Caleb
TheJessopplaceis technically in the main township of East River Forge. Not that anyone would realize it. Despite the front of the property looking out onto Oak Street, it’s just a hundred paces from Main. Old Missus Agatha Jessop had liked her socializing in very particular forms: from a distance, and only when she craned her neck over fences or twitched the curtains out of shape. To accommodate this, she’d had the front gate chained and bolted since 1978 and all visitors were forced around back before being allowed entry.
I navigate the truck along the northern fencing of the property and try not to look too closely at the house on the other side of the iron bars. A huge colonial homestead, the Jessop house is at once beautiful and monstrous. Not to mention a personal shadow of warning.
Ma had always held Old Agatha up as a cautionary tale for herself.
“No kid nor kin to keep her company,”Ma would say. “What kind of way is that to end a life? What do you have if you don’t have family? A house doesn’t make a home.”
The words come back to me now, ringing crystal clear, just as the evening sunshine catches something on the dashboard. I snatch up the glossy catalog for Kenwood Homes and shove it into the glove compartment.
“One problem at a time,” I murmur.
The most pressing, right now, being where to park.
Not that there’s a limitation of space to the rear of the property. It’s the acres of land out back that give the Jessop place a bizarre contradiction in feel. Upfront, there’s barely three steps to separate the front porch from the street. Out the back however is a different story. Several acres of private greenery practically shout money. And lots of it. Enough to place distance between its residents and anyone who might come to visit. A wealthy void of lush vegetation, slap-bang in the center of town, and entirely barred off to guests.
Agatha Jessop had never been a popular lady.
I pull in under a large oak. The saving grace is that the gardens have now been taken back by nature. Since its last owner passed, the land has had six years to recover, breaking free of the stuffy, constrained, and perfectionist gardening style of Old Agatha. I step out into the fresh scent of earth, under overhanging trees, and amidst bushes that have gone wild. On the other side of the uneven gravel, the grass is knee height as far as the eye can see. In some places, the plants have risen up, and the tree line has grown down until they’ve merged to form an impassable wall of green.
Paradise for the local wildlife. Terrible for parking.
I stuff my hands in my pockets, brace my shoulders against the fall wind, and hoof it towards the gleaming spots of white amidst the green. The stone of the colonial is like a beacon, drawing me through the tree line and out into a wild meadow that had once been a perfectly manicured lawn.
“Howdy, out there!”
I look up.
At only a hundred yards away, I can hear Lizzie just fine, but she holds her hands around her mouth and calls like the sole survivor on a deserted island. The meadow might as well be an emerald Atlantic Ocean.
“You need a hand getting the rest of the way?” she jokes. “A life preserver? Water? Rations?”
Snorting, I shake my head and wade through the grass.
“I think I can just about manage it alone.”
“Tough guy!” she scolds teasingly.
It takes a few minutes to reach her but my height is an advantage. I carve a path toward the steps that lead up onto a back porch. I brace a foot on the bottom rung. Lizzie leans, one hip against a vertical beam, and looks surprisingly at home.
“Jace told me you were looking into this place.”
Along with a few other things.
The man hadn’t been able to stop singing Lizzie’s praises when I’d arrived early to pick her up at the workshop. Apparently, the woman was some kind of Automobile Whisperer. And came with the benefit of an ass that looked fantastic when bent over an engine block.
I didn’t need to hear Lizzie’s praises sung any more, so I’d demanded to know where she was and left straight away.
Annoyance had still lingered when I pulled up, but now… I can’t seem to find it.
“You sure you want a project like this? The place has been barren a while.”
Only a day in town and she’d set her sights on the largest and most ragged property within a hundred miles. Despite her claims of wanting a new start here, I can’t quite see a city-slick young woman wanting such a large investment hanging about her neck. There’s a reason none of the locals had taken the place on.
Lizzie turns away and looks up at the building. Her back is to the wind and her long hair blows over one shoulder, stroking along her cheek. The locks had been loose this morning. Now, they’re fastened at the nape of her neck into a tail of soft and glossy curls. There’s a smudge of axle grease on her cheek.
She tilts her head and squints against the light, considering the building with fresh eyes.