The Stroke of Winter(3)

When Tess’s parents inherited it after her grandparents had both passed away, heating the house in the winter wasn’t an issue because they didn’t live there year round. In any case, that wing had remained shuttered. Her plan was to open it up and handle whatever needed handling—rot, mold, rodents (oh, please, no), remodeling, whatever—and use that part of the house for herself when guests were in residence. An owner’s suite.

Back on the bench in front of the bay window, she watched the snow and thought about a conversation she’d had months before with Simon Granger, her longtime friend who owned the most magnificent inn in Wharton, Harrison’s House, just a few blocks away. Simon and Tess had grown up together, spending summers in their families’ homes. He had turned Harrison House into an inn after his grandmother passed away more than a decade prior.

“It’s about time,” he had said when she told him about her plans for La Belle Vie. “You’ll have the house to yourself in the winter, if you don’t escape to Hawaii or Palm Springs like any other sane person. In the summer and fall, your guests will fund your life. You get to live in a place you love and make a living, too. Just like I do. It’s perfect!”

She had agreed. It was perfect. As soon as she was ready for those guests who would be “funding her life,” Simon would funnel them to her until she built up a following of her own. His inn was always at capacity, always turning people away. His recommendations would give Tess all the business she could accommodate, and then some.

In the fall, Simon and his husband, Jonathan, had taken Tess on an antiquing trip to replace her family’s rather dated furniture with lovely and gracious pieces like bedroom sets and mirrors that would better reflect the period of the home. The main part of the house, where guests would stay, was all but finished, the bedrooms outfitted with gorgeous ornate bedroom sets from another time, interesting and delicate stained-glass lamps, and touches like silver hairbrush sets that women of the past would’ve used before bedtime.

Now it was time to tackle the shuttered part of the house, to create her sanctuary. Tess had figured winter would be the perfect time to do that.

And, as she settled back down onto the window seat and watched the snow accumulate outside, she knew the time had come to start that project. The first step was opening it up. But every time she thought about it, she noticed a gnarling in the pit of her stomach. Why didn’t she want to do it?





CHAPTER TWO



Tess had heated a water bottle in front of the fire and taken it upstairs to the room she was using as her bedroom, for now. It was the most magnificent bedroom in the house and had been her grandmother’s for as long as Tess could remember.

The bed had an ornate, heavy wooden headboard and footboard, carved with curlicues and swirls. The dresser had a pink marble top and a mirror that was cloudy with age. Two bedside tables had similar marble tops, and on each sat a lamp with a dusty-pink stained-glass shade. It really was lovely. Tess was trying to decide whether to move this furniture into the owner’s suite she was getting ready to renovate for herself, or leave it in the room where it had always stood. She didn’t have a good answer for that yet. She wanted it for herself, but moving it seemed like a violation, somehow.

Curling down into bed, warmed by the hot water bottle in that chilly room, she pulled the covers around her. It had been a long day. Sleep came quickly. But it would not stay the night.

Scrrr, scrrr, scrrr.

Tess woke with a start. There it was again. The scratching. She had first heard it a few weeks prior, and sporadically since then. Not every night, but always in the middle of the night. Never during the day. It was coming from behind the locked door that led to the back wing of the house.

She slipped out of bed and grabbed her phone, which still had some battery life, off the nightstand. It read 3:47 a.m. She groaned. She hadn’t had enough sleep to feel ready for the day, but maybe just enough to keep her from falling back to sleep now. She switched on the flashlight feature on her phone to light up the room. She crept down the hallway toward the shuttered door, put her ear against it, and listened. Scrrr, scrrrr, scrrr.

“Get away!” Tess shouted, knocking on the door. “Go! Shoo!”

Scrrr, scrrr, scrrr.

Always in threes.

“This is my house!” Tess cried. “Get out!”

Scrrr, scrrr, scrrr.

It had to be some kind of infestation, she reasoned. A family of raccoons or squirrels. God forbid, rats. Please, let it not be rats. And she didn’t even want to think about bats. She’d have heard more than just scratching if it were a bigger animal making the noise. Some little critters were making a nuisance of themselves.

She had been hoping it would just go away. That the animal or animals would scurry off when the workmen came to open up the door and the back part of the house saw the light of day for the first time in a few generations. But she now realized she had to do something about it before whatever was behind that door got into the main part of the house. That was all she needed.

Tess made a mental note to talk to Jim about it in the morning and went back to her room, curling under the covers. She closed her eyes and listened to the scratching, wondering what it might be and what it would take to get it out of her house.

Sleep came, eventually.

In her dream, Tess was walking through Wharton at night. But not the main streets. The alleyways, the lots behind buildings. Through backyards. She peered through windows into brightly lit homes where families gathered, blissfully unaware someone was lurking outside.