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I paste a happy smile on my face as customers new and old enter the shop, ready to buy the one thing that can brighten just about anyone’s day.
Anyone but me.
Chapter Three
Rowan
I scour the enormous grounds as the driver pulls up to the gates of the Radley estate. The elegant, white-and-tan stone manor is nestled inside a circular drive that winds around to three other guest houses, as well as staffing quarters, that are spread across the property before the stunning shores of a green-blue lake.
By sight alone, I’d estimate the main house to be close to, if not more than, 10,000 square feet, with fountains, gardens, and land that stretches beyond my line of sight. All of which would be impressive if it weren’t for the overgrown trees, vines crawling over nearly every corner of the home, and rust staining all the ponds and fountains.
The gardens are lifeless and bare, and while, at first glance, the property is a marvel, there’s no denying it’s been sorely neglected.
On the portico, between four white pillars, Cayce stands beside an older man who’s wearing a black butler’s uniform.
I hand the driver a hefty tip, and then make my way up the steps.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Kendrick. My name is Reginald Thorne, and I have the privilege of serving you during your stay here at the manor. I am at your disposal to attend to any requests or requirements you may have, and if there is anything specific you need assistance with, please do not hesitate to let me know.”
Impressed by the formal greeting, Cayce grins, but whoever put this poor man up to this clearly wasted their time. “I appreciate that, Mr. Thorne, but I won’t be staying. Just here to sign some paperwork, and then I’ll be on my way.”
There’s a twitch of confusion in the older man’s gaze before he bows curtly. “Very well. If you’ll follow me inside, I’ll hand you over to Mr. Radley.”
Cayce’s brow furrows as we walk through the massive front door. “Wait. Isn’t he…?”
“Deceased? Yes,” he confirms. “Samuel Radley, his great nephew, is here to help get you acquainted with the manor.”
As we step inside the foyer, it’s clear that the disarray on the outside extends to the inside. Just to the right, a massive staircase winds up to the second floor, and while the structure itself appears sturdy, signs of wear and tear are evident on each step that leads to a darkened hall.
Beneath our feet, artfully crafted into the marble, is a family crest with something written in a foreign language inside the ribbon below it. Directly beyond the staircase is a living room, where a grand piano sits out of the direct sunlight pouring in from three arched glass windows.
I inspect the room to my right, finding several walls that have chips and cracks that need repair. “No wonder the old man wanted to pawn this place off.”
“It’s got potential, believe me,” Cayce says, having already taken a tour. “You should see the rest of it. Six bedrooms in the main house, a theater room, a pool house, and a boat slip… There’s plenty to explore.”
“Unbelievable, isn’t it?” A man appearing closer to Archer’s age than mine exits the library to the left of the foyer. “Name’s Sam. It’s nice to meet you, cousin.”
I shake the hand he offers, searching his face for any semblance of relation. But with jet-black hair and pale skin, he doesn’t favor any of the warmer characteristics the Kendricks have.
“I’ve got it from here, Mr. Thorne,” Sam says. “Thank you.”
The butler inclines his head before giving us some space.
“Rowan Kendrick.” I drop his hand and gesture to the architecture of the generations-old manor. “It’s remarkable, but it needs a lot of work and even more upkeep.”
Sam nods gravely. “Uncle Thomas struggled to keep staff once the dementia set in, so I helped where I could. Even then, it’s costly to maintain an estate as large as this, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
I grunt in response. I’m sure Thomas had the means to keep this place going, but it was noble of Sam to stay with him through the end of his life, I guess.
He leads us through the front room, past a guest suite, and down a corridor where oil painted portraits and antique mirrors hang inside paint-chipped panel moldings. The watchful eyes of ancestors from generations past seemingly follow our every move.
“Are there more of you?” I ask bluntly. “Cousins, I mean.”
“Oh, sure.” He gestures to a set of photos on the far end of the hallway, pointing to more estranged relatives as he rattles them off. “I’ve got a sister who lives in Montana. Thomas and my father had a sister, too, who has two daughters. Last I heard, they were well off in California.”
“Thomas’s siblings? Are they alive?”
“He was the last of them,” he says solemnly.
