The Idlewood Collection: A Seven Sisters Spin-Off Series Read online

  According to the rearview mirror I needed to sleep for about a year or stock up on some high-end concealer. I could also plainly see that the eyeliner under my left eye was as crooked as all get-out, and I’d completely forgotten lipstick. My wild hair was long overdue for a trim—my messy bun didn’t look too professional, but I kept missing my hair appointments. I always found an excuse to skip them. Since the arrival of my son, I was perpetually out of sorts.

  Did I mention I was sleep-deprived? Not good for a “dream catcher.”

  And when was the last time I’d had a dream? Gosh, I couldn’t even remember.

  Ashland was gone so much lately—he’d been traveling, liquidating assets, trying to stop the financial bleeding. This last stretch he’d been gone nearly a week, and I was beginning to feel like a single parent. This morning, I woke up late and didn’t have the time or brains to put any effort into my wardrobe; thus the wearing of Old Reliable—my black pantsuit from college. I suddenly found myself wishing my mother would come back to Mobile. I missed her, which was weird since we’d not been that close before.

  I sighed as the Camry driver in front of me rolled to another stop and began tapping on his phone. Too many lights on Government Street. The frequent stops had never bothered me before, but life with a baby gave you a new perspective on things.

  Good Lord, I was impatient! When was the last time I took a few minutes just to appreciate the mossy oaks that lined Government Street? The vintage gas lamps and friendly pedestrians? Well, it wouldn’t be today. I didn’t have time to stare out the window anymore. I missed that luxury. I’d spent the past six months running late and missing the party altogether. I took a deep breath and tapped on the steering wheel impatiently. I flipped on some soft jazz and eased through the light when it changed. Thankfully I didn’t have to remind the guy ahead of me again.

  Two big things were happening today. I would finally begin the major project at Idlewood, and Ashland James Junior was headed off for his first day at day care. I couldn’t decide which I was more nervous about. No, that wasn’t true. It was definitely the latter. For the past few months, the baby and I had gotten quite comfortable hanging out around the house and visiting the park at Cadillac Square while Ashland “jet-setted” around the Gulf Coast with Libby Stevenson. I admired his work ethic, and I absolutely trusted him (I did trust him, right?), but sometimes I wished he’d stop trying to rescue everyone else and just rescue me.

  Funny how the thing you love the most about someone can also be the thing that drives you absolutely bonkers.

  “How you doing back there, little man?” AJ sputtered happily, and I could tell by the jangling of his car seat toy that he was having a good old time. I passed Carlen Street. It was a one-way, so I had to make the block to get to AJ’s day care over off Dauphin. “Almost there!” I said more brightly than I actually felt.

  A few turns and two lights later, we were pulling into Small Steps Daycare. They’d come highly recommended by Aimee, Detra Ann’s new shop assistant. I took a peek at the facility, “interviewed” the owner and left feeling good about it all. But that was before I had to drop off my son there.

  “Hi, Carrie Jo—and good morning, Ashland! You ready to play?” That was Jessica, AJ’s new pal and the facility’s supervisor. He’d met her last week and seemed to like her. As instructed, I didn’t get out of the car when I arrived. Jessica explained that it made the transition easier if parents stayed in the car, but she understood if I wanted to come inside the first few times. I followed her suggestion and gripped the steering wheel like I was dying. Letting go was harder than I imagined. Jessica and her helper removed the baby and his diaper bag and closed the door behind them. The sound nearly broke my heart. What kind of mother was I, giving my baby to strangers? Never mind the fact that I could watch him the whole time from the computer in my office. All the classrooms at Small Steps had “Mommy Cams.”

  I rolled down the window, uncaring about the line forming behind me.

  “And you have my number, right? If you need anything at all, anything, just holler at me. Okay? I’m just like two streets over.”

  “We will, Mommy. Have a good day! See you at noon!”

  “Okay,” I said, swallowing tears as the car rolled to the end of the driveway. I took a deep breath and turned back onto busy Dauphin Street. Even though it was after eight o’clock, cars were everywhere. This was an old area that had seen quite a bit of revitalization the past few years. I was happy that my husband and I had contributed to that in some way. Seven Sisters was only a few blocks away—my first house renovation in this area…and my first ever. To say that it was a life-changing experience would be an understatement. And even though I hadn’t been back to the plantation-turned-museum in over six months, it held a special place in my heart for more reasons than I could count.

  Oh, baby AJ. What am I doing leaving you? Life is too precarious to let the ones you love go unprotected!

  I sniffed against a threatening onset of Mommy-guilt. I hadn’t made it to Carlen Street before the tears threatened to reappear. As if my husband read my mind, my phone rang and his handsome face appeared on the screen. I sighed with relief and pulled the car into a rare empty parking spot on Dauphin Street before answering. I was only two driveways from Idlewood, but I didn’t want Desmond Taylor seeing me cry if he made an unscheduled visit. Which he was likely to do.

  “Good morning, gorgeous. How did our boy do this morning?”

  “Better than Mommy, I’m afraid.”

  He laughed, but not in a mocking way. As always, he was a thoughtful man. Now, if he’d just come home so I could sleep through the night! “Having second thoughts, babe?”

  I leaned my head against the seat back for a second before answering. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, not really. Why? Do you think I should go back and get him?”

  His patient voice poured through the phone like soothing honey. “CJ, he’s going to be fine. The place has a stellar reputation. We were lucky to get him in there, and you need this. You need a project, something you can sink your teeth into. Not to mention we can use the money, although I expect that is going to turn around soon. I got an offer on the house in New Orleans.”

  “That’s great, Ashland. I hate to see you sell another one of your properties.”

  “Yeah, but it’s got to be done. And since I haven’t told you this today, I love you, Carrie Jo.”

  “I love you too, Ashland. Now come home. Like, today.”

  “I’m on it. I’ll be home this evening.”

  I paused, not sure what to say to him. I just knew I didn’t want the conversation to end.

  “You okay?”

  I shook my head as if he could see me. “Not really, no.”

  “Don’t overthink this. Get back to doing what you love, CJ. Our son will be fine. He’s in good hands. You know that. You can’t run from who you are, any more than I can. Get started.”

  “I know, I know. And I know I’m darn lucky that Desmond Taylor waited around for me and didn’t go with someone else for this project.”

  I could hear the smile in his voice. “That’s not what I meant. But yes, he is lucky to have you in the lead role on this.”

  “Well, what did you mean, then?” I sat up now and frowned at myself in the rearview mirror. That reminded me—I needed to fix my eyeliner pronto. I rubbed at the crooked line, which only made it look worse.

  “This isn’t criticism. So please don’t take it that way. But has it ever occurred to you that you’ve been avoiding going back to work because you’re afraid? Maybe all that you experienced at Seven Sisters traumatized you more than you realize. I think you might be letting fear get the best of you, Carrie Jo.”

  I stared at the phone for a moment and then put my ear back to the speaker.

  “Are you there? Did I lose you?” he asked innocently.

  “Yeah, I’m here. What kind of cockamamie theory is that?” I heard a woman talking in the background. Sounded like Libby.
That made my blood boil even more. Here I was, struggling to keep it all together, and he was gallivanting around New Orleans with his school chum turned attorney. How convenient! “Is that some theory you and Libby came up with together? I hope I’m not the sole subject of conversation between you two.” Wow! Where did that come from? Had to be the hormones! Oh good God! Even though my thoughts were reasonable and my mind was telling me to shut up, my mouth wasn’t having any of it. It kept on rolling. Ashland tried to speak, but I cut him off right away. I wasn’t in the mood for his reasonable attitude or his amateur psychologist diagnosis this morning. “You know what, Ashland? I’m not afraid of a dang thing! You’re the chicken here! I’ve been doing all the parenting, making all the decisions—not sleeping! How about you come home and change a few diapers and enjoy some of AJ’s midnight feedings and then talk to me about being afraid. Afraid. That’s a joke. I don’t have the energy to be afraid.”

  “Whoa, CJ. I asked you not to take what I said as criticism. And for the record, I don’t talk about…”

  “I’ve got to go, Ashland. I’m late already.”

  “We can’t end our conversation like this, CJ. I was only trying to help.”

  He was being so kind, and I was acting like a total ass. I felt my heart melt. I knew I’d been wrong, but before I could apologize I heard Libby’s voice again in the background. Calling my husband.

  “Ashland! You ready?”

  Probably perfectly innocent, but I was already so angry at him it didn’t matter. I needed to end this conversation before things got more heated. “Goodbye, Ashland.” I hung up the phone and threw it in my purse. I put the car in drive, looked down the street, saw no cars coming and wheeled out onto Carlen. Dang it!

  Time to put my game face on. If I hadn’t felt like doing so before, I did now. If for no other reason than to prove to him that I could do this—and that I wasn’t afraid or any such nonsense. Despite whatever theory he might have, I was more than capable of making this happen. I pulled my BMW into the driveway of Idlewood and climbed the steep hill. I’d been here before over six months ago, but not much had changed. I’d forgotten how steep the driveway was—that was something we might have to address going forward. I eased up the rest of the way, put the car in park and sat staring at the broken old home. An upstairs window was broken now. Might be some water damage inside. Wait…was someone up there? Then I saw Rachel’s car. She’d beaten me to the punch.

  I turned off the car and grabbed my purse and briefcase. I slid my sunglasses to the top of my head and took a good look at the front facade. She had good bones but definitely needed some love. I looked at my watch. I had a few hours to get started; baby AJ would be in day care for only half-days today and next week. I had insisted on that. I thought easing into a longer schedule would be easier on him—and me.

  Idlewood was built on a small hill, which made the Greek revival home appear even larger. Some parts of the property looked good, like the brick walkway that led to the front steps. The four large oak trees that lined the walkway were in good shape too, if in need of a good trim. Concrete lions lined the front steps, but many of them were hidden from view, wrapped in green vines and other debris. There were twelve windows on the front of the house; eight of those were full-length windows complete with green shutters. The second floor had a balcony that extended around the entire house, but the floors were spongy and needed to be replaced in some areas. The columns had damage, and two needed replacing. All the windows upstairs would need to be replaced; the warped glass and missing shingles made the grand old home appear forlorn, forgotten, like a toothless old belle abandoned by her beau a very long time ago.

  Most people probably didn’t think about strange things like this, but I felt that some old homes had their own personalities. And it was my job to figure out this house’s personality and let it shine through.

  This section of Carlen Street towered over nearby Hunter Avenue. Back in the early 1800s, when Idlewood was first built, there was nothing else in this area. It was used as a working plantation by the McClellans, the builders of the home. They grew peanuts and allowed sharecroppers to grow and pick cotton during certain times of the year. Old Mr. McClellan was making money, according to the county records, but he’d gotten very ill and sold the place to his friend and fellow Scotsman Lane Ferguson. The house was a few years older than Seven Sisters. Both were massive properties in their day, and it was a rare thing to have two such homes so close together. During Calpurnia’s time, Idlewood wasn’t lived in year-round. The Ferguson-Mays family had another home on the other side of Mobile Bay.

  After the last of the Fergusons died, it changed hands frequently, and then the house stood empty for many years until the Taylors bought it. The Taylors were related to those Fergusons somehow (that wasn’t quite clear to me yet), and Desmond Taylor—at the urging of his wife and the Historical Society—was keen to make the house something special again. A showplace for the community to enjoy and rent for balls, weddings and who knew what else. Who could blame him?

  I sighed as I took in the view one last time before I went to work. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the place like it would be. Although it was quite different from Seven Sisters, it would be just as lovely, of that I had no doubt. There should be laughter here. There hasn’t been much of that. I can feel the sadness. I shivered at that thought but refused to acknowledge any fear. Ashland was wrong. Dead wrong. I hadn’t been stalling for time. The idea of restoring the place to an honorable position in Mobile thrilled me. I decided I’d begin this new journey with a walk-around of the property to get the lay of the land.

  And despite what Ashland thought, I wasn’t afraid. Not one little bit.

  Heck no, I wasn’t afraid!

  Maybe I should have been.

  Chapter Two – Rachel

  I arrived at Idlewood at seven o’clock thinking I’d have plenty of time to mark the doors with taped signs before the various contractors arrived. There was no electricity, so I wasn’t sure what the workmen would actually accomplish today. I’d dressed down this morning in worn blue jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. It just felt like that kind of day. The house smelled stale, and it was cool but not freezing. We’d enjoyed a mild February this year, but like they say, “If you don’t like the weather in Mobile, just wait a few minutes.”

  I really hated February. It was “the month of love,” and this year I wasn’t feeling much like celebrating. I’d given Chip the heave-ho for good right after Christmas, and our friendship hadn’t survived the breakup. I hated that because I really did like him as a person, even if he could be narrow-minded about spiritual subjects. I hadn’t been seeing anyone, but I was almost ready to get back into the dating game. Almost.

  I changed out the batteries in my camera before beginning to document the house. Carrie Jo liked having before, during and after shots of every room.

  According to the planning sheet Carrie Jo and I developed last month, all the stage one doors were marked. On her jobs, CJ orchestrated everything: what rooms got painted first, where the computers would go, which room we would store supplies in, that sort of thing. I also put no-entry signs on rooms that weren’t safe or were off-limits to curious workers. The home was mostly empty, but there were some pricy mantelpieces and other components that would fetch a fair price if you knew where to unload stolen items such as high-end antiques. Surprisingly, many people did.

  I’d start the pictures on the top floor and work my way down. I peeked out the front door quickly to see if CJ was here. No sign of her yet, which wasn’t like her at all. She was usually the early bird. I smiled, feeling good that Carrie Jo trusted me enough to give me the keys to this grand old place. There were three floors, although the attic space wasn’t a real priority for our project. The windows would be changed, the floors and roof inspected, but not a lot of cosmetic changes were planned for up there beyond that. We’d prepare it for future storage of seasonal decorations and miscellaneous supplies. Seemed
a waste to me. I liked the attic; it was roomy, like an amazing loft apartment. But it was no surprise I was drawn to it—when I was a kid, I practically lived in my tree house.

  I stuffed my cell phone in my pocket and jogged up the wide staircase in the foyer. I could hear birds chirping upstairs; they probably flew in through a broken window. There were quite a few of them from the sound of it. Since I hadn’t labeled any doors upstairs or in the attic, I hadn’t had the opportunity to explore much up there. It felt strangely exhilarating to do so all by myself. The first flight of stairs appeared safe, but I took my time on the next two. Water damage wasn’t always easy to spot, and I had no desire to fall through a weak floor. When I reached the top of the stairs to the attic, I turned the knob and was surprised to find it locked.

  “What?” I twisted it again and leaned against the door this time, but it wouldn’t move. I didn’t see a keyhole, so that meant it wasn’t locked after all. I supposed it was merely stuck, the wood probably swollen from moisture. “Rats,” I said. I set my jaw and tried one last time. The third time must have been the charm because it opened freely, as if it hadn’t given me a world of problems before. I nearly fell as it gave way, laughing at myself as I regained my balance quickly. I reached for my camera and flipped it to the video setting. I panned the room to record the contents. There were quite a few old trunks, boxes and even the obligatory dressmaker’s dummy. It was a nerd girl historian’s dream come true.

  Like an amateur documentarian, I spoke to the camera: “Maiden voyage into the attic at Idlewood. Today is February 4th. This is Rachel Kowalski recording.”

  Rachel Kowalski recording, something whispered back. My back straightened, and the fine hairs on my arms lifted as if to alert me to the presence of someone or something unseen.

  I froze and said, “Hello?” I was happy to hear my voice and my voice alone echo back to me.

  Hello?

  I chuckled at myself and began inching my way around the room. Even though I knew it was me now, the echo wasn’t pleasant so I didn’t speak again, I just panned and zoomed until I’d recorded everything I thought would be important, including some interesting antiques that we might be able to use during the final staging. I panned up to the ceiling and zoomed into a suspected weak spot in the corner of the room behind a stack of metal spires that came from goodness knew where. Thankfully the light in here was pretty good; the video wouldn’t be too dark or grainy.