Dark Dreamer: A Dark Vista Romance - By Jennifer Fulton Page 0,2
her own.
For a start, it would be nice to know if her visitors were in heaven. And if they were, was Jesus really God’s son who died to save us all, or just a guy far too liberal for his times? Also, could anyone explain why, if God was all powerful, he stood by while good people suffered hideous fates? Phoebe couldn’t be the only one who wanted an answer to that.
*
Rowe Devlin did not believe in ghosts. She’d said as much to the realtor standing in front of her. Not that it made any difference. Bunny Haskell ran busy fingers through her diligently corkscrewed platinum hair and continued her pitch.
“This is the ballroom.” She flung open two wide decorative doors. “They say the daughter of the family can still be heard waltzing here in the dead of night.” Coyly, she arched her overplucked eyebrows. “Right up your alley, I’m sure.”
The room they entered was long and paneled in black oak. Ornately carved trim decorated a high plaster ceiling. At the far end, latticed windows and French doors faced onto vast front lawns and a wide terrace. Rowe could imagine a happy throng spilling from the room on a long summer’s eve, the tinkle of champagne flutes, laughter echoing into the night.
Right now, drifts of red and yellow leaves swirled around the wrought-iron balustrades, serving notice of the winter to come. And it looked like Dark Harbor Cottage hadn’t seen a glittering party in years.
Rowe crossed the creaky hardwood floor and stood before the windows, picturing how it would be to walk her dogs in this corner of Maine. They wouldn’t know what to do with themselves, having spent their entire lives in a Manhattan apartment. She could see them now, careening across the huge meadow that extended from the cottage to the woods at the boundary of the property.
This remote place was as picturesque as a scene from a jigsaw puzzle. Standing sentinel on either side of a long driveway, hundred-year-old oak trees shimmered in their bronze foliage. To the east, a stand of birches glowed bright yellow against balsam and spruces, undaunted by the late-October winds. Beyond these woods lay the ocean, serene and winter blue beneath a mackerel sky.
“Secluded enough for you?” Bunny inquired with the breathless confidence of an agent who could smell a sale.
“It needs some work,” Rowe said, trying not to sound like she would be willing to pay full price. “The kitchen’s in terrible shape.”
Bunny waved a hand. “It’s a Victorian. You’d never get a fully restored property in this area for what this seller is asking.”
“I’m amazed it hasn’t sold sooner. Is there something I should know?”
Bunny laughed that off breezily. “What can I tell you? The market’s been slow. I’ve only shown the place to a few families, and they didn’t want to deal with the renovations.”
Rowe thought about the turret room upstairs with its astonishing views of Penobscot Bay. It was the perfect place to write. “Tell me about the neighbors.”
Bunny consulted her clipboard. “Well, you’re on six acres, so they’re not going to bother you. To the north, there’s a cottage owned by a family from New York. It’s closed up for most of the year—they’re only here for a few weeks each summer. And over there is a Shingle Style house.” She pointed vaguely past the birches. “I believe two sisters live there. They keep to themselves.”
Rowe pictured a pair of maiden aunts in their seventies stitching quilts on their front verandah. Who could ask for more? “Sounds ideal.”
“I knew you were going to love the place!” Bunny ushered her back into the hall. “Want to see upstairs again?”
“Sure. Why not?”
From the bottom of the grand cherrywood staircase, Rowe stared up. She could imagine how spectacular the entrance vestibule would look with the woodwork fully restored and the curved stained-glass windows sparkling clean, shafts of tinted light beaming down. She wouldn’t be able to do everything at once. She didn’t have unlimited money. But she could start work on the entrance and stairs right away.
The second floor needed improvements, but it was not in bad shape. There were six bedrooms, one of which had been converted in recent times to a master with its own half-decent bathroom. Above this, up a narrow spiral staircase, was the airy turret room Rowe had earmarked for writing. She climbed the steep wooden steps to this retreat and crossed to the grimy bowed windows.