Free And Then Came You by Maureen Child

long as construction of the house never ceased, Sarah would be safe. And for the next thirty-eight years, it worked, as she kept construction crews working around the clock, seven days a week—weekends and holidays included.
    That amazing house, in San Jose, was a ramblingmansion filled with doors that opened to nowhere and staircases that led to ceilings. One of the wealthy woman’s favorite pastimes was having her workmen tear rooms apart and redo them over and over again. The day she died, the work crews simply left . . . some of them abandoning half-driven nails in the walls.
    Sam understood how they must have felt.
    The Winchester house had begun as an eight-room farmhouse and by the time Mrs. Winchester died, there were 160 rooms, decorated with Tiffany stained-glass panes, solid silver doorknobs, and gold chandeliers. After her death, several storerooms filled with priceless treasures had been discovered—the contents never having been used. The house was now a historical monument, drawing thousands of tourists every year.
    Grace’s place was on a smaller scale, but not for lack of trying.
    Built over a century ago, the big Victorian had stood proudly, as a testament to its owner’s financial status as well as his taste for overblown gingerbread detailing. Then the bottom fell out of the cattle market and the house’s owner sold it to a woman intent on making a different sort of name for herself.
    As a cathouse, the Victorian was, arguably, the best bordello north of Los Angeles. Tucked away in the trees, the Victorian had worn its scandalous mantle with pride. Far enough outside of town that the churchgoing ladies could pretend it didn’t exist, it was also close enough that the husbands of those ladies could find the house blindfolded.
    Over the years, the house changed hands countless times, and every owner had been determined to leavetheir own stamp on the place. More land was purchased, forests cleared, and vineyards planted.
    The house itself remained pretty much in its original condition, until Grace crowned herself Amateur Architect. Now, new rooms tumbled off to each side of the original structure, giving the impression of a stately old woman spreading the skirt of a dress that didn’t suit her. And with its eye-searing, sunshine-yellow paint, dark green trim, and white accents, it looked as though the old woman in an ugly skirt had been forced to wear too-bright makeup on top of her other indignities.
    “It’s so exciting that the work’s beginning,” Grace was saying, “and the summer people will be arriving on Saturday—”
    Sam’s attention snapped back to where it had better stay, if she wanted to survive.
    “—so we’ll need to keep the construction away from the west wing and—” Grace was still talking.
    Oh God
. Sam gave herself a mental head slap. She’d forgotten about the summer people. How she could have managed that, she didn’t know. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe it was her brain being too full of Emma and Jeff. Maybe it was because she just didn’t need one more thing on her list.
    Grace’s “summer people” arrived every year about the same time. A handful of women, friends for years, had grouped together to spend their retirement years driving around the country, following the good weather. Whenever they stopped, they did odd jobs or visited friends. Here at Grace’s funny farm, the women would spend their time shearing the sheep and thecashmere and angora goats that had the run of the place, and carding their wool.
    At least the summer people would help keep the goats and sheep out of the way. Though Emma would probably love it here with all the animals.
    Emma.
    Sam rubbed at the spot between her eyebrows and had the distinct impression she wasn’t getting rid of her headache, but massaging it to help it grow.
    “—I’ve got some ideas about the back bath, too,” Grace said, then stopped and looked around. “Where’s your father?”
    Sam, being the