Free Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) by Sandra Marton Page B

Now, what can we say about Charon's Crossin' that will make it appealin' to a buyer?"
    " 'For sale,' " Kathryn said in a mincing tone as they made their way out to the terrace again. " 'Handyman's special. All you need is a fat checkbook, a little imagination and a couple of dozen years and you'll have the vacation hideaway of your dreams.' "
    Olive laughed as they leaned back against the rusted wrought-iron railing that rimmed the terrace.
    "You're supposed to be tellin' me what a wonderful buy this house is, Kathryn. Don't you know that?" She turned and gazed out over the garden. "We can start by emphasizin' the beauty of the surroundin's."
    "I agree. And the privacy. Seriously, I've been thinking about it, the fact that the house is pretty much off the beaten track, and it seems to me that our best bet is to deal with that head-on, turn it into an asset."
    Olive gave Kathryn a wry look. "You sure you're not lookin' to take my job?"
    Kathryn smiled and leaned her arms on the railing.
    "What we need is a buyer with lots of money who's looking for a very private getaway. Right?"
    Olive nodded. "Right." What an old fool you are, Amos, not to recognize how bright and quick this young woman is. "We want a man of discerning tastes and great wealth."
    "A man," Kathryn said, "or a woman."
    The realtor laughed. "Oh, I can just see how you must have jolted poor Amos."
    Kathryn reached out and plucked a flower from a vine that had twined itself around the railing.
    "It really is lovely here," she said, twirling the flower in her fingers. "Is the weather always this perfect?"
    "Not always. We get storms sometimes, blowin' in across the sea. In late summer, mostly, but sometimes in the winter, too."
    Kathryn spread her fingers and let the breeze carry the flower to the grass.
    "I'll have to phone my fiancé and torture him a little," she said, and smiled. "Give him a first-hand weather report, you know? I'd have done it last night, but the phone doesn't work."
    Olive nodded. "It is a problem on the island. I will speak with Hiram, see if he can think of a way to improve things."
    "Hiram certainly has his work cut out for him.£ When he comes by later... What's the matter?"
    "I wouldn't count on seein' Hiram today, I'm afraid. It is Saturday, and the bonefish are runnin' just off Coronado Cay."
    "Tomorrow, then."
    "Tomorrow is Sunday. No one on Elizabeth Island works on Sunday."
    "Then, he's got to stop by Monday morning, first thing." Kathryn's voice took on a pleasant but firm tone. "I only have a week to devote to getting things sorted out here. That isn't very long."
    "Especially not on this island. As I said before, things move at a slower pace than you are accustomed to." Olive dug into her shoulder bag and took out a pen and a small notebook. "Let's write down what we've agreed needs checkin', yes? So far, we've got the plumbin'. The heatin'. The electricity. The roof, maybe. The moldin'. The phone..."
    "I think there's probably some wainscoting needs doing, too. Oh, and we'll have to deal with whatever it is that's turning the place into Siberia." Kathryn sighed. "Sounds like a year's salary to me—in which case, I'm up the creek without a paddle."
    "Sorry?"
    She smiled. "Never mind." Kathryn hesitated. "Olive? Why would Amos have said what he did to me?"
    "About what?" Olive said, capping her pen and tucking it away with the pad.
    "About the house being haunted."
    "Because he's an old fool, just as I told you."
    "Yes, but he couldn't have just come up with something like that off the top of his head, could he? I mean, is there some sort of local folklore about Charon's Crossing?"
    "Well," Olive said slowly, "I suppose there is. We islanders are a superstitious lot, and Charon's Crossin' is very old. No one has lived in it for a very long time."
    "My father did."
    "Not really. He had this old sailboat, used to come sailin' in here a couple of times a year, dock at Hawkins Bay harbor, and put in some work on the house—you didn't