The House on Blackberry Hill: Jewell Cove #1 (Jewel Cove) Read Free

barbecue, Tom,” Meggie answered.
    “Bye.”
    He hung up the phone and stared at it for a minute. Josh, home. Family gathering. Recipe for disaster. But the house up on Blackberry Hill?
    He pushed his chair back and grabbed his keys. This was his dream project. First thing he had to do was meet the new owner and get inside. Word would spread fast and he didn’t want another contractor swooping in and stealing the chance away from him. There was no one else in the area as qualified for the job as he was.
    It was just the thing he needed to keep his mind occupied. Idle hands meant an idle mind.
    And with Josh coming home, he needed to find a way to forget about Erin. For good. For all their sakes.

 
    C HAPTER 2
    Whatever Abby had expected, it was not the massive Georgian-style home that greeted her at the end of the lane. White and imposing, it was both majestic and intimidating. With the unpruned shrubs around the yard and a tangle of ivy grown over several of the windows, Abby couldn’t shake the idea that the house looked a bit, well, eerie.
    Slamming her car door behind her, Abby started up the uneven pathway to the front porch. As she got closer she could see the chipped paint on the trim and rungs missing in the railing that ran between the two scarred pillars of the veranda.
    It really had been neglected. For a moment she felt almost sorry for the old home. It was a shame that something that had once been so grand and beautiful had fallen into such a state.
    The boards of the stairs creaked wearily beneath her feet as she climbed the three steps to the covered porch and took a key from her purse. Walking carefully, Abby silently prayed that the floor was termite-free and structurally sound before fitting the key into the lock and pushing the solid wood door open with the groan of long-unused hinges. Hesitantly Abby stepped inside, searching along the wall for a switch in the dim light. She found it and flipped it on. Thank goodness the arrangements to have the power switched on before her arrival had been a success.
    The place was strangely silent and her shoes made hollow sounds on the hardwood floors as she went farther inside. She shivered. With the house shut up and all the curtains closed, it reminded her of a tomb.
    The first thing she needed to do was get some natural light into the dreary rooms. The dim glow of the wall sconces barely penetrated the dust and stale air. She entered the room on her right—what appeared to be a formal dining room—and went directly to the window, spreading the heavy brocade curtains wide and tying them back with silky tassels. Sunlight spilled in through the gap and she went to the next window, and the next, until the room was flooded with warmth even through the dusty windows.
    Turning around to finally get a good look at the room, Abby gasped. The antique dining table and chairs, which she’d only seen in outline, were now clearly visible and utterly magnificent, ornately carved, and even under the layer of dust she could see they had to be real mahogany. The table could easily seat a dozen. A set like this would have cost a fortune. Worth even more now if it was as old as she suspected.
    Who on earth were the Fosters? And why had this all been kept a secret from her side of the family? At times her grandmother had barely made ends meet.
    A fireplace with a white mantel graced one end of the room, but the mantel was empty except for a single, framed portrait. Abby went closer, her fingers gliding over the silver frame as she examined the face behind the glass. The woman was beautiful, perhaps in her twenties, with long dark hair and full lips. Her dress appeared to be chiffon, cut in a vee at her throat, a necklace of oval stones at her neck. Even in the black-and-white photograph her skin seemed to glow as she sat in a wing chair with a baby dressed in unending ruffles cradled in her arms.
    Abby turned the frame over and slid the old photo out, careful to keep her fingers