Certainly not as extensive as what Allie and I do on a regular basis. I think of it as a major freshening up. New paint and wallpaper. Polishing the hardwood and laying down fresh tile. Restore what’s usable, and replace what’s not. The most ambitious I’ll get is in the rooms that really sell a house. Bathrooms. Kitchen. Master suite.
“You make it sound like I’ve never fixed up an old house before.”
This prompts a sigh from Allie. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
She’s referring to the other part of my plan—searching for snippets of truth that might be hiding in every nook and cranny. It’s the main reason she’s not joining me for the renovation. This time, as they say in the movies, it’s personal.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her.
“Says the woman who still hasn’t gotten out of her truck,” Allie replies, stating a fact I can’t deny. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? And not fabric-swatches-and-truck-full-of-equipment ready. Emotionally ready.”
“I think so.” It’s as honest an answer as I can give.
“What if the truth you’re looking for isn’t there?”
“Every house has a story,” I say.
“And Baneberry Hall already has one,” Allie replies.
“Which was written by my father. I had no absolutely no say in it, yet it affects me to this very day. And I need to at least try to learn the real one while I still have the chance.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me there?” Allie says gently. “If not for moral support, then just for the fact that old houses can be tricky. I’d feel better knowing you had some help.”
“I’ll call if I need any advice,” I say.
“No,” Allie says. “You’ll call or text at least once a day. Otherwise I’ll think you died in an epic table-saw accident.”
When the call is over, I get out of the truck and approach the gate, which dwarfs me by at least five feet. It’s the kind of gate you’re more likely to see at a mental hospital or prison. Something designed not to keep people out but to keep them in. I find the key for the lock, insert it, and twist. It unlocks with a metallic clank.
Almost immediately, a man’s voice—as gruff as it is unexpected—rises in the darkness behind me.
“If you’re looking for trouble, you just found it. Now back away from that gate.”
I spin around, my hands raised like a burglar caught mid-job. “I’m sorry. I used to live here.”
The truck’s headlights, aimed at the center of the gate to help me see better, now end up blinding me. I scan the darkness behind the truck until the source of the voice steps into the light. He’s tall and solid—a cool drink of water poured into jeans and a black T-shirt. Although he could pass for younger, I peg him to be just north of forty, especially when he steps closer and I can see the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin.
“You’re Ewan Holt’s girl?” he says.
A prickle of irritation forms on the back of my neck. I might be Ewan Holt’s daughter, but I’m no one’s girl. I let it slide only because this man seems to have known my father.
“Yes. Maggie.”
The man strides toward me, his hand extended. Up close, he’s very good-looking. Definitely fortyish, but compact and muscular in a way that makes me think he does manual labor for a living. I work with similar guys all the time. Taut forearms with prominent veins that crest bulging biceps. Beneath his T-shirt is a broad chest and an enviably narrow waist.
“I’m the caretaker,” he says, confirming my first impression. “Name’s Dane. Dane Hibbets.”
My father mentioned a Hibbets in the Book. Walt. Not Dane.
“Hibbs’s boy?”
“His grandson, actually,” Dane says, either not picking up on my word choice or deciding to ignore it. “Walt died a few years back. I kind of stepped in and took over. Which means I should probably stop standing here and help you with this gate.”
He pushes past to help me in prying it open, him pulling one side and me pushing the other.
“By the way, I was real sorry to hear about your dad’s passing,” he says. “Others in this town might have unkind things to say about him. His book is none too popular in these parts. None too popular at all. But he was a good man, and I remind folks of that on a regular basis. ‘Few people would have kept on paying us,’ I tell them. ‘Especially twenty-five years after leaving the place.’”