Carolyn McSparren - House of Strangers

Paul Bouvet had discovered on his first trip to Rossiter that the café next door to the Delaney mansion functioned as a sort of town club. He’d have to find some way to be—if not accepted—at least tolerated by the locals who ate there regularly. If his mother had come as far as Rossiter before she disappeared, someone might remember seeing her. After all, thirty years ago there couldn’t have been too many strangers showing up in Rossiter.

He didn’t have a clue how to find out. He didn’t dare come straight out and ask. Nobody could know who he was or why he was there. The P.I. his uncle had hired had never been able to trace Michelle Bouvet’s movements beyond the bus station in downtown Memphis. The trail had gone cold at that point and had stayed cold until six months ago.

Now—all these years later—Paul finally believed he knew what had happened to his mother. He just had to find the proof.

Dear Reader,

What kind of man abandons his young wife, then kills her when she finds him six years later? What kind of son would that man father?

Those questions have tortured Paul Bouvet his entire life. Now at last he has the means to answer them.

Paul buys the derelict Delaney mansion in the tiny town of Rossiter, Tennessee, and begins to restore it purely to give himself a cover. He wants revenge against his father’s family, the wealthy, arrogant Delaney clan.

But he begins to lose his taste for revenge after he meets Ann Corrigan, the art restorer who’s bringing his mansion back to life. And teaching Paul what it’s like to have love in his life.

But can he abandon the vow he made to his late mother’s family? If not, can he endure losing Ann?

To find the answers to these questions, read on. I hope you enjoy the journey.

Carolyn McSparren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Betty Salmon, who gave me permission

to use the name of the Wolf River Café—

it really exists, although the people came out of my head.

To Eve Gaddy, a wonderful writer,

who suggested the idea and graciously let me use it.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE

Early March

“I’M SORRY TREY sold the house to a stranger,” Ann Corrigan said as she hooked her foot under a rung of her bar stool at the counter of the Wolf River Café. “Not that I really blame him. What else could he do?”

“Two years on the market without a nibble. I guess he could have burned it down and collected the insurance,” Bernice Jones answered. She ran a clean rag over the counter. “You want breakfast?”

“Just some iced tea, please. I would have bought the place myself if I had the money and could afford to fix it up.”

“What would you do with a big place like that?” Bernice shook her head, picked up a mason jar, filled it with ice and tea, then set it down in front of Ann. “It’s about ready to fall down. Trey jumped at that fool’s offer, don’t you think he didn’t.”

Ann peered across the counter. “Bernice, don’t you have any lemon?”

“If you’ll hold your horses, I’ll cut you some. The tea’s barely had time to steep.” Bernice reached for a wicked-looking paring knife, picked up a lemon and began slicing it with speed and accuracy. “Bet you couldn’t get iced tea this time of the morning up in Buffalo, could you?”

“Half the time I couldn’t get iced tea in the middle of the day up there. They have this weird idea that iced tea is for hot weather and never for breakfast. And they never even heard of sweet tea.”

“Ought to be glad you finished that job and got yourself back down south. You must be sick of blizzards.”

“I spent so much time restoring the proscenium arch in that old theater I didn’t much care about the weather outside. I do not want to see any more gold leaf for a while.”

“Not much of that next door at the old Delaney house.” Bernice set a dish of sliced lemons on the counter. “Be better if it collapsed on its own, except it would probably fall on the café and kill us all.”

Ann speared two pieces of lemon, squeezed them into her tea, then added a couple of packets of artificial sweetener. “Why are you so down on the place?”

“Everybody who ever lived in that mansion was miserable. Some houses are just unhappy from the get-go. You mark my words. That Frenchman has bought himself a heap of trouble.” Bernice looked past Ann’s shoulder. “Hold your horses, boys. I’ll be there with the coffee in a second.” She picked up the big pot and wended her way through the tables occupied nearly every morning by the same group of local farmers indulging in a second breakfast.

When Bernice set the coffeepot back on the warmer, Ann said, “I was happy there. Sometimes after my piano lesson Aunt Addy and I would have lemonade and homemade macaroons in the conservatory. That house is probably the reason I got into the restoration business. Every time I see an old building fallen on hard times, I just ache to make it glow again.”

“Huh. That house hasn’t done much glowing in my lifetime.”

“I hoped if it stayed on the market long enough, maybe Trey would donate it to the town for a museum. Endow it, restore it—something.”

“What does an itty-bitty town like Rossiter, Tennessee, need with a museum?” Bernice waved a hand at the walls of the café, which were hung with yellowed newspaper clippings going back nearly a hundred years. “This is as close as Rossiter gets to a museum. It’s not like that old house was built before the war.”

Ann knew the war in question was the Late Unpleasantness between North and South. Other wars were spoken of as World or Korean or Desert Storm. “I hate to admit this, but I used to swan down that staircase and pretend I was Cinderella. I dreamed about the way it must have looked all lit up for the cotillions and parties.”

“At least Trey sold the house to somebody who’s got the money to fix it up. And you got you a job close to home into the bargain. You met the new owner yet? That Frenchman?”

“Nope. Daddy’s supposed to be meeting him this morning to set up the schedule for the renovations. I might not see him for weeks if he commutes from New Jersey. And Daddy says he’s not French.”

Bernice leaned her elbow on the counter and rested her cheek on her hand. “What I want to know,” she whispered, “is why some bachelor would buy that old house in a little town like this and spend a bunch of money on it.”

Ann shrugged. “Daddy says he used to be an airline pilot. He got hurt and can’t fly big planes any longer. Maybe he’s buddies with some of the pilots who’ve redone the antebellum houses in LaGrange. He could have heard about the house from them.”

“Those pilots fly out of Memphis, so they have to live close by, and they’ve got families and more money than sense. He’s just some guy who showed up out of the blue, bought the place in five minutes and hired your daddy to fix it.” She shook her head. “I’m surprised he didn’t try to turn it into apartments or maybe tear it down and build something else—not that the town would let anybody do that to a historic property.” She nodded her head sagely. “They say he’s retired.” It sounded like an accusation.