Before I Let You Go, page 5
“You must be exhausted.”
Elsbeth fell back into the chair, stretching out her aching legs. “A part of me is still on Texas time, but I'm eager to get back to the hotel for a nap.” Her morning of sightseeing was far more strenuous than she had anticipated, however, Elsbeth had soaked up the town's beauty. Aching feet be damned.
“When did you fly in?” Ben asked.
“Last night, but I couldn’t sleep. I was too excited to explore.”
“I hope everyone's been nice to you,” Ben said with a smile.
Elsbeth recalled the inquisitive glances from people around town. “Yes, but perhaps I'm seeing things that aren't there. I caught some folks staring at me. I'm sure I looked like a typical tourist.”
“You're the first inhabitant on l'Île Céleste since Lorraine passed away, so you were bound to get the rumour mill churning.” Ben opened a desk drawer and retrieved a small envelope. “Let's get the important things out of the way first. Here are the keys to the property. There are two sets of everything, including a key for the shed.”
Elsbeth's hands shook with anticipation as she accepted the envelope. She had flown across the world in a desperate plea to find herself. Her family, job, and ex-boyfriend had been left behind. She'd come too far to turn around and go home now.
"All paperwork is completed," Ben explained, typing on his computer. "I'll mail you copies by the end of the week. Do you want them to go to l'Île Céleste or back to the United States?"
"I’ll give you my parents’ mailing address until I can determine what I’m doing. I’m not sure how long I’m planning to stay.”
Ben smiled. "That's fine. I was surprised to see you over here so soon. It takes a lot of effort to relocate somewhere else, especially to a new country."
"I'm far from impulsive, and this decision was out of character for me.”
“Have you applied for a permit to live here? Visitors are allowed to stay on the island for ninety days without one. The Guernsey government has a strict policy on population.”
“No, I have a British passport. My mother is English, so I have dual citizenship.”
“What a lucky happenstance.” Ben folded his arms across his chest. "Lorraine was a respected member of this community. She was my client for six years. She's deeply missed, and whispers of your arrival have rippled through town. Don't be surprised if you receive more unwanted attention. Many people didn't know Lorraine had family abroad."
"I didn't know her very well. I was a child when I last saw her.”
"Well, your aunt's death has rustled a few feathers."
Her eyebrows shot up. "How come?"
Ben cleared his throat and shuffled some papers around, sliding a brochure toward her. “You'll become familiar with a local agency called WYLD. It's named after the founder, Ambrose Wyld. They specialise in environmental conservation around the island. They're privately funded, so they're supported by the rich and influential around here. But despite their popularity and influence, WYLD's known for its tenacity.” He stacked the papers, avoiding making eye contact with her. “They practically harassed Lorraine to sell her property. The land has historical and environmental value. It's home to rare seabirds and gray seals. WYLD’s goal is to restore the island to its natural state. Now that Lorraine's gone, they'll find some way to contact you.”
Elsbeth's shoulders slumped. “That's news I didn't want to hear.”
Ben reached across the desk in a sympathetic gesture. "I don't want to scare you, but you need to know in case you receive unsolicited attention. Lorraine had lots of trouble with the founder. Ambrose is harmless, but he's the type of bloke who's narrow-minded. Just keep your wits about you."
Elsbeth chewed on the inside of her cheek. It was foolish to think that inheriting a piece of land from a long-lost aunt would come without strings attached. In hindsight, inspecting the estate before arrival would’ve been wise.
"Regarding the amenities, there's an active phone line on the property and Lorraine set up Wi-Fi about a year ago. There’s electricity and hot water too." Ben slipped some paperwork into a large envelope and shot her an empathetic smile. “You'll be fine, Elsbeth. You've made it this far. It's only the beginning."
"That's what I'm worried about. I have no idea what I'm doing."
"At least you don't have to worry about the land. Lorraine hired a local caretaker to tend to the grounds. He'll visit once a week to maintain the property."
“That would be awesome.” She sighed with relief. "The caretaker wouldn't be a relative of Ambrose, would he?"
"Yes, actually. His father. How did you know?"
"My mother mentioned it. She said the old caretaker had a son. He would be my age now. She said the boy had an unusual name."
"That sounds like Ambrose," Ben said.
"How long has the gardener been visiting?”
“I’m not sure of the exact time frame. Lorraine hired him when she got arthritis a few years back.” He spun on his chair to collect paperwork from the printer behind him and added it to the envelope. “I've included the alarm and safe combinations in your pack,” Ben continued. “I doubt you'll get many visitors, as the ferry docks at the island once a week. I suggest stocking up with food while you’re on the mainland—you may not get another chance until next week."
Elsbeth gathered her paperwork and stood, scraping her chair across the carpet. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Harper. I'll be in touch regarding my mail."
Ben cleared his throat. “Ah, Ms. Chevaleer, there's one more detail I need to discuss with you. Please sit down.” When she obliged, he opened a binder in front of him. “Lorraine has been buried. I claimed her remains, as I didn't anticipate family to arrive so soon. I must apologise if I overstepped a boundary.”
“It's okay, I understand. I appreciate your kindness. How was my aunt's funeral paid for?”
“Her church raised money from fundraisers and bake sales. My firm matched their donations,” Ben explained. “Lorraine was an important client. I wanted to help.”
“Can I pay you back? That was very generous of you.”
“It's not necessary.” He shook his head. “We're a close community here. We look out for each other.” He closed the binder. “Would you like to visit your aunt's grave? It's not far from here.”
“I would like to,” Elsbeth said. “When I was growing up, Lorraine was the distant relative who sent birthday cards every year and gifts for the holidays. I had only met her a few times. I never expected to be gifted with such an amazing opportunity.”
Ben scribbled on the back of a business card. “Lorraine's buried at Rosevale Cemetery. You can get there by bus. I made sure she had a spot overlooking her island.” He got up and circled the desk. His hand on her arm was comforting. “I know this is a lot to absorb. Give yourself a few days to settle in before journeying to the cemetery. Good luck, Elsbeth. I'm only a phone call away.”
The frigid ocean spray bit into Elsbeth's cheeks as the ferry bounced across the water. The vessel was smaller and older than she anticipated, with peeling paint in the ladies’ restroom and damp timber creaking under her feet.
The glistening lights of Guernsey faded behind her and she gripped the keys in her pocket until the metal bit her skin. She felt a sense of empowerment knowing she had achieved something she never thought was possible. Independence.
A small land mass appeared on the horizon, covered by an array of pine trees and shrubbery. A jetty stuck out on the eastern side of the property.
As they neared, a sliver of goosebumps settled upon Elsbeth's skin. It was terribly isolating out here. St. Peter Port was beyond reach. Perhaps Carol was right. No one would know if something happened to her until it was too late. Lorraine had died alone.
The ferry groaned as it docked at the pier. Water lapped lazily at the shore. The estate was lush and thick, guarded by a perimeter of ginkgo trees. Small colorful birds fluttered among the branches. On the western side of the property, heavy waves crashed onto jagged rocks.
Elsbeth stepped off the ferry with three suitcases, a backpack of groceries, and her purse. She took a moment to drink in the beauty around her, inwardly grimacing at the belch coming out of the ferry master’s mouth. "The cottage is through there, lass.” He hauled her luggage onto the pier and pointed to a cobbled pathway nestled between the trees. “Do you need help bringing your luggage to the door?"
"No, thank you. I'll be fine."
The ferry master dipped his head in farewell. "I'll come back in one week. The ferry docks at the pier at nine o'clock every Monday morning."
“What if I need the ferry sooner?”
“If you have emergencies,” the ferry master replied curtly, “you can hire a charter or water taxi to come and get you. Good day.”
Elsbeth stood on the pier with all her belongings, watching the ferry bounce over the waves toward the capital. Her fingers traveled to the gold necklace around her throat, tugging on it until the fear ebbed.
She sucked in a breath and walked down the path toward the cottage. It emerged in a clearing, bathed in butter-soft sunlight. The dwelling was the same shade as the ocean, with white shutters and a neat bay window. Red rose bushes stood guard on either side of the front door. A few cracked tiles blemished the roof, but the home was in good condition despite its age and location.
Dappled sunlight streamed through the trees and wild violets cushioned her feet. She understood Lorraine's choice to live a reclusive life. She saw the earth as it was meant to be, untouched and ancient.
As she unlocked the front door, Elsbeth's breath hastened. Her gaze was drawn immediately to the old hardwood floors marked by age and dust. The curtains were drawn, shrouding the cottage in darkness. Elsbeth left her luggage by the door, kicked off her shoes, and tiptoed inside. She was greeted by a biting chill that swept across her skin, coupled with a creeping feeling of trepidation.
She opened the dust-riddled curtains, filling the room with sunlight. She was surrounded by junk and trash. Newspapers were piled on top of boxes, lining the walls to ceiling height. Moth-eaten clothes were dumped in numerous clusters around the room. Discarded dishes were buried in the carpet. The stench of rotting food soured her tongue.
Elsbeth surveyed the room with tears in her eyes. “You're an idiot,” she hissed, kicking a nearby box. “Stupid fucking moron!” A bolt of pain shot up her leg. She grabbed the nearest box of junk and threw it across the room. She had given up her life for this.
She stalked the cottage, cursing under her breath. The bathroom was worse than the living room. The toilet was unsightly. Carol had failed to mention Lorraine was a hoarder. It would take weeks to clean and strip the place of the trash and lingering smell. The dumpster around the side of the cottage was too small to cater to everything.
Elsbeth sunk to the floor and covered her face with her hands. The primal scream that escaped echoed down the hall. She was furious that she had allowed her heart to make the decisions. It has only created bad choices. There was no one else to blame. Elsbeth sauntered toward her luggage at the front door and fished out a bottle of red wine. She unscrewed the lid and tossed it among the rest of the junk. Tears mixed with anger as the reverie of alcohol took over.
Elsbeth woke at four a.m. with a pounding in her skull. Groaning, she pushed off the floor, tripping over the empty wine bottle, and crawled onto the couch. The house was dark, softly illuminated by early dawn. The room swayed like a pendulum and the red wine pushed at the back of her throat, threatening to spill.
Elsbeth buried her head into the couch cushion until the wave of nausea subsided. She was homesick. She missed her parents and her own bed. She missed ...
Jeff's face pushed through the fog in her mind. "I need to tell him,” she muttered, fumbling for her cell phone on the side table. "He won't forgive me if I don't ..." Elsbeth leaned over the couch and threw up into a nearby flower vase.
Hazy and half-drunk, she punched in Jeff's number and waited for him to answer. To her surprise, he did.
“Elsbeth?”
She sobered quickly, shooting up on the couch. “Jeff?”
“Why are you calling me? I don't want to speak to you.”
Elsbeth froze, unsure of what to say. She hadn't expected him to pick up. "I wanted to let you know I arrived in Guernsey."
“Your mother has already told me.”
“Look, I'm sorry about what happened at the restaurant. It wasn't the right way to go about it. I made a stupid mistake. Is that what you want to hear?"
“I don't want to hear the word sorry out of your mouth. You humiliated me. I was forced to leave with an engagement ring in my pocket and a bill to pay. You don’t get over something like that.” His end went silent.
“Jeff?”
“You know what? I'm glad you're not here. I don't think I can stomach looking at you.”
“You don't mean that,” Elsbeth sobbed.
“Do not contact me again,” he demanded. “Next time you call, I will not pick up,” and with that, he ended the call. Sucking in a sob, Elsbeth placed her cell on the side table and stared into the infinite darkness through the windows. A sliver of sunlight appeared on the horizon. Jeff was angry. Rightfully so. But he wasn't as innocent as he claimed, contributing to the downfall of their relationship. She sunk into the cushions and dozed off, dreaming of the days when she used to make him happy.
CHAPTER 6
Elsbeth was jarred awake by a flock of gulls flying overhead. A vicious hangover thumped behind her eyes. With dulled strength, she pulled herself up from the couch, groaning when her head protested. It had been years since she drank an entire bottle of wine alone. She got to her feet, swayed, and kicked the bottle across the floor. She couldn't even look at the vase without feeling nauseous.
In her head, she made a list of things that needed to be done to rebuild l'Île Céleste. It would take time, money, and lots of help, and Elsbeth knew of one person who may be able to lend a hand.
She dialed Ben Harper's office a little past nine a.m. After pleading with his secretary that it was an emergency, she finally patched Elsbeth through.
“Good morning, Elsbeth,” Ben greeted warmly. “How did your first night go?”
“It could've been better,” she replied dryly. “You failed to mention the cottage looked like the inside of a garbage truck.”
“I'm sorry I didn't mention it. I assumed you'd read the will in its entirety. Lorraine had wished for the property to remain exactly as it was after her death.”
Elsbeth exhaled forcefully. “Did she have me in mind to inherit this place, or was it a spur-of-the-moment thing?” She leaned a hip against the kitchen island, repulsed by the years of garbage, old letters, and rotting food along the counter. “I can't live like this, Mr. Harper. There's junk everywhere. I'll spare you the details of the bathroom.”
His voice softened to an empathetic tone. “The house is yours to do what you will, but I can understand how frustrating your situation is. I doubt anyone knew how bad it was. Look, come back to the mainland. I'll pay for a charter to pick you up. We can discuss getting a team out there for you.”
For the first time since arriving, Elsbeth felt some victory. “That's very generous of you.”
“Come on over and we'll sort things out,” Ben said. “You'll be enjoying the salt in your hair before you know it.”
“I had no one else to call.” Elsbeth sipped her cappuccino and shut her eyes briefly, thankful for her first hit of caffeine of the day. She lounged at a cafe outside St. Peter Port where the grass was soft and the air was warm. It was a nice change from the stench of mothballs and decaying cardboard boxes.
“You have to stop apologising,” Ben said with a chuckle. “I felt sorry for you! I knew Lorraine had a problem, but from the photos you showed me, it was worse than I had imagined.”
“I slept on the floor last night with a bottle of wine. I can confidently say that was my lowest moment in life,” Elsbeth said, admiring Ben's white teeth when he laughed. He was nice, charismatic, and handsome. She figured rumors were circulating about her, and she didn't want to create more by hooking up with her dead aunt's solicitor. All she wanted was a friend.
A long shadow cast across their meals and Ben glanced up, greeting their visitor with obvious distaste. "Good morning, Ambrose."
"Harper." A tall man with an aristocratic jawline and muscular physique towered over them. He carried himself like a movie star, confident and proud, looking elite in his gold aviators. He reminded Elsbeth of the first time she had met Jeff, wooing her with his dripping sex appeal.
The man dipped his chin toward her, and she caught her reflection in his glasses. "You didn't tell me you were dating, Harper."
Ben hissed between his teeth. "This is my client Ms. Chevaleer."
Ambrose removed his sunglasses and thrust out his hand. "I'm Ambrose Wyld from WYLD Conservation. I'm very good with faces, but I don't recognise yours. Fresh off the boat as it were?”
"We haven't met, but I know who you are,” she replied coolly. “You're the man who was harassing Lorraine Gillis to sell l'Île Céleste."
The charming mask slipped off Ambrose's face. "How do you know about that?" He cast a glance between Ben and Elsbeth. "You're the American who inherited the island?”
"I moved in yesterday. I'm going to tell you right now, Mr. Wyld, that I'm not easily swayed; l'Île Céleste will remain in its current condition. I respect its ecological history, but I'm not willing to sell. I inherited it, and I plan to keep it.”
Ambrose snapped a glare to Ben. "What have you been telling her?”
Ben shrugged nonchalantly. "I thought Elsbeth should have full disclosure about the island's history. I told her what townsfolk already know.”
Ambrose leaned in, using his large build to intimidate Ben. "You'll be out of business if you keep slandering my name. I have friends in high places too."
Elsbeth noticed how Ben didn't flinch or submit when Ambrose shoved a finger in his face. Whether it was an act of fear, she wasn't sure. Ben stood his ground.
