Page 1 of Dying to Meet You
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Thursday
Rowan
My favorite college professor used to say that the best thing about being an architect is that no two days are alike. “On Monday you’re wearing a hard hat to inspect a building site, on Tuesday you’re touring a client’s newly acquired estate, and on Wednesday you’re drafting at your desk.”
He failed to mention that on Thursday you’ll be frantically vacuuming mouse droppings off that desk.
“Enough already,” I mutter, jabbing the vacuum’s brush attachment at my keyboard. “This is disgusting.”
Beatrice—who, in spite (or perhaps because) of her antique name, is my younger, hipper colleague—shuts off the vacuum and takes it from me without a word. I think she can tell how strung out I feel today. How close to the edge.
And our boss is arriving at any moment.
“We need bigger traps,” I mutter. “I saw some at the hardware store.”
Beatrice shakes her perfectly straightened blond hair. “Wouldn’t help. These mice aren’t large—they’re just entitled. Here.”
She hands me a packet of disinfectant wipes, which I tear open immediately. “But I want revenge.”
“Babe, I want a martini and a ninety-minute massage. But we’re getting a meeting with Hank instead.” She grabs a wipe, nudges me out of the way, and disinfects my desk blotter more efficiently than I’d done it myself. “I think I heard the car outside. Go stall him?”
“Sure. Okay.” I grab my clipboard and go, my heels clicking on the newly refinished hardwood floors as I leave our makeshift office and cross through the library.
The moment my contractors finished the mansion’s structural renovation, Beatrice and I adopted this space on the first floor, which we plan to use for the remainder of the construction project. Both the library and the historic Wincott office—nowouroffice—have hand-carved moldings and trompe l’oeil ceilings. Plus, we can seal off the library on days when the contractors are making a lot of noise on the property.
It’s a heck of a lot nicer than the construction trailer we’d been using before.
As I stride past a gilded mirror in the corridor, I check my outfit. Blouse, heels, a pencil skirt. Makeup. At least I remembered to put in some effort this morning.
Hank Wincott—our boss—always looks like a million dollars, probably because his family has billions. The Wincotts are the oldest, most successful Maine family that I can name. They first staked their claim on Portland in 1805, when a shipbuilding ancestor built a modest brick home on this property. Then, in 1860, Amos Wincott—the architect of the family—expanded that home into the mansion that stands here today.
A century and a half later, my role is to burnish the Wincott legacy and preserve this property for a new generation of Mainers. I’m six months into a two-year contract as the architect of the project. It’s a job I fought for, because I’m excellent with the details of restoration.
Client meetings, though? Not so much.
In the atrium, I pass the elaborate curving staircase, where dappled light filters down from a blue-and-gold skylight thirty-odd feet above my head. When I reach the foyer, I grasp the front door’s oversize brass knob and twist it. The door is heavy, and I have to hold on tightly to prevent the salty Maine breeze from yanking it out of my hand.
It’s a surprisingly warm day for early June, and the sunlight in my eyes is a shock after the mansion’s shadowy interior. Once my vision adjusts, I see a shiny black Jaguar parked beside the house.
Hank Wincott leans against the passenger side, his phone to his ear. He tilts his strong jaw in greeting but lifts a finger in the universal sign for “just a minute.” He’s obviously finishing up a call with someone more important than me.
Honestly, I’m a little fuzzy on the details of how Hank spends his workdays. His older brother is the CEO of their global shipping corporation, while Hank is some kind of finance guy. He manages his family’s investments and also runs the Wincott Charitable Foundation.
Twenty years ago, Hank and I were in the same class at the expensive private high school where I now send my daughter. He was a popular party boy. If Chatham Prep had been large enough to have a prom king, he would have been a shoo-in.
I was a nerd, so our social circles didn’t overlap much. But everyone knew everyone at Chatham. The connection certainly helped me get this job—Hank said as much when he gave it to me.
I retreat back inside the house, making sure to leave the door unlocked. In the atrium, I lean against a hand-carved pilaster, lifting my gaze slowly upward, as the original architect had intended. Amos definitely had visitors’ awe in mind when he designed this space. He wanted them to be wowed by the elaborate staircase, which coils, serpentlike, up to the second and third floors. The upper levels of the house form a gallery, with every upstairs room opening onto the U-shaped open corridors.
Tilting my head back at a severe angle, I can finally make out the details of the ornate stained-glass window shimmering from the top floor. It’s 160 years old, and done up in a wave pattern of blues and golds with the Wincott family symbol in the center—aWstyled like a trident.
Ocean imagery is everywhere in the mansion, because the Wincotts made their first fortune in shipbuilding. If I try hard enough, I can picture Portland’s leading nineteenth-century citizens in their dinner jackets, climbing the staircase toward the smoking room upstairs.
It’s all very beautiful. This commission is a big moment in my career. But it’s not an easy job. Parts of the house are so ornate that I’m struggling to merge twenty-first-century design elements into the floor plan, and all those handmade fixtures are blowing up my budget.
Then there’s the ghost. Some of our contractors think a woman haunts the place. They say they’ve heard her crying. I haven’t. Not yet, anyway. But if I had to make a bet on which old mansion in Portland is haunted, I’d put my chips on this one.
