Tomorrow's Sun (Lost Sanctuary) - By Becky Melby Page 0,3

his forehead. He looked toward the window and Emily witnessed a split-second startle. He’d seen the cane. He wiped his palms on his jeans and cleared his throat. “Can I give you a hand?”

There was only one way she could get to her feet from where she was now, and Jacob Braden’s hand wouldn’t help. “Why don’t you go ahead and look around and I’ll join you in—”

The back door moaned once again. The older boy bounded in. “Michael, Mom said you gotta get home.” Eyes almost identical to his little brother’s jerked to Emily then up to the man beside him. “Why is she sitting on the floor?” he asked in a hushed tone, as if she couldn’t hear.

“Russell, say hi to Miss Foster. She’s going to be your new neighbor. She’s sitting on the floor because she’s tired. Miss Foster just drove all the way from…Minnesota?”

“Michigan. Traverse City.”

“That’s a long drive.” He nudged the boy.

“Hi. I’m Russell. It’s nice to meet you.” The words came out stilted, rehearsed. Precious. “Did you see the ghost yet?”

A chill shimmied up her spine. “Ghost?”

Jacob Braden put a hand on Russell’s head. “Local legend. In a town with this much history, people mix a little truth with a lot of fantasy. This house has been around a long time.” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Say good-bye, boys.”

Michael took one last look at the empty counter, waved, and ran out. Russell said good-bye, turned toward the door then stopped. “My mom says maybe you will babysit us. Do you have any boys?”

Emily shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

No cookies. No little boys.

Not this side of heaven.

The soles of Jake’s boots whispered in the worn depressions in the steps. If these stairs could talk…A century and a half of footfalls. Newlyweds slipping off to bed…a worried mother walking her feverish baby… children’s voices echoing in the steep, narrow stairwell… The stories this house could tell. He reached the top and ran his hand over the newel post. Smooth. Polished by countless hands.

He smiled as he walked into a bedroom. What a sentimental schmuck he was.

Looking down at the river through wavy blown glass, he listened for footsteps. Then it hit him—maybe the lady couldn’t climb stairs. What was wrong with her anyway? The multicolored cane could have been left by the old woman who’d died right there in that kitchen a few months back, but he doubted it. And something about the wary look in Emily’s wide-set eyes told him her problems weren’t just physical. But in that area he was out of his element. Houses he could read. Women he almost always misinterpreted. He still hadn’t recovered from the last mistake.

With dark blond hair pulled straight back and no makeup, he’d guess her to be an accountant or lawyer. Something dry and bookish. She’d told him on the phone this was her first house flip. He didn’t like the way she’d said it. But then, he didn’t like the term flip anyway. It sounded like something fast, cheap. Flippant. She wouldn’t get fast or cheap out of him if he took the job.

If he took the job.

He waited a respectful few minutes, gazing down at trees bursting with new, bright green leaves. Skinny branches arched over the river like hundreds of fishing poles. The water was as high as he’d ever seen it. If he found a spare minute he’d get out the kayak. Another big if.

He was walking out the door when he heard her. Slow, halting steps up the stairs. He backtracked to the window and pretended to be absorbed in the flight of a fat robin toting a strip of blue plastic.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Emily Foster stopped in the doorway. “I think I mentioned on the phone that I had the house thoroughly inspected before I bought it. The roof was replaced nine years ago. I’ve hired painters for the exterior and I plan on sanding the porch myself. The foundation is sound. So”—she nodded toward the wall between the two north bedrooms—“why don’t we start up here? I’m thinking these two rooms, with a bath in between, will be the master suite.”

Jake’s jaw tightened as he glanced at the row of old hooks in a small, open closet. Knocking out that closet would be nothing short of criminal. He grunted for her to continue the torture.

“This is a weight-bearing wall.” She tapped it with the tip of her cane. A triangle chunk of plaster landed between