Bella
We come to a stop at a long dock that stretches out over the water. There’s a small tin boat without paddles, but that seems to be the only way off the island, aside from public transport. Jeffrey steps onto the dock and offers me his hand.
I smile warmly. “Well, thank you for the ride.’ Jeffery is a stranger that I’ve known all of thirty minutes, and I can’t help but feel like he’s my last encounter with another person, outside of Cori Cove, for a very long time.
‘Up the dock, follow the steppingstones and you’ll see the main doors. Mr. Ellis is expecting you.’ Jeffery checks me with a smile. ‘See you in six months, Ms. Isabella.’
I just stand there. Watching as he pulls away. The little orange boat becomes nothing more than a speck in the wide-open water. Once it’s faded from view, I turn around and look up at the castle staring back at me.
Made of stone and ashlar over a century ago, the castle stands tall and fierce. Likely weathered by storms and neglect, its wear only adds to its beauty. The turret on the very top of the castle catches my eye and I can only imagine how gorgeous the view is from up there.
From what I’ve read about the monumental castle of Cori Cove, it hasn’t been inhabited by people for over forty years. Passed down from generation to generation by an English family, the Bromleys, I believe. The last owner opted to forgo the legacy and sold it—to Mr. Ellis, I assume.
The sun is dipping low in the clouds and there’s only minutes of daylight left. I get a grip on my suitcase handle and begin walking down the dock. Each step has me feeling all the more permanently affixed to this place.
It’s only six months. It is not a life sentence.
I’ve never been bold. Never taken risks or chances. I’ve got no idea what to expect as I walk at a leisurely pace toward the front of the structure. There is not much information regarding the Ellis family online. All I know is that the former Mr. Ellis passed away around seven or eight years ago and his son has taken over the business. I’m imagining a burly man with a beard and a ‘better than thou’ attitude, though, who am I to speculate? This man doesn’t know a thing about me outside of my resume filed with the job search company I desperately sought out. Waiting tables at the local diner can only take someone so far and there isn’t much demand for an interior designer in Hickory Knoll. So, here I am.
The scent of wet cement fills my senses as I walk up the steppingstones. Each one is half-buried in the dirt while the other half is covered in lime green moss. There’s some sort of engraved design on them, but I wouldn’t be able to make it out even if I dug them up.
I do take note of the two-lined engraving on a slab of cement sitting on two knee-high pillars.
Welcome to Cori Cove.
Where secrets hide and desires lurk.
That’s an odd welcome sign.
When the stones end, I step onto the broken cobblestone beneath a granite arch. From here, I’m able to see the front entrance. Two very wide double doors with paint chipping away. It seems there’s a lot of work to do, starting with the entryway. I envision antique wooden doors with black, wrought-iron, U-shaped handles. Fresh steppingstones and a new sign out front. That one is just creepy. Secrets and desires? Guests would assume they’re walking into a swingers’ resort.
Swallowing hard, I reach for the handle on the door, but to my surprise, it’s already opening. ‘Good evening, Ms. Jenkins. We’ve been expecting you.’ From the other side of the door, an older gentleman greets me with a thick Boston accent. He’s wearing a black butler’s suit with one hand behind his back and the other on the door. His fluffy white beard is peppered with streaks of black and his blue eyes are soft and inviting.
‘Hello. And thank you. I’m happy to be here.’ It’s partially true. I am excited for the job. As long as this unsettling feeling diminishes quickly, I’ll be fine.
I step inside as he holds the door open. As I’m looking around at the very large open space, the door closes with a thud, startling me.
The butler takes my suitcase and motions for me to follow him. ‘Right this way. Mr. Ellis is expecting you.’
Gripping the strap of my purse, I follow behind him. It’s apparent the hotel is still at the construction point. It’s damp and that smell of wet cement returns. Straight in front of me is stone-arcading supported by columns. It’s completely open to the outside, allowing anything or anyone to come in and out. It looks as if it leads to the backside of the property. There’s a puddle to the left and I look up to see an actual hole chiseled in the concrete ceiling. I guess the settlers didn’t believe in drywall or boards back then.
The walls are completely bare, with only a clay-like color that actually resembles clay. No paintings, no decorative hangings. Not even a glamorous chandelier. I hope this place at least has electricity and running water.
Following behind the butler, we round a few corners and stop at an elevator. To my surprise, it’s not old, nor stone. It looks like it was just put in. With two very wide stainless-steel doors. We step inside and it smells like fresh paint and fresh wood.
I watch as my guide presses the number eight on the panel, which appears to be the top floor.
When we come to a stop, the doors slide open and I follow his lead. The hallway is dim, lined with lanterns hanging from the cement wall. All lit with dancing flames.
I look around and it’s like we’ve stepped into an entirely different castle. The floors are clean, without a crack to be seen. The walls are coated with a layer of glossy epoxy and that smell…it’s weirdly familiar—lemongrass and a hint of mint—it smells like the home I lived in as a child.
Unease swarms in my belly. A blast from the past. A lifetime of memories hit me at once.
Me. Him. Us. Then and now. What we were and what we’re not. What we’ll never be.
It doesn’t happen often, but every now and then, Cal gets into my head and reminds me of the choices I’ve made. I tried to find him a couple times but never had any luck. For years, I wondered what his life had become. Did he get out? Find a family? Is he married with kids? Is he even alive?
With my mind wandering back to another time, I don’t even realize that the butler has opened the door to a room. He stands there with his hand pressed to it. ‘Ms. Jenkins? Is everything okay?’
I snap out of my thoughts and acknowledge him, ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
‘As I said, this will be your room.’
I take a step forward, and gasp when I see the beauty behind the door. ‘This? Is mine?’ I look at him for assurance, because it’s far too spectacular. This isn’t just a measly hotel room. It’s a room built for a queen, or at the very least, a princess. French doors that lead to a private balcony made of the original stone structure.
Bright, white paint covers the stone walls. A king-size bed sits in the center of the room with a large baby pink canopy overtop. The white lace that lines it dips into small V’s and every centimeter of fabric is precisely cut. The canopy alone must have cost a fortune. The bedding matches in color, dressed in a soft satin.
There’s a large vanity with a stool and a matching white dresser on the opposite wall. A large, white, wooden jewelry box catches my eye. As we pass by, I lift the top and a ballerina pops out. A tune begins playing and I shut it quickly because of the familiar sound.
The butler steals my attention as he lugs my suitcase across the hardwood floor.
I follow behind him as he walks toward, what I take to be, a walk-in closet.
‘This is all yours, Ms. Jenkins.’
I’m staring into a room that is big enough to be a bedroom. But that’s not what takes me by surprise. It’s the dozens of ball gowns. Every shade imaginable. On another wall are shoes—heels, flats, pumps, sandals. I grab a pair and hold them up—even tennis shoes?
‘There must be some mistake. Why would all of this be in my room? I’m just a measly interior designer.’
‘Mr. Ellis makes no mistakes.’ He sets my suitcase upright and leaves the closet.
I set the shoes down and walk briskly behind him. ‘Excuse me, what did you say your name was?’ I grab his arm and go to spin him to face me as confusion washes through me.
‘Peter. Peter Blake.’
I drop my hand and bite my bottom lip, trying to understand what all this means. My thumb shoots over my shoulder. ‘Are those his wife’s clothes?’
‘Mr. Ellis is not married,’ he says point-blankly.
‘Daughter?’
‘No kids.’
‘Hmm. Okay. Could you please take me to him? I just feel as if he’s mistaken about my stay here.’ The assistant I spoke with was very specific about my duties. This is a job, not a vacation.
Peter folds his hands in front of him and nods, very properly at that. ‘Of course.’
As we continue down the hall, it begins to feel more and more like we’re in a finished home. There’s an open sitting room that’s decorated immaculately. All-white furniture, a gray shag rug in front of the larger couch. Fresh flowers in a vase sitting on top of… I stop walking, gawking at the grand piano in the room. It’s beautiful. Hand-carved wood, stained in a cherry finish.
‘Ms. Jenkins?’ Peter quips.
Right. I peel my eyes off the piano and scurry down the hall behind him.
A new smell invades my senses—garlic. ‘Is there a kitchen on this floor?’
“The kitchen is on the first floor, not to be mistaken with the main entrance on the ground floor. Dinner is being served shortly.”
“Do you stay on this floor?” I feel redundant asking so many questions, but this is nothing like I’d imagined.
“The live-in staff stays on the sixth floor.”
Isn’t that what I am, though? Live-in staff?
At the risk of driving this man crazy with all my questions, I offer some light humor. ‘I suppose your room wasn’t equipped with enough dresses to attend a lifetime of balls?’
He doesn’t respond as he continues on his path. Guess he doesn’t do humor.
Peter stops in front of another door at the very end of the hall. ‘Here we are.’
He just stands there, looking as if I’m expected to open the door and shout, “I’m here.”
Finally, he taps his knuckles to it.
‘Come in,” a gruff voice trails through the sliver of an opening between the floor and the door. The vibration of his voice climbs through me and leaves me feeling anxious to put a face to the sound.
Peter turns the knob and pushes the door open. Cautiously, I step around him and look inside. A door at the end of the room closes and Mr. Ellis is nowhere in sight.
My eyes skim the room. There’s a very dark feel to it. A large desk is placed in front of a wall-sized window. Above it is elegant stained glass with the design of a tree and fallen leaves. The roots are the focal point of the artwork. Spread along the entire bottom, ending where the glass meets the window beneath it.
There’s an antique artifact sitting on a tall, black pedestal of a naked woman with her hand on her chest that looks like it was made from limestone. Beside it is a large black couch that looks like it’s never been sat on. Then, there’s a square, glass table with a chessboard on top of it. The walls are white, aside from an accent wall that is black and displays a large, vintage-looking clock. It smells like black currant and spice and it’s most definitely a man’s office.
My body jolts when the door closes and I realize Peter has left. My legs begin to feel weak and wobbly as I stand here alone.
‘Hello,’ I call out, looking toward the other closed doors in the room.
‘Have a seat. I’ll be out in a minute.’
That voice again. It’s masculine and stern. Sexy and mysterious.
I walk over to the desk and take a seat in the leather chair in front of it, opposite the chair I presume to be his. It looks more like a throne made for a king. There are chess pieces jutting from the back corners. All black, leather, with snake heads on the ends of the arms. It’s actually pretty creepy.
The door that Peter just walked out of opens back up, causing me to look over my shoulder. A man walks in. He’s not dressed in business attire. Instead, he appears sharp in a pair of beige shorts and a tucked-in polo shirt with a Manila folder placed under his arm. Slicked-back, blond hair, gorgeous blue eyes, and a muscular build.
“You must be Bella,” he says chipperly as he joins my side. He extends his hand and I return the gesture.
He’s the first to call me, Bella. While that’s what everyone I’m close with calls me, my legal name is Isabella. “I am. You must be Mr. Ellis.”
“Oh no,” he chuckles, “I’m Byron Davis, his attorney.”
My brows shoot to my forehead. “Attorney?”
“That’s right. Mr. Ellis is tied up on a business call at the moment, so we’re taking this time to finalize contracts.”
“Oh, right.” I nod. When I got the call for the job from Mr. Ellis’s assistant, she mentioned paperwork and contracts.
Opening the folder, Byron shuffles through some documents and pulls out a small stack. “Go ahead and have a seat. This shouldn’t take long.”
Once he finds a pen, he hands it to me and points to an X on the paper. “You’re welcome to read through them if you’d like.”
I’ve never been one to read through legal documents and it hasn’t bit me in the ass yet. I’m getting a job. I’m staying on the job site. And I’m getting paid more than I would ever ask for. I press the pen to the paper and sign my name. He flips a page and I sign again, and again, and again.
“That should be all. I’m excited to see what you and Mr. Ellis do with the place. You’ll see me around from time to time.”
“Thank you,” I say to him. He tips his chin and turns to leave the room.
As one door shuts, another opens. I look over my shoulder, and that’s when I see him.
At least, I think it’s him.
