The House on the Hill: A Ghost Story Page 7

  She wondered which one was Hog Island. Her brother would love the story of Captain Kidd. Xavier worked in IT, but his dream job would have been to be a treasure hunter. He was fond of saying that the ocean floor was littered with untold treasure, cargo from long-lost ships just waiting to be discovered. He emailed her every news article that mentioned some great find, wishing it had been he who’d gone diving for Spanish gold or Chinese jade. Lauren shook her head in wonder. Men only ever pretended to grow up, but deep inside they were little boys who longed for adventure and excitement. That was why Zack had joined the army straight out of high school; he’d told her as much. He wanted to see the world, fight for democracy, and become someone’s hero. There was nothing heroic about dying at thirty-two. To her, it was a terrible waste.

  She yanked on Billy’s leash, taking out her anger with Zack on the dog. Zack had made a decision that cost him his life, and their future. He’d left her on her own, not only to cope with her grief but to find a way forward, to start afresh when she’d thought her life had been mapped out. Instead of trying for a baby, she’d been playing hide-and-seek with her pain and spending her days on writing an insipid memoir instead of pursuing her own career. Well, it was time to throw off her mantle of misery and make a few choices of her own, Lauren decided as she strode back toward the house. And she would start by researching the history of Holland House. As a writer, she had a nose for a good story, and given what she’d seen in the half-light of dawn, she was sure there was a riveting story right in front of her, just waiting to be told.

  Chapter 11

  After their walk, Lauren drove into town to visit the Snow Library on Main Street. The one-story building was as quaint as everything else on Cape Cod, its cozy interior nothing like the massive libraries of Boston that held thousands of volumes on every subject under the sun. Several parents and children occupied the low tables in the children’s section, but the rest of the library wasn’t too crowded. An elderly librarian sat behind a reference desk, reading something on her computer screen, but looked up and smiled as soon as Lauren approached.

  “Good morning,” Lauren said. “I wonder if you could help me.”

  “Of course. What were you looking for?” the woman asked.

  “I was hoping to find something pertaining to the history of Holland House.”

  The librarian shook her head, her expression thoughtful. “I don’t believe we have anything like that. You see, Holland House has been a part of the landscape for centuries, but it doesn’t have any actual historical significance.”

  “I see,” Lauren said, disappointed. “Thank you.”

  “Is it the house you’re interested in or the family?” the librarian asked just as Lauren was about to walk away.

  “The family,” Lauren replied.

  “Information on the family should be easier to find,” the librarian said. “This is probably before your time, but Holland Books used to be a very popular book chain in Massachusetts.”

  She was right; it was before her time. Lauren had never seen a Holland Books store in Boston. “Did they go out of business?”

  “They were bought out by a national chain in the 1980s. Couldn’t compete with the likes of Barnes & Noble and the Strand Bookstores. They went way back, though, to before the American Revolution. I’m sure you can find loads of articles online,” the librarian suggested.

  “Thank you. I’ll have a look.”

  Lauren walked toward the bank of computers and chose the last cubicle, which seemed the most private. She preferred to do research on a desktop computer rather than on her phone since the screen was bigger and she could email the articles to herself if she found anything relevant. Numerous entries popped up when she Googled Holland Books. She decided to start with Wikipedia. The bulk of the entry was devoted to the buyout, but there was also a section pertaining to the history of the chain.

  “The first Holland’s Book Shoppe, as it was called prior to its name change in early 19th century, was opened in Boston by Mr. Lionel Holland in March 1720. Besides locally printed books and tracts, the shop carried all five local newspapers and offered a variety of books from Europe, making Holland’s Book Shoppe the literary hub of the colony. In a bold move designed to solidify his family’s success, Mr. Holland opened a sister shop in Cambridge, Massachusetts, installing his son, George Holland, as the manager. Three more branches were in operation by the end of the 18th century. Holland Books was the first commercial chain in New England.”

  Lauren scrolled through several more articles, but they reiterated what she’d already learned. Given that Holland House was built in the early eighteenth century, it stood to reason that it had been commissioned by either Lionel or George Holland, which narrowed down the field of research considerably. At least now she had names to work with—a starting point.

  Lauren logged out and left the library. It was past noon and she was getting hungry. She wasn’t a fan of fast food or sandwiches, so she decided to stop by the grocery store and pick up some meat and produce. She was in the mood for a steak and could use another bag of dog food.

  Having picked up a nice ribeye, she added some fresh vegetables for a salad, several cups of yogurt and berries, and a gorgeous blueberry muffin that was still warm from the oven, then made her way to the dog food isle. Just as she turned in, a rambunctious preschooler came running toward her, a toy police car in his hand wailing and flashing red and blue lights. The child was headed straight for her shopping cart. Lauren yanked it out of the way just as the child’s father caught him and lifted the boy into his arms. Their eyes met, and Lauren was surprised to find herself looking at Ryan Kelly.

  “Hello,” he said, smiling in a friendly manner.

  “Eh, hi,” Lauren replied. She’d meant to call him and apologize for her behavior last night but was no longer sure she had anything to apologize for, given that he’d clearly left out some information about his own situation as well.

  “Are you all right? You left so abruptly last night,” he said. He turned off the siren and handed the car back to the little boy, who seemed disappointed either by the ensuing quiet or by his failed escape attempt. He had a mop of dark curly hair and bright green eyes that sparkled with mischief.

  “Yes, thank you. I was just tired,” Lauren replied. She wished Ryan would move on, but he seemed eager to talk.

  “How’s Billy?”

  “Oh, he’s fine. I took him for a long walk this morning, and he was full of energy and curiosity.”

  “Glad to hear it. Call me if you have any concerns.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  “Let’s go,” the child whined.

  Ryan smiled apologetically. “Tyler doesn’t enjoy food shopping. I would have left him with Merielle, but she had plans,” he explained as he sat Tyler in the cart.

  “Well, don’t let me detain you,” Lauren said breezily. “Have a good weekend.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  “Bye,” Tyler called out as they walked away.

  Lauren picked up two bags of puppy chow and headed toward the cash register, walking slowly to avoid bumping into Ryan Kelly again. Her earlier resolve had been replaced with bitter disappointment. She’d liked the man and had enjoyed his company, but whatever his domestic situation was, he’d clearly played her for a fool. Perhaps he made passes at out-of-towners in the hope that he could have a discreet affair without his wife ever finding out. Well, she wasn’t in the market for an affair with a married man.

  Once the coast was clear, Lauren paid for her groceries and headed for home. She’d been dragging her feet on the Ashley Mann autobiography for weeks, but now she was eager to finish the project. She felt the familiar buzz of excitement as ideas for a new book took shape, the long-neglected recesses of her mind reminding her that she loved the process of plotting out a story. She’d learn all she could about the eighteenth-century Hollands, but as she was writing fiction, she didn’t have to adhere to the facts, merely use them as a guide for h
er narrative.

  Billy was snoozing when Lauren got home, so she put away her groceries and took her yogurt and muffin out onto the patio. It was too nice a day to remain indoors. She broke off a piece of the muffin top and popped it into her mouth before reaching for her phone. Her friend Brooke, who was an estate attorney, subscribed to several sites used by professional genealogists for the purpose of tracking down next of kin for clients who died without leaving a will or didn’t have an obvious beneficiary. Maybe Brooke could trace the Hollands for her.

  “Hey, stranger,” Brooke greeted her when she picked up the call. “I hear you rented a house on the Cape.”

  “And where did you hear that?” Lauren asked, relaxing into the deck chair. Just hearing Brooke’s voice made her feel less lonely.

  “From Xavier. Who else? I had lunch with him yesterday.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “A bit of both, actually. Didn’t he tell you he’s been consulting for me? I can’t afford a full-time IT person, so he’s basically on call whenever I have catastrophic computer issues that threaten to derail my business and drive me insane. My computer crashed yesterday, and I couldn’t access the client records. Xavier fixed the problem in under five minutes.”

  “I’m glad he was able to help.”

  “He wouldn’t hear of me paying him, so I took him out to lunch instead.” Brooke sighed dramatically. She’d always had a soft spot for Xavier, but Lauren’s brother treated Brooke like an honorary sister. “So, tell me about the house,” Brooke invited. “Why did you decide to go now, before the tourist season?”

  “I needed a change of scenery. I thought it might help to get away from the apartment and the constant reminders of Zack.”

  “Look, no offense, but I think you’re going about this all wrong,” Brooke said gently. “What you need is to get out there, not isolate yourself. Take a class, find a new hobby, take up yoga, or whatever. Do something that involves meeting new people. I know you’re still grieving, but you have your whole life ahead of you. You need to live it. That’s what Zack would have wanted for you.”

  “I know, but I’m just not ready. I feel like a turtle that wants to hide in its own shell.”

  “Even turtles stick their heads out from time to time.”

  “I met this guy for a drink,” Lauren volunteered.

  “Really? And?”

  “And nothing. I freaked out and walked out on him, and then today, I ran into him at the supermarket—with his son. He sort of forgot to mention he had a family.”

  “He might be divorced,” Brooke suggested.

  “He might be, but he never mentioned having a child either.”

  “And did you tell him about Zack?”

  “No. I’m just not ready to talk about him to strangers,” Lauren said, feeling the familiar lump in her throat.

  “Grieving is a process, Lauren. There are stages.”

  “Yes, I know. I heard it all from the grief counsellor. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.”

  “So, where would you say you’re at?” Brooke asked carefully.

  “I would say that I have my stages reversed. I’m no longer in denial, nor do I try to bargain with God. I think I’m somewhere between depression and anger.”

  “Well, the next step has to be acceptance, then.”

  “I accept that Zack is gone, just as I accept that the life we dreamed of will never be. I feel like someone who’s standing on the pavement, watching people having a great time through a window. I know that I can open the door and walk in, but my sadness and fear are holding me back.” And lack of trust, Lauren added mentally. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been single, Brooke. Putting myself out there is terrifying.”

  “And do you think it’s any less terrifying for the rest of us? I get the shakes and want to cancel at the last minute every time I have a date with a new guy, but you know what? I don’t. I get dressed, put on my war paint, and go into battle because I believe—no, I know—that one day, I will meet the one, and then all the heartache and disappointment will have been worth it.”

  “I’ve already done all that,” Lauren complained.

  “Yes, and now you have to do it again. It’s either that or living alone for the rest of your life, possibly surrounded by cats.”

  Lauren laughed. “I promise never to get more than one cat.”

  “I’ll hold you to that. Now, I’ve got to get going. I have an appointment with a new client in a few minutes.”

  “Brooke, before you go, there’s a small favor I wanted to ask.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Can you look up Lionel and George Holland, circa 1728? I’m doing some research and I’ve hit a dead end.”

  “Is this for one of your clients or a new book?”

  “I’m thinking of writing a historical romance,” Lauren replied. If she told Brooke she was contemplating writing a ghost story, she’d never hear the end of it.

  “Ooh, a historical romance. Now you’re talking,” she purred sarcastically. “Why can’t you write an edgy thriller? That’s what I like to read.”

  “There’s not a romantic bone in your body, you know that?”

  “Yeah, so I’ve been told, but I’m an absolute freak in bed,” Brooke announced, making Lauren laugh out loud. “I’ll look up your dusty relics and get back to you. Ciao.”

  “Bye,” Lauren said, and ended the call.

  Lauren finished her lunch and went back inside. She’d been at Holland House for less than a week, but already the lack of TV and Wi-Fi was making itself known. At home, she often turned on the TV just for the background noise, but here, the silence was absolute. Lauren hooked up her phone to a portable speaker, selected a classical music playlist, and settled on the couch with a notepad. She was itching to jot down some ideas, and since she had no places to be or people to see, she had no excuse for not getting started.

  She worked well into the night, stopping often to test her ideas against her scant knowledge of local history. It was difficult to imagine what Orleans, or South Eastham, as it was called then, might have been like three hundred years ago. She supposed the seeds of discontent against the British were already taking root in the bigger cities, but Cape Cod had been sparsely populated, the settlements small and some distance apart from one another. The original owners of the house didn’t fish or farm, so how did they survive from day to day? Did they purchase foodstuffs from the local farmers, or did they bring supplies by boat and unload them at the dock? Was this house a summer residence for the wealthy family?

  Lauren filled several pages with ideas, and twice as many pages with questions, finally going to bed when her eyes burned with fatigue. The forecast called for rain tomorrow, so she’d have plenty of time to continue, seeing as she’d be stuck indoors all day.

  Chapter 12

  The rain drummed softly on the roof, its pitter-patter steady and soothing. The room was a study in gray, the corners shrouded in deep gloom. Billy snored softly at the foot of the bed, his little body curled into a shrimplike position. Dawn had come stealthily, the heavy mist and dark clouds obscuring the sky and promising a dreary, wet day.

  A movement near the window caught Lauren’s eye and she froze, her gaze glued to the chair, which was once again occupied. The woman wore a flowing white garment with ties at the throat—a nightdress, presumably. Thick dark hair cascaded down her back and fell into her eyes as she bent over the desk, intent on what she was doing. She appeared to be writing a letter, the quill flying over the page as she poured out her thoughts. Lauren watched in silent fascination as the woman signed her name with a flourish and lifted the page to give it a final once-over. From her vantage point on the bed, Lauren could see that she had the beautiful penmanship of days gone by, the letters even and rounded. She strained to read the name at the bottom before the woman replaced the letter on the desk, sprinkled something that looked like sand over the page, and folded the missive. Lauren couldn’t be sure, but
she thought her name might be Sophie.

  Her uninvited guest stowed the letter in one of the upper drawers of the desk and stood, arching her back when she placed her hands on her lower back. Her belly stretched against the thin fabric of her nightdress, revealing an advanced pregnancy. The woman came to stand by the window and moved the curtain aside, her hand clutching the heavy fabric. Her hand was almost translucent, with only the dull glint of a wedding band marring the ghostly pallor of her skin. She stood there for several minutes, just looking, searching it seemed like, but then the sky outside began to clear and she grew fainter and fainter, her outline dissolving into the brightening light.

  Chapter 13

  Sophie

  Boston

  August 1726

  “Sophie, you must come to the garden party. It’s going to be the social event of the summer,” Amelia Holland gushed as she daintily sipped from her teacup, her fair curls bouncing every time she lifted her head. Her cheeks were flushed, and her wide blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “Father is sparing no expense.”

  “I’m sure he is looking forward to showing off your new home,” Sophie replied, wishing she could muster the enthusiasm Amelia so clearly expected. The Hollands had just built a brand-new house on the shore of Mill Pond, a testament to Mr. Holland’s business acumen and eye to the future. He’d recently opened a second bookshop in Cambridge, sending his son to run the business in his stead.

  “It’s not just that,” Amelia said, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper. “No one knows yet, well, no one except the family, but Major Dawson has proposed,” Amelia gushed. “Father plans to announce the betrothal at the party. Oh, Sophie, I’m so happy,” she exclaimed. “I can’t even tell you what a relief it is to have it all settled. I simply cannot wait to be married.”