Dancing In The Snow

By BB Jackson

When Brett Lockwood receives a not-too-positive medical report, he gives up his New York law practice to return to his ancestral home in Maine. Unfortunately, the summer residence he used to frequent as a boy was also his evil grandfather's gothic-like mansion that was full of bad vibes and desperately in need of renovation.

With encouragement from the local townspeople, he deals with his haunted past and the disappearance of his father that occurred years ago.

When he encounters the beautiful, aloof Avery Keene, he feels drawn to her, and their relationship becomes a challenge.

She owns a successful art gallery in the small town. It is filled with iconic works, including those created by her eccentric mother. She also has family secrets yet to be discovered.

Dancing in the Snow is a tribute to recovering old wounds and the awesome power of forgiveness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889824138

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Acknowledgements

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

25

25

26

27

Epilogue

About the Author

cover.jpg

Dancing In The Snow

BB Jackson

Copyright © 2023 BB Jackson

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2023

ISBN 979-8-88982-412-1 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88982-413-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Quotes

Then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone and think,

Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

—Keats/Sonnet, When I Have Fears (1818)

We are never so happy nor so unhappy as we imagine.

—La Rochefoucauld / Maxim 49

Acknowledgements

First, I want to pay homage to a handful of writers who will forever inspire me! Joyce Carol Oates for her book titled Wonderland, Susan Howatch for The Rich Are Different, Mary Higgins Clark for simple, clear stories, and Sue Grafton for an enduring character in the A to Z series. I would also like to thank my dear friends who encouraged my stalled career. I wouldn't be writing this if it weren't for the help of my technology assistant, Patricia Gallagher, and her wise input and technical skills.

1

The house was lost in the fog; the turrets and towers were invisible. A chill charged through his spine—he remembered this scene so well from those awful summers, how he hated this monstrosity, this gaudy monument to his grandfather's greed. Well, he vowed; that was then. Over. He had to deal with the reality of the situation: take over the house or let it fall into ruin.

He steered the elderly BMW slowly past the ghostly cedars, up the broken stonewall-lined drive to the front portico. No light was on since there was no one there to welcome him. No one knew when he would arrive.

This would be his project for as long as he had, the one thing that would keep him at arm's length from his fate. The promise of a false future would have to nourish him for the time being.

How ironic, he thought firmly, that his house would become his on the worst day of this life—the day his doctor told him that the disease had taken a new turn, and not for the better. With minimal medication, he was told, he could sustain six months, a year on the outside; a miracle of modern science could change it all.

Brett Lockridge, at forty, was a successful New York lawyer who never regretted not marrying, until now. It would have been nice, he thought once or twice, to have someone close to share the final times. He would have liked a child, but that reality never came to pass. Not that he hadn't met the best and the brightest the city had to offer—his timing had to be somewhere in orbit. Sara, his latest semi-girlfriend, wasn't a child producer. She had stressed that while ticking off her mad audition/rehearsal schedules.

She herself was still a child at thirty-five and, she added, might never wish to grow up.

When he left his messages for her telling her that he was off to Maine for an indefinite time, he knew that she wouldn't be in to receive them. He would possibly call her after he hooked up some phones at Cliff House Manor. God, he hated the name even.

He had never decorated an apartment before, let alone a drafty, 1930s medieval-style, overbearing pile of rocks. The more he remembered his childhood, the more he loathed the place. Now here he was with no clue as to how to restore so much as a closet. A city boy wants a wall plastered—call the management office. This would be more than a challenge. This could be war. There were eighteen rooms, not all livable, he was told by the attorney who took care of the last will of his grandfather.

So he argued there would have to be a pretty penny spent on just basic reconstruction. There would be a considerable amount of funds for this purpose, he was informed. That was the crowning touch, Brett told himself. Without the money, he probably would have declined the gift and toddled off to the Caymans or Aruba. And then what? Spend his time waiting and wondering?

The fax he got the week before laid out all the details of the transfer, all the instructions concerning the immediate problems. And there was the warning that even he couldn't live in Cliff House Manor until these basics were taken care of and corrected. No power, no heat. Welcome home, boy, he thought. What a great gift from a great man. Even his sister, Nora, now divorced and living in Philly, had no desire to take over even a portion of the estate. It was all Brett's, she laughed. Her kids would never have to see the place of their sad times, their summers of hell. When he asked if she wanted to share the house, she bluntly told him that her memories were too vivid to comment on them and that he should have a good time fixing it up and selling it later. She wished no financial gain. He understood. He had been there too. Nora chose to not set foot on that enemy turf again.

So with no one to interfere or challenge him, he moved ahead with leaving New York and taking on the task before him. Perhaps he could leave it to a charity one day, maybe change the name if the town, too, had unpleasant thoughts about it.

Now he had to get out of the car and face the demons. He pushed open the creaky door leading to the immense front foyer, now shadowed by the late afternoon clouds.

There was no way he was going to sleep in this place for a long time, he vowed. Maybe never. It seemed to grab him, the old scents, the mustiness, the dead air clinging to the walls—even his grandfather's scent: age and anger. He forced himself to open inside the shutters to see the windows leading back to the front porch. His hands touched rotted draperies that fell in heaps to his feet. In the largest parlor, facing the ocean, he wedged open a window. Some sea air filtered through, mingling with the dusty puffs of the fabrics. The sea flooded his head as he bent forward to take in deep gulps of fresh air. He never forgot the sensation this smell made: the salty, tangy bite, slightly fishy, but utterly clean and clear. It stopped all the bad vibes.

Then he reviewed every room with a tainted eye: the drawing room where his grandfather upbraided their father as an adult and them as children; the dingy salon, full of memories of silent meals, unpleasant food; and the kitchen, the only room comfortable for them to be themselves, thanks to Maria, the longtime cook. She made special treats when the grandfather was away.

Their own father would admonish her half-heartedly, saying the Old Man would know that they were given cookies or cupcakes or homemade ice cream. The children would giggle self-consciously while Maria would stick up for them, saying that all children needed—deserved—little treats for even visiting their evil grandfathers. Everyone knew who she was talking about. Once, it was whispered, she was caught making extra cake batter and disappeared for two days. Not a word was said. The Old Man summoned her back, insisting, in his own way, that no one else would do…a rare moment of charity. It was, actually, necessity. No one would work at Cliff House Manor and take all the abuse unless they had no other options. Maria passed away during the midday meal. It was rumored that the Old Man was furious.

Brett climbed the sooty, wide-board stairway to an upper drawing room and assorted bed chambers. His grandfather had a way of referring to the mansion's rooms in the English style, showing his disdain for the nouveau American casual references of the day. This affectation was genuine since he had come from humble beginnings. Or so it was said. No one really knew details from the past, and no one dared to ask or investigate.

It was rumored that Grandfather Lockridge had murdered a rich man's foe and had, thus, as a reward, been set up with this mansion as well as the rich man's only daughter. These topics were never discussed, of course. His grandmother was, in his memory, a retiring, soft-spoken, tiny woman who spent most of her days in her garden and greenhouse. Brett didn't know her well, so he was saddened by her passing quietly one winter ten years ago. He attended the funeral with his sister and her husband, only to seethe while watching the cavalier way that his grandfather treated the event—as if some old, not too important pet, had died. Nora insisted that maybe he was showing another form of grief.

Brett didn't think so. No, the Old Man looked relieved, free. Sorry fool.

Then when his father had disappeared that spring after their mother had finally filed for divorce, Brett had not much family to fall back on. With the exception of Nora, her stable marriage, the two great kids, and a devoted husband, he was nearly alone. And now this…

If his father hadn't been dead, he pondered, the lawyer would have most likely not even have contacted him at all. There had been an extensive search for his father, the lawyer assured him, but nothing turned up. Brett himself was estranged from him for many years over all the troubles and anguish that had been foisted upon their mother by his drinking and playing around. His dad had literally wasted his whole life. Now he was probably dead and buried. Now Brett had Cliff House Manor, he paused. Lucky!

It was now deep afternoon touching on evening. He had to think about checking into the town's one motel and getting something to eat. It had been a long and dreary drive from the city. He had called before leaving to make sure there was a room. Get here by 6:00 p.m., they said. It was fall, so the tourists were all over the place.

I'm on my way.

Well, house, he said out loud, we'll meet again, and you may never be the same. I know I won't, he muttered. He slammed the massive oak door without bothering to lock it. No one around Danley approached Cliff House Manor. Over the years, there had been guard dogs, sounds of shotguns, etc. None of it or all of it could have been real, but the town chose to believe that there was some danger in being curious about the place.

At the White Pine Motel and Restaurant, Brett settled his bags into room 28. After a relaxing, hot shower, he walked the short distance to the dining room, which was, in fact, an overgrown coffee shop pretending to serve upscale food. It was decent food; he remembered on the days he and Nora and their fathers would sneak out for some greasy burgers and fries. Yes, it was still painted in the puny yellows and greens of the sixties and seventies. Opening the door, he got a whiff of fried clams and old coffee, but it couldn't have smelled better.

As he took an empty booth, an attractive waitress in her early twenties came over with a steaming glass pot.

Hi, I'm Sam. Care for some coffee?

Ah, no thanks. Do you sell liquor here?

Uh-huh. Just beer and wine. She smiled.

Good! I'll take a bottle of your best beer.

Whoa—that'll have to be Bud or Miller Lite. We don't have Heinekens or anything like that.

Bud will do, thanks.

He opened his menu and scanned the specials of the day. This was definitely not New York. The beer arrived in a frosty glass, a tempting quaff to behold. He ordered the hot turkey sandwich as he watched the pleasant young woman take all his requests as if she worked in the finest restaurant. He liked her attitude, her natural friendliness. She seemed to sense that he could be a stranger, uncomfortable in a new place. He noticed her immaculate appearance, the well-cared-for medium-brown hair, the neat sensible shoes.

He admired young people who took their jobs, however menial, seriously. Even her faded yellow-and-brown trimmed uniform was spotless.

After leaving a generous tip, he asked her what time they opened for breakfast. He wanted to savor her upbeat spirit a while longer. Then he headed back to his room, turned on the TV, and lay on his bed watching the local news until he fell asleep. Around midnight, a noise outside struck his mind awake. He parted the blinds to see a brightly lit 18-wheeler parked in front of the coffee shop. A young man jumped down from the driver's seat, opened his arms, and was embraced by a laughing Sam. They hugged, kissed tenderly, and stood looking at each other for a few moments. Then the young man helped Sam into the passenger side of the ride before they drove off.

Well, thought Brett, she has a boyfriend or husband. That's nice.

2

At 8:00 a.m. Brett awoke in a daze, searching the new surroundings. He bolted for the shower. This was late for him. In the city, he was up by 6:00 a.m. at the latest and in his office at 7:30, five days a week and many times on Saturdays. It was his life, until now. He vowed that he would not become lax or let down his good habits now that his world had completely changed. Discipline and hard work kept him sane then. They would be especially important traits for him now. There was so much to do in a relatively brief time. He had to organize and use this time well, or the effort will be futile, a waste.

He had a bagel and coffee and glanced at the local newspaper. Sam wasn't around, he noticed. He paid his tab and drove down the main commercial street of Danley. It was all still here: the eight shops, the one bar, a small grocer, and a tiny library. Not much, if anything, had altered the view since he was fifteen, his last summer in town. He parked by a meter in front of Henderson's variety store where, as a kid, he'd bought gum, candy, forbidden cigarettes, and comic books. He hoped that they still sold the Boston papers or, heaven forbid, the New York Times. He was lucky to pick up the last Times on the shelf. A striking woman in her mid-thirties was chatting away with Mrs. Henderson, the heavyset, somewhat crotchety owner. He tried not to overhear the conversation, but snippets filtered his way: gallery quiet, new artist coming in next week, mother well, and sold two works at outrageous prices. The two women laughed and shouted goodbyes. He followed the customer with his eyes as she unlocked the door of a handsome storefront gallery across the street from where he stood. The sign in the window in glossy black with thin gold lettering stated Gallery II. He wondered where Gallery I might be.

He paid for the paper and walked the length of the three-block street. It was all painfully familiar, all rushing back to him. And yet he did see some different shops: a unisex beauty shop, a dry cleaner where the old tailor used to be, and a new and shiny baker all fitted into the spaces between the souvenir place with the colored seashells and the updated flower shop. The hole-in-the-wall pub had been drastically changed into a more than trendy hangout, he could tell, seeing the brass and potted plants through the large front windows. Everything in Danley revolved around the summer tourist. He never forgot that he was only allowed to come for his annual visits in August, never before, never after.

Now he had to find the nearest hardware store to order the supplies he needed. He didn't spot sign of one of that type of store on Main. He wondered where the do-it-your-selfers shopped. He drifted across the street toward the art gallery and shyly peered into the window. A single painting of such eye-catching beauty caught his attention. Though it was small, in an elegant gold frame, the lush flowers all but popped out: violets, lilacs, and anemones. He felt he could reach out and feel them.

The woman he saw at the variety store stared at his obviously bewitched state.

She smiled to herself. That was what art was all about, she thought, what it was supposed to do to the human eye: grab it and lock in the message of exquisite joy. She saw him look up at her.

She motioned for him to come in. Hello. She now smiled brightly, her teeth perfection in a peach-colored face surrounded by short, auburn-hued curly hair. He was momentarily at a loss. His head felt a lightness that reminded him of the flu, but he knew it was something else.

"Hello… that is a lovely painting," he found himself muttering.

Yes, it is as a matter of fact. It just came to us. A new artist. I hope I don't sell it soon. I enjoy looking at it.

I do too, he commented as he scoped the sparsely hung walls. Nothing looked quite like the painting in the window.

Are you vacationing? she questioned lightly.

Ah, no…I used to visit here as a kid. A grandparent's house.

I see.

It's mine now. The house, I mean. I'm getting set to redo the damage that neglect's done to it.

How bad is it?

Oh—he laughed—it needs months of just basic cleaning, painting, getting rid of the garbage. Lots to do.

"How old is the house?"

Some say it's over a hundred years old, but I think it's more like 1930s. My grandfather had it designed. He lived in it before he went to the nursing home for a short stay.

What a shame.

Not really. By then he lived alone. There was no one else. He had just about disowned everyone by then.

"I know what you mean. I had a great-aunt who died penniless, so we assumed. The executors found shopping bags full of five- and ten-dollar bills all throughout her place. She'd been hoarding it for over fifty years." She laughed.

That's funny, he joined in, she would have loved my grandfather!

I'll bet.

Well, I don't want to keep you. I have to get going too. He made an effort to leave reluctantly.

No problem. I enjoyed our chat. He's not leaving just now, she hoped.

Oh, by the way, you wouldn't happen to know where I can find a decent hardware store, do you? Lumberyard? Paint shop?

I do, indeed. Right out on Route 25, there's a kind of mall. There's a hardware store-paint shop combination. Then about a mile north of that, there's a fairly well-stocked lumberyard. O'Brian Brothers.

Why, thanks. I really appreciate your help. He reached out to shake her hand. Anytime…I'm Avery Keene.

Proprietress? He smiled now. She saw such a profound sadness behind his smile that she almost felt a tear.

Yes, I'm afraid so… still holding his hand. Brett Lockridge.

Oh, no! You're the Lockridge grandson. She chuckled. "We wondered when or if you'd get here."

Well, I'm here, and I've inherited a bit of ancient history, it seems.

I know the house, but I've never been inside. My Mother has. Years ago. She tells me I was there, too, but I can't remember… she trailed off.

You'll have to come out when it's a little more presentable. He grinned, dropping her hand gently.

Don't worry about it's being presentable. I love old houses, and I've redone my own and some friend's places. Not restoring so much as updating.

"You have? This is a lucky meeting. I just may call on you to see what exactly I should do with Cliff House Manor."

Cliff House—it's such a romantic name for an old kind of spooky place, isn't it?

You have no idea how ‘spooky' it is, Avery. You must come out soon, I mean it. You'll be surprised at what no heat and no TLC for decades can do to a house. Even to the most impressive façade.

I'd love to see it, Brett, any time.

I'll call you. Here? Okay?

Yes.

She watched him head toward the black BMW sedan and drive off. That was one interesting man, for these parts, she thought. She wondered why she hadn't met him before or if he had come here alone. He had quite a mission ahead of him. She didn't envy the project he had but realized that he must want to tackle it, or he wouldn't have come back to Danley and Cliff House.

Brett kept the image of the gorgeous floral in the gallery window in his mind. Avery Keene's face was superimposed over it. She was a lovely woman, someone he would have loved to know better, maybe marry, raise a brood of kids. Listen to me, he thought, what do I have to offer someone so vital, so alive? She's most likely very married and has a couple of kids of her own. Out of your league, boy, he chided himself.

At the hardware / paint shop, he found himself in a rare quandary: so much stuff, so many decisions! How did people do it? How did he plan to choose what he needed? He was jumping the gun, he realized. There was junk to be scrapped, basic cleaning out to do before he even had to buy a bucket of paint or a brush. What he did need were workers to shovel out, shore up the sagging walls, and prepare the place for the final touches. He made a mental note of all the fallen-down walls around the drive, the trees about to topple into the road, and the shear rotting smell inside the rooms. What have I gotten myself into? He winced as a sales clerk, with a notepad, trotted over, smiling eagerly.

All he could do was mutter that he'd be back with his list. The clerk probably was used to