August 5, Monday

"WHEN DO you expect to find a new groundskeeper?" I asked.

The out-of-state harried listing agent for The Whisper House, Gladys Maddox, sighed. "I haven't received any responses to the job posting."

I frowned. "The housesitting agreement said I'd have a groundskeeper to help with the house. Maybe you should increase the amount of money being offered."

"I will," she said. "But this property has proven to be… problematic."

"I understand the former owner died."

"That's right. And people in that area are superstitious."

"Who owns the property now?"

"All I know is the property is in probate. My company was hired to manage the online listing."

After extracting a lukewarm promise to keep me posted about the position, I ended the call. With a sigh I sat down at the small desk in my bedroom to try to focus on my novel. I still hadn't received my new laptop, nor had I texted my editor Bruce a new timeline for delivery.

I wasn't feeling particularly inspired.

I warmed up by doodling in the margins of the notebook—a bird… a tree… a rocking chair. I lifted my head and set down the pencil, then walked downstairs to the hidden workroom I'd found where Rose Whisper had been refinishing wood furniture. I told myself I'd think about my novel while my hands were occupied.

On a side table sat the items I'd bought at the hardware store to aid in restoring a beautiful rocking chair the woman had been working on when she died. The finish was bubbled, and the wood was scarred with wear and tear. I picked up a sanding block and ran it over the top rail of the back. The wood was oak, I'd learned from a chart of wood grains hanging over one of the worktables. It warmed beneath my fingers as I moved the block back and forth, in the direction of the grain. Slowly the surface began to soften and smooth. The tension in my shoulders and neck melted away. It was therapeutic, I conceded, and pictured Rose in this room, preferring the company of old things to people.

Hiding out.

Like me.

It occurred to me that Rose Whisper, a stranger that I would never meet and knew about purely by chance, and I had a lot in common.