The Ivy House (A Queensbay Novel) Read online

  The Ivy House

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  About Drea Stein

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Phoebe Ryan could feel the real estate agent eyeing her as she surveyed the house. “It has charm,” Sandy Miller said. “Perhaps if you added a fresh coat of paint, cleaned out the backyard…”

  “Hmm.” Phoebe just made a noise, wishing the woman would be quiet and let her think. She was still bleary-eyed from the time difference. She had left Los Angeles yesterday morning, landed in New York, hit the lawyer’s office, rented a car, and finally found her way just after dark to the Connecticut shore. She had checked in at the Osprey Arms, the only hotel in town, and after a bland salad and a glass of wine, had curled up on the big four-poster bed and cried herself to sleep.

  Now, less than twenty-four hours after she’d left California, she was getting her first view of it. Ivy House was a short walk up from town, at the end of a little lane that jutted off from the main road, commanding a prime piece of property on a bluff overlooking Queensbay Harbor.

  Phoebe breathed in deeply. She could smell the fresh tang of salt, see the white caps that flecked the blue-green surface of the water, hear the gulls cawing as they wheeled around the clear sky. It was beautiful, and she could already see herself here, watching the boats come and go, enjoying the sunset while sipping a glass of wine. At least that’s how she had imagined it back in Los Angeles.

  But if Queensbay Harbor and town were New England charm personified, Ivy House was not. It was the eyesore, the black sheep in the town’s collective spic-and-span family. It was Victorian in style, seeming taller than it was wide, with a steep slate-covered roof, pointed gables on either side, and a tall, thin square tower topped with the classic widow’s walk. A deep porch wrapped around the front, and a black iron picket fence separated the house from the street.

  Paint peeled, the porch sagged, shingles were missing. Weeds choked the front yard, and the iron fence was rusted through. The flagstone path was uneven and while there had once been an extensive garden, now everything was wildly overgrown. The plant that had given the house its name covered one side almost completely, even the windows. Everything about it screamed genteel decay and Phoebe took a moment to ruminate about the prospect of fully renovating the place. It wasn’t as she had imagined it. But then, things seldom were.

  Phoebe had only glanced toward the side yard, but she could see stuff. Some old wicker furniture, perhaps a refrigerator, plastic jugs, maybe even a beer keg. It was hard to imagine the late, great Savannah Ryan having anything to do with this place. The thought of her grandmother threatened a fresh onslaught of tears, but Phoebe forced them away.

  “The major appliances are all there,” Sandy said and then corrected herself, “I think.”

  “Electricity? Water, heat?” Phoebe asked. If she focused on the details, the little things, she could avoid thinking about the big things. She closed her eyes briefly, ready to sense the possibilities. That was her gift, a vivid imagination, a mind that saw things in pictures, one that could turn those pictures into reality. She envisioned the house as Savannah had described it to her, as it had been, when the sun set across the expanse of the harbor and the backyard, with the sloping lawn leading to the sandy bluff.

  “You’ll have to have all the utilities switched to your name, but I have the numbers for you to call. Shouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours for it all to come on once you do,” the agent assured her.

  Phoebe nodded, ready to walk up and into the house. She put a foot on the first step to the porch, tested it with her weight, and was pleased to find that it was solid. Good bones, she thought. All the house needed was some TLC.

  “Here are the keys,” Sandy said, dropping them in Phoebe’s outstretched hand. Phoebe closed her hands over them tightly, afraid perhaps that it wasn’t true, that the house wasn’t hers.

  “I did a walk-through after the tenants left and there are some scrapes and scuffs and a hole in the wall. They left it broom clean, though, if you want, I can give you the name of a local cleaning service I use. In my opinion, you’d be better off gutting the place first.”

  “Gutting it?” Phoebe tried to keep the horror out of her voice. How could you consider destroying a masterpiece like this? The house was living history and she could already feel herself falling in love. Visions of fairy lights in the trees, the setting sun, a table set up outside, and some friends to share it with. Still, she shouldn’t get too attached yet. Her home, her life was three-thousand miles away. Imagination couldn’t always overcome reality.

  “Oh, well,” Sandy blinked, then resettled her oversized sunglasses more firmly on top of her head. “I mean, you’ll see. As I said, everything’s perfectly sound, but things haven’t been updated in a while.”

  Phoebe smiled. All the better, she thought. So many people ruined old houses by trying to update them too much, trying to drag them kicking and screaming into the modern world, while not respecting their expert craftsmanship and clean, simple lines.

  “I like old houses,” Phoebe said. “They have character.” In California, old was a relative term, but here she was dealing with a jewel built in the nineteenth century, before planes, cars—electricity, even. It would need to be respected, cherished. And more so because it had belonged to Savannah.

  Sandy was about to say something when her phone rang. Holding up a finger, she checked the screen and then excused herself to take the call.

  Relieved to be alone, Phoebe moved up the porch, imagining how it would look with some fine old wicker rockers, instead of those hideous, rusty folding chairs. She stood in front of the door. It was the original: a fine wood-paneled door, painted a bright blue. Cheerful, but to her trained eye, a little too bold. Something softer, duskier would suit. She tried to peer through the sidelights on either side, but they too were original and the glass, wavy from age, made it difficult to see inside.

  She put the key in the lock and turned. The lock was stiff from disuse, but she wiggled until finally it opened. Perhaps there wasn’t much cause to lock your door here and that thought pleased Phoebe immensely, who lived in the city and always made sure to triple-lock the door.

  Swinging slowly back, the door opened with a scream on its hinges, a slow, protracted squeal. It was a sunny day, but as Sandy had mentioned, there was no electricity and the sun only just touched the interior.

  Phoebe took a step in, smelling mustiness and dampness, the scent of a
closed-up house. Her eyes poked through the gloom and she was finally able to see.

  “Oh, my…” she said out loud.

  “I told you.” Sandy had come up behind her, her phone call done. “In my business, it’s what we call a tear down.”

  Chapter 2

  The agent left and Phoebe let herself have a full-blown moment of panic. She managed to breathe despite the filthy atmosphere and explored the rest of the house. She took the sight of the inside in stride, telling herself it was what she should have expected. After all, considering the way Savannah had handled her affairs, it was a miracle there was anything left for Phoebe at all. And this was more than she could have hope for, she decided, as she reminded herself of the house’s basic sturdiness.

  Unfortunately, despite what Sandy had said, the house had been subjected to a number of redos throughout the decade, the latest of which had left lots of linoleum, probably covering the original, wide plank-wood floors; peeling wallpaper; and mirrors, lots of mirrors.

  The paint colors throughout were faded or jarring or both, as though the rooms had been painted by someone color-blind or using the clearance colors from the local home improvement store. Definitely both, Phoebe thought as she opened the door to a smallish room, the dining room perhaps, and took another look.

  The rest of the house wasn’t much better—it was dusty and dirty, and the tenants had left piles of things, from old bedding to stacks of newspapers, in various places. A few of the windowpanes were broken and had been covered up with pieces of cardboard.

  Finally, she found herself outside in the backyard, taking in the view. There was a flagstone terrace out here, with a fire pit, ringed by a low rock wall, perfect for enjoying cool spring nights and watching the water. A strong breeze blew through the trees and she wandered down to the edge of the bluff. A picket fence ran along it, and there was a set of stairs going down to the beach. She looked over it. Apparently, this was the only thing the tenants had decided keep in good repair, the beach access, because here and there were pieces of new wood on the stairwell. This was what Sandy had meant when she said it was a million-dollar view.

  Carefully, she made her way down to the beach, stopping when she got to the bottom. The shore was a mix of sand and rock, and there was a large driftwood log pulled up around what looked like the remains of a fire. She sat on the log and breathed in, the smell of the charred wood assailing her senses.

  The sun was getting warm and she needed to think, figure out what to do next. The water, the sand, and the sun were working their magic. Already, less than a day out of the city and she felt calm, rested. The sadness of Savannah’s death, the stress of dealing with her estate, and that big looming question—What do I do now?—seemed to fade away. Phoebe took a deep breath, her grandmother’s words coming back to her: Enjoy the moment. All that mattered was that it was sunny and she was enjoying the view.

  She tried not to think about the wreck that was looming, both figuratively and literally, above her head. Ivy House was a disaster. It would take a small fortune to fix it up, that much was clear, and Phoebe didn’t know if she had it in her. Either physically or financially.

  The agent had already dropped hints. Despite its decrepit condition, it would attract some serious buyer interest. Just because of its “historical significance.” Phoebe had almost burst out laughing at that one. A torrid love affair wasn’t exactly world peace. Savannah and Leland had been more infamous than famous, but that still didn’t stop legions of people from obsessing over them. All the more now since they were both dead.

  But Phoebe was a Hollywood girl. She knew that the public’s obsession with the life of movie stars was never quite rational. Any little thing, be it a prop or a costume piece, could be fought over by a serious collector. And now, if now, the chance to own the actual house that had been the love nest for the “Romance of the Century” became available, Phoebe knew she’d have more offers on her hands than she could handle.

  Phoebe was still taking it in. She had thought that Savannah had sold the house years ago after Leland’s death. Instead, she had kept it, renting it out year after year. Despite the fact that Savannah could have used the money, she had not sold the house. She had left it, mostly intact, for Phoebe. What had Savannah been thinking, leaving Phoebe with a wreck of a house three-thousand miles away from her home?

  I’ll just have to figure it out as I go, Phoebe thought to herself, her natural optimism returning as she trekked back up the steps. There was always a way to salvage a disaster.

  Chapter 3

  That was strange. Phoebe was sure she had closed the back door to the house behind her, but here it was, open again. Tamping down a wave of panic, since this was charming Queensbay and not the big city after all, Phoebe pushed open the door a little wider. It was probably one of the former tenants, maybe with an extra key, coming back for something they left behind. Hadn’t she seen an old stuffed animal—a teddy bear or maybe a bunny rabbit—in one of the rooms upstairs? Couldn’t leave Floppy behind now, could you?

  “Hello,” she called. Her first attempt was weak, so she cleared her throat and called out again, “Hello, is someone there?”

  She heard the floorboard creaking and looking up at the ceiling, she could see the floor sag as feet made their way across.

  “You don’t look like you’re from the electric company,” she said, keeping close to the door just in case.

  Feet, shod in Converse sneakers, and legs, in jeans, emerged down the steps, followed by a large brass belt buckle, a blue windbreaker, and finally, a head.

  Phoebe watched as the man crystallized into view. A pair of sunglasses, aviator-style, hung in the v of the t-shirt that poked up through the collar of his jacket. The man loomed, Phoebe thought, as he reached the bottom step and casually supported himself by putting one hand on the wall, the other crooked at his side.

  “Lovely place you’ve got here,” he said in a smooth voice that sent shivers shooting through her, despite the sarcasm.

  He was taller than Phoebe by several inches, even in her high-heeled boots, which put him at well over six feet, and she could see that his arms were muscular underneath his jacket. He wore a smile though and Phoebe didn’t feel threatened so much as aware, hyperaware of his presence.

  He was every inch a male and was assessing her, conducting a slow survey, starting with her face, running down the length of her body, and back up to her face. He stopped there, his gaze lingered, narrowing, and then a slow grin spread over his face.

  Phoebe could only guess that he liked what he saw because he rocked forward a bit on his feet and leaned in.

  She found herself pinned to the wall by a set of the darkest blue eyes she had ever seen. They were set in a tan face, a face that obviously spent a good deal of time outside. His hair was black, an inky, undiluted black. Dark brows slashed across a wide forehead, which ran down to a straight nose and then tapered to full lips and a charming cleft chin.

  “It needs some work,” Phoebe admitted, because it was true and the only thing she could think of saying. Witty responses had never been her thing, especially when faced with a grin like that—cocksure and confident—which had a strange, tingling warmth spreading over her. She’d never had such a physical reaction to the very presence of a man before.

  He touched the wall with the palm of his fist, and she could hear the plaster gently falling down behind it.

  “Please stop wrecking my house,” she said, feeling her heart pump a little faster.

  “That was just a light touch.” He took a step closer and she almost wanted to rear back.

  “You need to leave right now,” she said, trying to hold firm. She had felt an instantaneous shock of attraction and knew that she needed to get rid of him.

  “Sorry, the door was open. I thought I heard someone crying for help, so I just let myself in. Wanted to make sure you hadn’t fallen through the floor or something like that.” His tone was light, joking.

  He laughed then
, and the grin came quickly and he looked almost mischievous. “It was probably just the cry of a seagull. Were you down by the beach?” He took a step forward and Phoebe felt the need to step back, but she stopped herself, holding her ground.

  She shifted the leather bag she was holding from one hand to the other and almost back again before she stopped herself. What had Savannah said? It is the small gestures that give you away. It was her way of saying never let them see you sweat.

  Because this guy was making Phoebe sweat. Not nervously, as in he wasn’t a creep or causing her to wonder why she was alone in an empty house with him, but more along the lines of how she couldn’t stop herself from looking at his beautiful face, or the way, even in the jacket, she could see how his waist tapered in and then how his long, powerful legs were encased in his jeans. She hadn’t been this aware of a guy in a long time and the feeling was totally disconcerting.

  He moved closer and she caught the scent of him. Something woodsy and spicy, just a hint of soap, nothing too overpowering. God, she was a twenty-eight-year-old woman, not some teenager, and already she could feel her heart start to flutter.

  His eyes glinted down at her and Phoebe wished that she had closed the top button of her blouse, but to do anything now except meet him head on would betray the way he was making her feel.

  “Can I help you with something?” She lifted her chin and met his eyes boldly, the way Savannah had told her to. Phoebe had never been much for channeling her inner femme fatale; still, the man had the grace to look a little ashamed that he had been caught staring.

  “You just remind me of someone. Not sure who. Do you get that a lot?”

  Phoebe smiled, but her back stiffened. It was a question she got so often that it annoyed her. Too bad, because before he had gone for the obvious line, she had felt that spark of interest on her part, her vivid imagination working overtime, wondering just how his wide, sensual lips might feel brushing against hers.

  “Not really,” she demurred, while cursing the Ryan genes that showed so plainly in her face.