Beach Thriller(30)
I push a button on the intercom and hear a click, followed by a crackling, disembodied male voice.
“Welcome to Miramar. If you’re selling anything, believe me, we have it.”
“Um, it’s me, Jade, excited to start work today,” I say enthusiastically, trying to sound like the motivated go-getter Conrad believes he’s hired.
“I’m sorry,” says the voice, though I’m not sure if he’s apologizing for misidentifying me as a salesperson or advancing sympathy for what I’m about to endure.
A buzz sounds as the gate swings open. It groans on tired hinges, suggesting visitors are infrequent. I traipse along a driveway as wide as a road, leading toward a sprawling stone estate that’s like something out of a fairy tale. The gardens lining my path are full of colorful, lively new blooms, leafy trees of all varieties, and shrubs sculpted into perfect angles.
Miramar is everything I imagined and more. It’s stately and noble, with towering chimneys and elongated arched windows set deeply into rough-cut stone walls that are weathered and veined like old bones. In the center of a large circular driveway stands an ornate fountain featuring a bronze sculpture of a man and a woman holding a jug of cascading water.
The “castle meets country club” elegance is stunning, enhanced by the ocean backdrop, which takes my breath away. To my right is a manicured lawn that looks like it’s been tended with the precision of nail clippers.
The front of the home is grand and inviting, featuring three columned archways fit for a king or queen. But what catches my eye is the stone tower attached to the building, rising like a vigilant sentinel until it reaches the domed copper crown. It extends at least fifty feet into the sky.
A seagull has perched itself on one of the many gables adorning the steeply pitched roof, its beady black eyes watching as I approach the front stairs.
Part of me thinks it’s issuing some kind of warning, a message from Holly. Keep away …
Perhaps I should listen, but it’s too late—I’m already at the front door.
I reach for the doorbell, but don’t have to press it.
I should have realized someone would be ready to greet me. After all, I was buzzed in at the gate. The door opens, revealing a tall, angular man who looks as though he were present when the first stones of Miramar were set into the ground. He’s dressed in a black suit so crisply pressed I have the impression it’s never been worn, though it hangs a touch too loosely on his lean frame.
His thinning silver hair is carefully brushed back, suggesting age won’t overtake him without a fight. His heavy-lidded, inscrutable eyes flick over me with practiced efficiency. If he’s sizing me up, he keeps his conclusions carefully hidden. I can only imagine what this sharply dressed man thinks of my hoodie and worn-out Converse shoes.
He says nothing while peering down his long aristocratic nose. Not unkind, but shrewd.
“Hi, I, uh … I’m here for Mr. Carmichael.” I hate the shake in my voice.
“Welcome to the jungle,” says the old man, gesturing for me to enter. I guess he’s joking, trying to connect with a young person by using a Guns N’ Roses reference that’s ancient history to me. But at least I know the song—my mom used to blast the tune on repeat. She was a big eighties hair band fan.
“We’ve been expecting you.”
I’m led into a grand foyer, with a ceiling so smooth and arched it feels like walking beneath a wave. Although there’s undeniable elegance to the space, the interior echoes its former glory more than its current state, as if the house recalls its best days—sunset cocktail parties, linen suits, elegant swimwear, and glamorous dinners—all relegated to the past.
Stone walls in the entryway show their age, their mortar cracked and discolored. The furniture is the sort you’d expect to see roped off in a museum—old and uncomfortable, with faded upholstery and uninviting cushions. The wood throughout is sun-bleached and weathered, as if it made its way through ocean currents before washing up on the shoreline. The banister lining the grand, curving staircase is worn to a dull sheen by generations of hands. Area rugs that might have once added bright splashes of color are now faded and threadbare.
Large oil paintings in gilded frames fail to lift the mood. The nature scenes, even those with green hills, are painted in drab colors. Perhaps dust has settled on the canvases. If there’s a house cleaner here, they’re being overpaid. My allergies threaten again.
“My name is Sidney,” says the old man. “I’m the butler of Miramar.” He doesn’t extend his hand, so we don’t shake, but I notice that he keeps his nails impeccably clean and neat.
“Does the name mean ‘watcher of the sea’? I read that somewhere.” I don’t drop Holly’s name.
Sid’s eyebrows lift. “You’ve done your research. And yes, it does. Maeve Carmichael, whom you’ll meet momentarily, is obsessed with the ocean. She takes a swim every afternoon, often in weather I wouldn’t advise, but you’ll soon find out that she does as she pleases.”
I gulp, recognizing a warning when I hear one.
“If you have any questions about the house, its history, or how we do—or don’t do—things around here, please ask. It’s my duty to ensure you feel like one of the staff—which is to say, rarely seen and often blamed.”
I can’t say this is the best pep talk I’ve ever had, but at least I’ve got a job. Not long ago, I was hiding in the attic of a stranger’s home, and now I have the run of a castle. Life sure does throw curveballs.