My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) (10 page)

I knocked on the door and then heard something behind me. When I turned around, I was facing a man, George Miller, I guessed. He wore a dark green felt hat that was pulled down on his forehead and cast a shadow over intense blue eyes. His hair was evenly salt and peppered and was trimmed neatly at his neck and sideburns that framed high cheekbones. His wrinkled face couldn’t hide that he had probably been a real heartbreaker in his day. He was only half a head taller than me, but I suspected by the slight curve of his shoulders that he had been over six feet tall when he was younger.

“I’m here to look at the lodge.”

“Yup.”

“The haunted lodge, you know some people think it’s haunted?”

“Yup.”

I held out my hand. “I’m Cammy.”

“George.”

His large hand swallowed mine up, but it felt light, cool, and soft. He grasped my hand briefly, and then he stepped back, looked at the door, but said nothing.

“Can I go in?”

He nodded.

I turned the knob and felt the decorative embossing of the metal on my palm. I stepped through the doorway and into a large space with high ceilings, the lobby.

An oversized set of French doors and a ginormous fireplace, the kind you can stand in, were on the wall to the right side of the room. A wide staircase and another set of matching French doors were on the left.

“Can I take pictures?”

He nodded. George Miller hadn’t been chatty on the phone, but I quickly learned he was definitely a man of few words.

A grouping of furniture was in the center of the room in front of the fireplace—sofa, chairs, side tables, and a big square coffee table. The furniture was wood framed with upholstered cushions or old pressed wicker, dyed a deep forest green. A thick coat of dust covered every piece. But all was in perfect order as if only yesterday the place had been filled with people. Underneath the seating area was a massive hooked wool rug with a pattern of vines and flowers.

“Are those trillium flowers on the rug?” I asked.

“Yup.”

“I’ve never actually seen one, except in pictures. I think they’re beautiful.”

“Yup.”

From April to mid-June trillium grow on the island, and I had just missed them. Under the rug were pumpkin pine floors.

“Would the furniture stay?” I asked.

“Don’t know where it would go.”

I chuckled at the joke, but then realized George wasn’t trying to be funny.

The lobby was open to the second story, and the staircase led up to a railed walkway that bordered the opening to the second floor. The railing was the same style as the one on the porches, but it was perfect, not a branch was missing. A hint of lacquer finish still shined from beneath the dust.

Beyond the railing I could see guestroom doors on each of the walls that surrounded the walkway. From the ceiling of the second story, a birch branch chandelier dropped down over the center of the lobby.

I took a series of pictures of the room from the front door, to the set of French doors and then to the fireplace on the right wall, to the back wall and the check-in desk, and finally, to the staircase and then to the other set of French doors on the left wall, and back to the front door.

When coaxed gently, the French doors rolled into pockets in the walls. Through the doors on the right was a dining room with a dozen square wooden tables, each set with four chairs and arranged down the center of the long room. Sideboards were on either end of the space and both cabinets had mirrors mounted on the wall above them.

The fireplace shared a chimney with the one in the lobby, but it wasn’t quite as large. Across the room from the fireplace there were five windows on the exterior wall and two massive china hutches sat on either side of the window in the middle.

Looking up at the ceiling, I saw light fixtures that were likely original. I pushed the old-timey buttons on the switch plate as we entered the room, but nothing lit.

“Is there electricity?”

“Yup.”

“Is it turned off?”

“Yup.”

“It could be turned back on, then?”

“Yup.”

“Do you have electricity in your place?”

“Yup.”

Through the other set of French doors was a library, the room I had seen the day before. Floor-to-ceiling shelves full of books lined all four walls, framing the windows and a fireplace. Upholstered reading chairs, side tables, and a long wooden table with six chairs furnished the room.

Just outside the library at the end of a short hall was another door. Through that door was another large room lined with old oak dry sinks and a couple of old wardrobes. A long pine table was in the center. Despite the dusty film on the panes, sunshine was streaming through a big window casting a large pattern of light on the floor and on the furniture.

“What was this room?”

“Washroom.”

There was a door on the far wall and I had to make a decision. Would I go through it or return to the lobby? Have you ever had a dream where you’re walking around an unfamiliar house that never runs out of rooms and you get a feeling of excitement as you enter each one? It was exactly like one of those dreams.

My mind was whirling with the possibilities—guests booked in every room, rent the cottages, establish gardens, run a restaurant in the dining room and a gift shop in the library. And once I had enough income coming in, I could travel in the winter if I wanted to.

I decided to go back into the lobby to keep my bearings on the floor plan. I walked to the back of the room and to the front desk. Across the front panel of the long counter, was a puzzle of straight, thin twigs. The twigs were cut into varying lengths and each had been inlaid into a pattern of squares and diamond shapes of varying sizes.

A short section of the countertop was hinged so that it could be raised and passed through. I lifted it up and held it for George to follow me. He didn’t, so I set it back down.

A wooden shelf with little cubbies for guest’s mail sat on the back counter and mounted to the wall was a key rack with brass plates above each key. These were numbered one through ten. The number ten key was missing.

“Where’s the number ten key?” I asked George.

“Not there.”

The check-in counter butted up to the sidewall of the staircase and a door at the end of the counter led into a walk-in-closet sized room underneath the stairs. Inside I found a pile of old wooden snow shoes and some wooden crates filled with stuff wrapped in old brown paper. A steamer trunk sat in the corner. Also in the room, a clothes rod held old wooden and metal hangers, three of which were hung with old coats, a woman’s and two men’s. Above the rod a shelf held two hat boxes and a suitcase. I wanted to rummage through all of it but held back and closed the door.

I walked through the door on the back wall behind the counter. It led into the big kitchen. A fireplace on the near wall had a stone mantel and on the far exterior wall stood a long porcelain free-standing sink, a bank of windows, and a door to the back porch.

A large pine table, larger than the one in the washroom, sat in the middle of the room. The open shelves above and below the well-used maple counters were still filled with dishes, pots, and pans.

The old appliances all looked so proper standing on legs like pieces of furniture. The large white refrigerator had chrome hardware and sat against the wall by the kitchen stairs. The stairs were in the back corner of the room and would have been the servant’s access to the second floor. Two white and black stoves that each had double ovens, a warming drawer, and six burners were set against the right wall.

When I turned around to go through the door that I guessed opened up to the dining room, George was standing behind me. I was startled and I screamed. “Oh, hi,” I said with a nervous laugh. He hadn’t flinched and didn’t return my smile.

There were five doors that led out of the kitchen. One to the back porch, one to the dining room, one to the lobby (behind the check-in desk), and one to what had been the servants’ quarters that was at the end of a little alcove behind the kitchen stairs. Through the fifth door was a large storage room with a door that led to the washroom. The door I chose not to take when I was in the washroom the first time.

The storage room was lined with shelves that had more pots and pans, boxes, and crates filled with who knows what. In the servants’ quarters were two twin beds on one wall and a wardrobe on the other.

The kitchen stairs had a door underneath them. I pointed to the door. “What’s that go to?”

“Cellar.”

I opened the door. Without any lights, I couldn’t see anything but a black hole.

“That must be where the ghosts live. I’ll meet them another time.” I smiled and winked at George.

I walked up the kitchen stairs to the second floor and George was following me. At the landing I was facing the stairs that came up from the lobby, and from the railing I looked down onto the fireplace, the seating area, and the front desk. I followed the railing around the walkway that opened to the first floor, letting my palm drag along the birch branch handrail, wiping off a layer of dust.

The walkway that bordered the front exterior of the building had two sets of French doors. Both led to the second story porch that faced the lake. I walked outside and grabbed the railing. It gave a little, so I stepped back to take in the view of the water all the way to the horizon. Inhaling the lake air was like breathing energy, and I said to George, “I think I could fly right now.” I turned around and George hadn’t followed me out.

I went back inside and explored the guestrooms. The doors to each one were on the walls bordering the walkway and there were two bathrooms in the south-west corner of the square.

Hmm, ten guestrooms and two bathrooms; that could be a problem.

One by one I entered each of the guestrooms, except room number ten. It was locked, which I was half expecting. Still, after I tried the door, I looked at George and informed him, “It’s locked.”

“Yup.”

Double-sized beds with antique iron or wooden head and footboards furnished each room and all were still made-up with linens and quilts.

I sat on one of the beds and was enveloped in a cloud of dust. The mattress felt as if it was stuffed with crispy cellophane, and a crunching sound mixed with snaps and squeaks responded to the slightest shift of my weight.

The crazy quilt that draped the bed was beautifully embellished with embroidery that decorated the seams piecing together fabric scraps of rich black, blue, red, and green. Dust was probably holding the fibers together. Unless it was treated carefully, it would likely fall to pieces when it was cleaned. Even then, it might not survive like the quilt I had found at an estate sale when Race and I were first married.

I excitedly took my treasure home and dropped it in the washing machine. After the wash cycle finished, I lifted the lid. Inside was a ball of fabric that looked as if it had been in a cat fight. Lesson learned.

The windows were hung with heavy roman shades that were old but looked much newer than everything else I had seen. The two bathrooms both had clawfoot tubs, high-tank toilets, pedestal sinks, and old oak washstands. The guestrooms each had brass numbered doorplates and the bathrooms had larger plates that read,
BATH
.

Back in the hall, I asked, “What’s that go to?” I pointed at the door next to the kitchen stairs that didn’t have a doorplate.

“Attic.”

I opened the door and light streamed down the stairs from above. As I walked up, each step creaked but they were solid. It was the biggest attic I’d ever seen. The attic in my house in Texas was a shoebox compared to it.

The five large dormer windows on both sides of the roof, and the large windows on each end let in abundant sunlight, which bathed the room with radiant warmth. The windows facing the back of the property looked out over the woods. The dormers facing the front of the property looked out over the most breathtaking view of the water I had seen since I’d been on the island.

The large space was filled with furniture, overflowing crates, paintings, you name it. Have you ever had a dream where you find treasure? It was exactly like one of those dreams.

“Would this all stay?” I asked, just to hear him say it, but he didn’t.

“Yup.”

“George, when I was walking up to the front porch today, I thought I saw someone looking out of that dormer window.” I pointed to the big one in the middle. “Was it you?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know who it was?”

He just looked at me. I knew he’d heard me but wasn’t going to answer. I learned two more things about George Miller that day. One, if he doesn’t want to answer a question, he’ll never lie to you—he just won’t say anything, not anything at all.

Two, he may be the most patient human being God ever created. It was like having a shadow that only spoke when spoken to and never once sighed, leaned against the wall, or complained, “Come on, lady, enough already.” No, for over two hours, George followed me around, let me take pictures, open cupboards, and walk in and out of rooms to my heart’s content.