Tomorrow's Sun (Lost Sanctuary) - By Becky Melby Page 0,5

amused at his irritation. Braden Improvements came highly recommended. She didn’t have to like him to hire him, but she did have to agree with him. Or rather, he needed to agree with her. Two more contractors would walk through the house yet today, and if she needed to interview a few more, so be it. She didn’t have the energy to argue with this man.

He pulled a phone out of his shirt pocket. “Maybe you’ve already seen this, but I found a picture of your house on the Historical Society website. Taken in 1906.” He tapped and scrolled then handed it to her.

She stared at the sepia-toned photograph. A big white dog sat on the front step. Her front step. The house hadn’t changed much in more than a hundred years, but the top of the oak tree that now stood like a wounded soldier didn’t even reach the roofline in the picture.

“Mr. Braden, I do have an appreciation for history. I understand the importance of keeping a historical feel, but I want to incorporate changes that make it work for the way people live today.”

His eyes narrowed.

“I suppose if I were remodeling this house for myself, I might get interested in its stories. But, frankly, this place is a means to an end.”

“Can I ask what’s at the end of the means?”

Restitution. That wasn’t the answer she’d give him or anyone else. “I want to buy another house when this one sells.”

“And then?”

The guy was nothing short of rude. “California. Eventually.”

“In a paid-for house with a pool and a view, huh?” Condescension tainted his smile.

“No.” The word popped out. She should have stopped it, should have let him think she was all about luxury or appearances, or whatever conclusion he’d come to.

His head dipped slightly forward, eyebrows lifted a fraction. He was waiting for more, but there was nothing more she could tell him. If she succeeded, if the house sold and she could repeat the process at least once—somewhere even farther from Traverse City—she’d reach the West Coast penniless and without a plan. But at peace. “I just—” Jake’s phone buzzed in her palm. A name flashed on the screen. Lexi. She held it out to him.

“Excuse me. I need to take this.” He turned his back to her and walked toward a window. “Lex? Can it wait?” A rumbling sound, part sigh, part growl, came from the man as he listened. “I’ll pick you up.” His hand went to his forehead and rubbed over his face. “It’s not a problem. And it’s not your fault.” His shoulders lowered. “That’s what I’m here for,” he said quietly, with more than a hint of resignation. “Bye.”

He crossed the floor in four long strides. With his hand on the door handle, he seemed to suddenly remember he wasn’t alone in the room. He turned and looked at her with tired eyes. “I don’t think I’m your man, Miss Foster.”

CHAPTER 2

I don’t think you are either, Mr. Braden.

Emily closed the door behind him and walked over to her duffel bag. Her stomach burned. She hadn’t put much in it today. Rummaging through clothes and books, she found a bag of rice cakes. Nibbling on one while massaging her lower back with the other hand, she walked through the kitchen to the cellar door. She had half an hour to explore until the next contractor arrived. If the cellar was dry, she could store her few belongings there, protected from drywall dust and out of the way of whomever she ended up hiring.

The top of the door was level with the top of her head. She turned the porcelain knob, but it just kept turning. With a yank, she pulled the door open. Half-moon chips along the opened edge displayed at least five different colors of paint. Sage green, salmon, pale yellow. Did each color represent someone’s fresh start?

Cool, musty air wafted up. She pushed a mother-of-pearl button on an old-fashioned switch. A dusty bulb hanging from a wire above her head came to life. Two-by-four railings flanked the open-sided wood staircase that was little more than a wide ladder. Emily hung her cane on the doorknob. Rough planks gave slightly beneath her feet, sounding as though they were pulling free of the rusty nails that held them in place.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light from two bare bulbs and a small, algae-covered window. Canning shelves that once bowed under Grace Ostermann’s trophies stood