as if he’d stepped out of the past. His massive red beard made him look like an authentic 19th-century gentleman in his black suit with white collars and cuffs. He looked so authentic that it gave me goose bumps. After making some introductions, the visitors were divided up and Ashland and I led our group of about thirty men and women into the conservatory.

  “What? I thought we were in the parlor,” he whispered like a freight train.

  “Change of plans.” I smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

  The sun would be going down soon, and the large windows of the conservatory gave us a brilliant view of the gardens and the garconniere beyond. There weren’t too many colorful flowers this time of year, but the hedges were skillfully sculpted into spirals and there were other points of interest to enjoy too. You couldn’t see Idlewood’s sunken gardens from here, but they had not yet been fully restored so that was probably for the best. I was very excited about the prospect of bringing that unique space to life. I hoped to find someone competent enough to recapture its beauty.

  Each couple was supposed to lead a group through the house, making stops along the way to show the improvements we had made. Through the thirty-minute presentation, we’d have a chance to build relationships, exchange ideas. But since Rachel’s last-minute confession, I guessed we’d all stay in one place now. That was a shame because I loved the parlor, but as Detra Ann reminded us, this was about our future together. She’d sold the antiques store and kept the apartment above, but I didn’t see her and Henri staying there forever. They’d sunk their nest egg into Cotton City Restoration, and we had invested the proceeds of the sale of another one of Ashland’s properties. Even Rachel was a part owner of the business. I hoped we could make it work. So far, so good.

  “Why don’t you begin, Carrie Jo?”

  “Be ready to hit the keys when I give you the cue.”

  “What? You have to be kidding me. I can’t play!”

  “Detra Ann says you can, and if you object you can take it up with her.”

  He rubbed his forehead, and I wagged a finger at him. “Don’t even think about it. You know I can’t sing, or play or dance. It’s you or nothing.”

  “Fine, but you’ll regret that decision. I’ll hang out in the back and play when you’re ready.” He glanced nervously at the sheet music, and I patted his arm.

  “You’ve got this, hon. I’ve never heard you play, and I’m looking forward to it.”

  “You shouldn’t,” he said, frowning as he turned the page.

  Oh goodness. That sure didn’t sound too promising. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Since our time is limited, I want to begin our presentation now. Please have a seat; I think we have enough seating for everyone. If not, we can find more.” The group chattered as they took seats on the settees, couches and folding chairs. There was an eclectic mix of visitors at tonight’s event. Some were real estate folks, some were heirs to old homes, others were just curious investors who’d heard about the success we had with Seven Sisters and now Idlewood. I’d scanned the finalized guest list last week, and I was pretty impressed with some of the names I saw there. “Good. Everyone comfortable?”

  I walked to the windows and began my speech. Unlike my stressed-out assistant, I knew every part of the script since I wrote most of it. I knew what to feature in this room: the windows, the oversize fireplace and the ceiling medallions. I tried not to think about how close I stood to where Tallulah’s casket had rested. I didn’t think about Percy’s broken heart or Dot’s sad eyes. I blinked my eyes, ignoring their sluggish, sticky feeling. Yep, that allergy pill was kicking in for sure now. Get it together, CJ.

  “You guys are the luckiest group of visitors here today because you get to experience the conservatory at the right time. When we move to other parts of the property, the light will have changed and it will be too dark to appreciate the wonderful landscaping
just outside these windows. Just think what it must have been like to end the day here, the sounds of the piano tinkling in the background. As you can see, we’ve taken great pains to reproduce the gardens as precisely as possible, just as they were when they were first built.”

  A tall man in the back said, “You mean, what you think they looked like, right? Or do you have access to sketches of the original garden? I mean, without them you couldn’t possibly know what the original landscape looked like.” I didn’t recognize him, but he seemed vaguely familiar, like I’d talked to him before. Maybe I had.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t see a nametag. What’s your name again?”

  “My name is Austin Simmons. And yours?”

  “Oh, excuse me. I should have led with that, right? My name is Carrie Jo Stuart, and this is my husband, Ashland Stuart.”

  “You owned Seven Sisters at one time, didn’t you? I can’t imagine why you would give that house up. It’s a glorious building with an interesting history.” Ashland stirred beside me but said nothing. I could tell he didn’t like the guy. Simmons had a nice-looking face and expensive clothes, but he didn’t seem to have any manners because he kept talking and cutting into my presentation time. “It has good bones, as they say. Has this restoration been as exciting to you?” That’s a weird question.

  “Well, thank you for your questions, Mr. Simmons. We worked hard on the restoration of Seven Sisters, just as we’re happy to work with Mr. Taylor here at Idlewood. It’s kind of become our life’s work, restoring Old Mobile. As far as comparing the two, that’s a bit unfair. This house isn’t quite as old, and the layout and features are different. But I think it is crucial—and I know Ashland would agree with me—absolutely crucial that we don’t allow these old homes to disappear.” People whispered to one another, and from what I could hear, it sounded like they mostly agreed. As the sunlight began to fade, Ashland walked to the light switch and turned the dial so the chandeliers shone their low amber lights.

  Simmons didn’t get the hint. “Tell me, Mrs. Stuart. Is it true what they say about Seven Sisters? Is the place haunted?”

  I laughed nervously and thanked my lucky stars that Desmond Taylor had not made it into our group yet. Mr. Taylor was gracious enough to allow us to use this place for our presentation, for a discount on his final bill, of course, but I knew for a fact he wouldn’t like to hear such comments or comparisons. He was a staunch unbeliever in the supernatural.

  “Mr. Simmons, if you’ll hold off on those questions, I’ll be happy to answer them privately after the presentation. All right?” With an amiable nod he sat back in his chair with his arms crossed and watched me, a small smile on his face. “Now, everyone, you may have noticed that the house is positioned so the sunset could be on full display here. That was not a coincidence but smart planning! You see at the time this house was built, and up until the first part of the twentieth century, these grand old homes were built to be appreciated all day long. For example, many homes had ‘morning rooms’ like the parlor you’ll see in just a bit. That’s where the family would begin their day, sometimes even taking dinner there and using the dining room only in the evening. As the sun moved across the sky, the residents would move about the house; they began the day in the morning room for optimal light and then in the afternoons moved into rooms with adjacent doors so they could enjoy any breeze that might be flowing. In the evenings, they would come to the conservatory to watch the sunset or step out just beyond to the balcony to enjoy a drink on the patio that oversees the sunken gardens. The people who built Idlewood knew what they were doing.”

  I felt Austin Simmons’ eyes bearing into me as I continued my comments. Yes, that allergy pill was kicking in now. My skin was flushed, and I wanted nothing more than to take a nap. I moved to the oversize fireplace and began highlighting the carved details, the expensive stonework and the reproduction process. I described the ways we’d repurposed a similar mantelpiece for an upstairs room and answered a few polite questions. Mr. Simmons kept his mouth closed but watched everyone who spoke like a hawk. I felt as if he knew all about me. Could he possibly know I was a dream catcher? No, that’s crazy talk. I felt tired, and my mouth was dry after fifteen minutes of talking nonstop. After a few more minutes I wrapped up the presentation, explaining how we could help the gathering with their own restoration processes. “As you know, we work hand in hand with the Historical Society during these operations and in many cases are successful in adding buildings to their register. That’s crucial if you want to qualify for grants and additional funds from the state. It’s not as complicated as you might think. And I think that’s it for now. Ashland?” I nodded at him, and my face felt sweaty. “Now for a bit of fun, my husband will play for us. We had a piano brought in especially for the occasion.” Ashland’s face said it all. He didn’t want to do this, but he was too polite to refuse Detra Ann or me. I suddenly felt sorry for him, but there was no helping him. The crowd of potential customers and Historical Society members clapped politely as he sat down at the piano. Well, he looked the part of a country gentleman if nothing else.

  After a few rough starts, he’d made it through the first page, but there was absolutely no doubt—my husband was the master of many things, but the piano wasn’t one of them. Before I knew it, Austin Simmons was standing beside us. “Obviously someone brought you the wrong sheet music, Mr. Stuart. If you wouldn’t mind, I think I know this. It’s Chopin’s Raindrops, isn’t it?”

  With a suspicious frown, Ashland slid off the piano bench. “I am surprised you could tell. Please, be my guest.” We took seats near the front as Mr. Simmons played Chopin like someone who knew what he was doing. In fact, he sounded like some kind of virtuoso. I glanced around the room and saw most everyone was enraptured by his performance. I studied him as he tapped on the keys with his long fingers. Where had I seen him before? He had dark, wavy hair that he wore slightly long, but that was purposeful, not in an unkempt style. He was as tall as Ashland, maybe slightly thinner. As he played he closed his eyes, as if he were willing the music into being. I felt Ashland glance at me, but I didn’t dare look at him. I was blushing or flushing again, and I didn’t want him to misinterpret the effect. I wasn’t attracted to the man; I had a fever. Or something. I felt my bosom redden and as if he read my mind, Simmons caught my eye. At the last notes, the applause began and I couldn’t help but join in. That’s when I noticed Detra Ann and her group had joined us. I walked over to her and she whispered, “Who is that?”

  “Someone from the group. He offered to play for us. Austin Simmons is his name.”

  As our group rose I directed everyone to Detra Ann, who decided now would be a good time to go check on Rachel. “I’m worried about her. And you too. Your face is red, girl. Are you sure you are okay?”

  “I think I have a fever, but I’ll live.”

  “Good. Well, send Ashland to the garconniere. Henri is charming, but he doesn’t know much about the history of the building or the restoration process. I’ll step out to the parlor and check on Rachel and Angus. They should be sending their folks this way soon.”

  My head was swimming; it was all too complicated. I whispered to Ashland what she wanted, and he left looking relieved. Except for the distrustful glance cast in Mr. Simmons’ direction. At least no one would ask him to play again.

  Drinking a few sips from my water bottle, I patted my warm cheeks with a few splashes of water and went in for round two. To my surprise, Simmons was waiting for me. “Mr. Simmons, your group is in the parlor now. Just down the hall there.” I smiled through my hazy vision.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll stay with you. I like hearing you speak.”

  I blushed, I think. Yes, he was familiar. Or was it a fever? “Have we met before?”

  “I can’t say for sure. Do you think we have?”

  “Do you always answer questions with questions, Mr. Simmons?”

  It was his turn to blush now. “I would like it if you called me Austin. And forg
ive me. It is a bad habit I picked up over the years. I would like to stay, though. You have such a passion for this house. I hear it in your voice; it is refreshing.”

  “I think you’ll find that everyone here loves these forgotten Mobile properties, but it’s up to you, sir.” Unsure what to say, I walked away, my pile of ruffles making a distinct sound as I tried to move as elegantly as possible. It wasn’t as easy as one might think. I began my presentation all over again. Sometime during my tour of the room, Simmons disappeared. And that disturbed me too. I was even more convinced that I knew the man from somewhere.

  I didn’t know what that meant, but I was sure it wasn’t anything good. I managed to get through the rest of the half hour without passing out. By the time it was over, I was ready to ditch the itchy clothes and hit the hay. Baby Boy was under Momma’s supervision tonight, and I welcomed the undisturbed sleep. I dozed off as Ashland drove home and vaguely remembered us climbing the steps to our room. Ashland wanted to talk about Simmons, but I didn’t have the energy to put two words together, much less argue about the strange man.

  As I snuggled into bed, it finally occurred to me where I’d seen Simmons before. He was the spitting image of David Garrett! Before I could stew over the strange coincidence, for surely that was what it was, a warm glow surrounded me.

  The glow that accompanies a dream…

  Chapter Two – Aubrey

  Bridget found me in the conservatory, and as usual her hair was disheveled and her gown not completely cinched. She had the wild-eyed look of someone who could see what others could not. In her own way, Bridget was a pretty girl, but not so obviously fair as Tallulah had been. She would never be a great beauty, but she had a vulnerability that some men liked, including Edward LaGrange. Like it or not, she’d caught his eye and, as he was Michael’s closest friend, she would marry him. Of that there was no doubt. Michael would not abide disobedience.