The Last to See Me (The Last Ghost #1) - M Dressler Page 0,3
minded her the way I’ve minded so many others who’ve come through the house over the years.
We waited together, at the front, until the great black Rover came up the street, sleek as a hearse with its dark windows. It parked by the house, its wheels slowing to a stop, big silver platters rolling on their sides. Ellen DeWight lifted her head and set her small chin, all business.
The door opened. Out of the black metal slipped a shining blond head, a pair of golden sunglasses, and a soft blouse tucked into a belt stitched with many tiny beads. Another door opened, and a balding man came out. Their skins were a golden orange, as though the sun followed them everywhere they went. Mr. and Mrs. Dane.
Ellen hurried down from the porch, over the stone path, and through the arbor, between the bobbing roses.
“Mr. Dane. Charles?”
The man stared blankly at her, pulling off his sunglasses. “You’re the broker?”
“The agent. Ellen DeWight. I represent the heirs of Alice Lambry, the late owner. My broker is on business down in LA, so I’ll be taking care of you today. It’s wonderful to meet you. Welcome to the Lambry House!”
“Oh—Charlie, look!” the woman next to him fawned. “It’s just like I pictured it! So stately but lush.”
“Welcome to you, too, Mrs. Dane.” Ellen held out her hand, but the woman didn’t take it, and Ellen pulled it back. “Those are yellow heirloom roses. And a full acre of gardens. Very rare on a narrow peninsula like this.”
“I so get that. So different from Napa. Fabulous.”
“Let’s wait for the mouth-feel before we get ahead of ourselves,” Mr. Dane said, putting his sunglasses back on. “That’s been the deal breaker for us on these old houses so far.”
“Of course, of course, absolutely. Right this way.”
“Charlie, I do love all the gables, though.” Mrs. Dane leaned into his silken shirt. “And that steeple. Is that a little iron walk around it? And the weather vane, is it original—Ellen?”
“Yes.”
“I love it.”
That quickly, Ellen brought them up to the porch. My porch.
“So! We have a pair of fine double front doors, as you can see, finished in etched glass, dating to 1899, when the house was built. They’re in mint condition and also all original. Step right into the foyer.”
She let them into my house. The Lambry House. Still fitted with the finest of carved English furniture, still gleaming with scrolled wooden paneling, glowing warm and rich as it did when I saw it being carried in by bent-backed Lambry workers a hundred years ago, when I was just a lumberjack’s little girl. The floors still thick with carpets dressed with fringe softer than a girl like me could ever expect to wear on her shawl. The rooms deep and full, the hall mirrors and pier glasses so tall, like Augustus Lambry himself. In the corners, around the high ceilings, white plaster and painted wood prettily molded into the shapes of angels and roses and trumpets. And enough paintings in gold frames to have filled another mansion.
I flitted into the light of the chandelier in the foyer, hanging from the plaster rose above Ellen and the Danes. I must be very cold now, and give nothing away of myself, or my feelings.
“And here,” Ellen said, “above this incredibly preserved wainscoting, we have some history, as you can see. Photos of the original owners.”
“Oh, I don’t want to see those.” Mrs. Dane wrinkled her nose at all the dead Lambry faces. “To be honest, it makes a house feel, you know, already used. These carpets are special, though.”
“Turkish. Antique.”
“We may bargain for them,” Mr. Dane said.
“Why don’t we go into the parlor on the west side of the house? Watch your step over this rug, now. Tassels.”
“Charlie, these wood floors are a bit too dark for a beach house. They’re not airy enough.”
“I agree,” he said. “The whole house is a little choked.”
They looked all around. I followed above and after them. They didn’t seem to notice Alice Lambry’s wild watercolors hanging like open windows on the walls, painted boxes of gray and green and blue-tinted land and sea and storm and sky. The finicky Danes: they brushed their hands over the antique furniture and looked into the tall mirrors and tried to keep their faces closed, as if they weren’t pleased enough to smile or disappointed enough to frown.
“Let’s take a look at the east side of the house now,” Ellen said, smiling.