Allison Standish has never been to Laurel Ridge,
Pennsylvania. She also never met the grandmother who left
Blackburn House to Allison in her will. She's surprised to
find the lovely Victorian in excellent condition, even
though it has been renovated to accommodate several shops
and offices. Upon visiting her grandmother's lawyer,
Allison learns there are strings attached to her
inheritance. She has to manage Blackburn House and turn a
profit for one year to fully inherit the property. She's
not sure she wants to leave her job as an interior
designer
in Philadelphia for this small community in Amish country,
where the Amish and Englisch live and work together
seamlessly.
The first tenant of Blackburn House that Allison meets is
Nick Whiting. He and his dad run a cabinet shop, with a
storefront on the first floor and a workshop in the
carriage house out back. Allison also learns that her
grandmother was in partnership with an Amish lady who runs
a quilt shop in the house. Allison knows nothing about
quilts, much less running or managing a business. All her
tenants are very skeptical of Allison and how long she
will
last in Laurel Ridge. But someone else seems to be trying
to scare her away too.
A series of mysterious happenings occur at Blackburn
House,
along with the death of one of her tenants, and this gives
Allison cause to suspect her grandmother's death may not
have been accidental. She and Nick team up to investigate
the mysteries, but in the process both struggle to keep
their partnership from becoming a relationship. There is a
strong attraction between them. Can they find who or what
is behind what is going on at Blackburn House? Will her
tenants stay so that she can make a profit and fully
inherit the house? Does she really want to stay in Laurel
Ridge?
Marta Perry brings us some delightful characters to fall
in
love with in her new inspirational suspense series. You'll
love Allison from the opening pages as she goes to Laurel
Ridge and explores her inheritance. Allison and Nick are
strong but stubborn characters, surrounded by wonderful
supporting characters, some of which Ms. Perry leaves the
door open to tell their stories in future books. WHERE
SECRETS SLEEP is a story about overcoming past hurts in
your life, about betrayal and protecting your heart. It's
a
story about how life fits together with odd shaped and
colored pieces, just like a quilt. I can't wait for more
books in this series!
In Amish country, not everything is as simple as it
appears
After a terrible betrayal, Allison Standish flees
Philadelphia for the small Amish village of Laurel Ridge
to
claim an unexpected inheritance. Allison intends to sell
the
mansion housing various shops on Main Street—until she
meets
Nick Whiting, a single father and tenant of Blackburn
House,
who challenges everything she believes about her
estranged
grandmother and the Amish community.
Strange stipulations in her grandmother's will soon bring
distant relatives and seething townsfolk to Allison's
door.
As anonymous threats escalate, Nick grows protective of
Allison, and she finds herself falling for the handsome
carpenter- But then she discovers her grandmother's death
may not have been accidental, and someone wants Allison
gone. Permanently.
Excerpt
Chapter One
Allison Standish was swept with an overpowering urge to
throw the nearest heavy object, or scream at the top of
her lungs, or at the very least, slam the door. She did
none of those things, clinging instead to the maxim she’d
hammered out for herself years ago: If they see you lose
control, they win.
She actually managed to pin a stiff smile on her face.
“Sorry I interrupted.” She turned and walked steadily
toward the door of Greg’s loft.
It was Diane, her boss, who rushed after her from the
bedroom, wrapping a sheet around her abundant curves.
“Allison, wait. This isn’t what it looks like.”
Allison’s temper nearly slipped its leash at the trite
remark. “It’s exactly what it looks like. No wonder you
were so eager to see me get on the road.”
“Now, Allison.” Diane reached for her with one hand while
she grabbed the wandering sheet with the other.
The sheet was one of those Allison had picked out to go
with the bedroom furniture she’d helped Greg choose.
She’d even gotten him her professional designer’s
discount.
“Let’s be adult about this,” Diane continued. “There’s no
reason why we can’t continue working together.”
“Listen to her, baby.” Greg appeared in the bedroom
doorway, wearing a hastily-donned T-shirt and shorts.
“Shut up.” Diane tossed the words back over her shoulder.
Greg ran a hand through the shoulder-length black hair
that inevitably attracted female attention. If he’d said
something to her then…
But he didn’t. He subsided, looking sulky. Diane had that
effect on a lot of people.
“Come on, Ally.” Di’s voice turned coaxing. “These things
happen. Take your week off. By the time you come back to
the office, this will just be a memory. You have a good
thing going. Don’t ruin it.”
For a man. Di didn’t say the words, but they were
implied. Di wouldn’t dream of sacrificing one single step
of her career for a man. That was how she’d become
manager of the most prestigious interior design firm in
Philadelphia.
Allison found she actually could manage a smile at that.
“Sorry. I guess I’m not really that adult.” This time she
did slam the door.
She’d gotten all the way to the car before reaction set
in. It took her three tries to unlock the car door, and
she slid behind the wheel, relieved that she didn’t have
to trust her legs to hold her up any longer. She clutched
the steering wheel, willing herself not to be sick.
A rusty meow from the backseat demanded attention. If
Hector had to be confined to the cat carrier, he
considered that the least she could do was keep the
vehicle moving.
“In a minute,” she muttered. If cats were supposed to
sense one’s mood, Hector was deficient in that ability.
Diane had been similarly concerned to get her moving this
afternoon, suggesting Allison leave the office early so
she could beat Philadelphia’s rush hour traffic. Clearly
she hadn’t anticipated that Allison would stop by Greg’s
loft to say goodbye before setting off for Amish country.
She nearly hadn’t. Hector had been recalcitrant about
getting into the cat carrier, wedging his fat orange-
striped body under the dresser just out of her reach the
instant he’d seen the carrier. She’d finally had to
resort to a can of tuna to snag him.
Then, with cat carrier and suitcase stowed in her
compact, she’d had, she thought, just enough time to give
Greg a goodbye kiss before heading for the wilds of
Lancaster County and the property she’d so surprisingly
been left in her grandmother’s will.
She’d probably known the truth when she’d spotted Diane’s
Volvo parked in front of Greg’s building. Her head just
hadn’t been able to convince her heart. She’d had to see
for herself.
Well, she’d seen all right. Now she just had to figure
out what she was going to do with her life.
Hector complained again. Loudly.
“All right, all right.” She started the engine and pulled
onto the street as cautiously as a sixteen-year-old
learning to drive.
At least she had a breathing space before making any
tough decisions. She’d already planned to spend a week in
Laurel Ridge arranging to rid herself of the white
elephant her birth father’s mother had so surprisingly
left her. But now she didn’t have any reason to rush
back.
Allison joined the steady stream of traffic heading out
of the city. There would be other jobs. One thing she
could say about Di: her code, whatever it was, might
allow her to poach a friend’s man, but she wouldn’t stoop
to withhold a glowing reference, even if it meant Allison
would be decorating multi-million dollar homes for one of
her competitors.
As for Greg—well, apparently he didn’t live by any code
at all exempt the whim of expediency. Allison must have
had blinders on not to see that. Still, it was easy to be
dazzled in the early stages of love, or whatever had
passed for love between them.
Several hours later, Allison had begun to think she’d
also had blinders on when she’d read the map and decided
she could reach Laurel Ridge before dark. The April
evening had quickly faded, and only the faintest glow on
the western horizon remained. She seemed to have been
wandering past fields and forests on a two-lane county
route for hours, and the sole vehicle she’d passed in
miles had been an Amish buggy.
The GPS she relied on was not helpful. Its metallic voice
hadn’t contributed anything in the past half hour but a
persistent “Recalculating” that was nearly as annoying as
Hector’s raucous complaints. When the cat started
sounding like a rusty hinge, it meant the situation was
getting desperate.
Her tired brain played with the idea that Laurel Ridge
didn’t exist, that her legacy was one last spiteful act
on the part of the grandmother who’d never acknowledged
Allison’s existence while she was alive.
Pondering the possibility, Allison nearly missed the
sign. She stopped, backed up, and read the words she’d
been looking for. Laurel Ridge, 2 miles. Relief swept
over her, and she put the car in gear.
“Cheer up, Hector. The end is in sight.”
A doubtful scratch at the carrier’s door was his only
response.
A few minutes later she was driving down Laurel Ridge’s
main, and maybe only, business street. Storefronts were
dark and foot traffic non-existent. Apparently Laurel
Ridge shut down early. The only sign of life was a café
and, across the street, a bed-and-breakfast with porch
light left on. Probably for her, since she’d booked a
room there for the week.
As she pulled to the curb, Allison’s gaze was caught by
the building next to the bed and breakfast. In contrast
to the homey Victorian charm of the white clapboard inn,
this building loomed over the street, three stories of
Italianate classic architecture dwarfing the smaller
buildings around it. She could just make out the brass
plate attached to the wrought-iron gate. Blackburn House.
So this was her inheritance.
“An Italianate mansion dating from the 1850s.” The
attorney’s voice, dry and pedantic, sounded in her mind.
“It belonged to Laurel Ridge’s founding family. Your late
grandfather purchased it from the Blackburn family fifty
years ago. He had it zoned commercial and divided to form
several shops and offices.”
The attorney’s voice had sounded disapproving, either of
the property or, more likely, of her.
Allison had mentally translated his description into old
and dilapidated, with the architectural integrity of the
original house compromised by ill-conceived renovations.
But from the outside, at least, the building looked well-
kept, its paint flawless, small lawn smooth and green,
and early spring daffodils bloomed along the front walk.
A porch wrapped around the sides of the building, and a
round tower anchored each end of the front.
Allison slid out and hauled the cat carrier from the
backseat. “There it is, Hector. What do you think of it?”
Hector’s snarl was probably meant to express his
displeasure with his confinement, but it echoed her
feelings quite well.
At least she ought to be able to realize some profit from
the place when she put it on the market. Aside from a few
random gifts that had been totally unsuited to either her
age or interests, her father hadn’t contributed much but
a name and an accumulation of genes to her life. Maybe
his mother had decided to make a last gesture toward
rectifying his failure with her bequest.
“We may as well have a look. Don’t you think so?” Talking
to the cat was becoming a habit. Was that a sign that
she’d eventually turn into an old mail with no one in her
life but cats? At least Hector didn’t betray her or smash
her dreams to bits.
Holding the cat carrier in one hand and fishing for the
keys the lawyer had sent her with the other, Allison
advanced on the door of Blackburn House.
Nick Whiting stepped out into the cool April evening, the
lock clicking behind him on the door to the old Blackburn
carriage house, now the workshop of Whiting and Whiting
Cabinetry. The only way he’d convinced his father to go
home in time for supper was to assure Dad he’d stop back
later to check on the shipment of brushed pewter cabinet
knobs that had been guaranteed delivery today.
It was important for Nick to be home for supper with
Jamie, important to supervise his first-grade homework
and to go through the bedtime rituals with him. When you
were six, that sort of thing mattered.
Not that Mom or Dad wouldn’t have been happy to take
over, but where his son was concerned, Nick didn’t take
shortcuts. Jamie might have lost out in the mother
department, but he’d always know he could rely on his
dad.
So he’d settled Jamie in the twin bed in the room Nick
and his brother had shared as kids, tucking him under the
tractor quilt that was Jamie’s favorite. And then he’d
driven the mile back into town to the shop.
The package had been leaning against the door, probably
having arrived soon after they’d left. He stowed it away
in the workshop, pleased the supplier had come through.
This meant they could finish Mrs. Phelps’ new kitchen
cabinets tomorrow, unless she changed her mind yet again.
He’d lingered in the shop for a few minutes, looking over
the finished cabinets one last time. He liked checking
the progress of the work on hand, enjoyed running his
palm over the warm maple and the elegant curves of their
custom cabinets.
Nick grinned into the dark. He’d seen his dad do the same
thing often enough. It must be a Whiting family trait,
one that had somehow skipped his brother, Mac. Double-
checking the door, Nick headed for his car, thinking
about the wedge of cherry pie Mom would have saved for
him.
A light from one of the windows of Blackburn House caught
his eye as he rounded the corner of the building, and he
paused. First floor--it was in the bookstore. Ralph or
his clerk must be working late, maybe unpacking a new
shipment of books. Even as he thought it the light
switched off. Five steps later the light re-appeared, in
the quilt shop this time.
He stopped, frowning. Sarah Bitler wasn’t likely to be in
her shop at this hour. Sarah was Amish, and she didn’t
like driving her buggy along the country roads after
dark. Apprehension slid along Nick’s skin like a touch,
and he reached into his pocket for his keys.
The light went out and the pattern repeated as another
came on, this time in his showroom. Someone was getting
into the businesses on the first floor of Blackburn
House. Yanking his keys out, Nick ran for the backdoor.
A prowler? It could be the custodian, he supposed, but
Fred Glick was usually gone by this hour, and making a
final pass through the building wasn’t characteristic of
his lackadaisical approach to his job.
The rumors that had been making the rounds in town popped
into his mind. Laurel Ridge couldn’t seem to decide
whether it was being plagued by a prowler, a peeping tom,
or a sneak thief. Maybe now he’d get the answer to that
question.
Nick held the knob firmly as he unlocked the back door,
wary of any betraying creak as he eased the door open.
Stepping inside, he considered his brother Mac’s reaction
if Nick actually caught the prowler. Mac, Laurel Ridge’s
police chief, had been skeptical from the start about the
rumors, saying it was probably a manifestation of cabin
fever after the long winter.
Nick slipped past the storerooms at the back of the
building and eased open the door that led to the front
part of the house. The wide hallway that ran from this
point to the front of the building was deserted, but a
patch of light lay on the marble floor. Staying in the
shadow cast by the wide center staircase, Nick moved
silently forward. To judge by the location of the light,
the intruder was in their showroom. He heard the sound of
movement, as if something brushed against a cabinet.
If he went to the showroom door, he’d be seen instantly.
But he could slip in the door that led from the hallway
to the office behind the showroom, and he might be able
to get close enough to see without being seen. Pulse
racing, Nick crossed to the office door and fumbled for
the key. He realized he was enjoying this small
adventure, and he had to laugh at himself. Maybe a guy
never outgrew all those cops versus bad guys scenarios of
childhood.
Holding his breath, Nick eased open the door and sidled
into the office. No one was here, but a wedge of light
lay on the floor from the open door into the showroom. He
worked his way around the desk and groped to the wall
next to the door. He paused there for a moment and then
cautiously peered into the showroom.
The rows of cabinet doors on display made an effective
screen. He couldn’t see the guy from here, but he could
hear footsteps, followed by a soft thud as something
bumped one of the cabinets.
Nick held his breath and moved soundlessly farther into
the showroom, taking cover behind a pegboard displaying
hardware styles. The footsteps came nearer. Frowning in
concentration, Nick counted the steps, estimating the
prowler’s location. One step, two—he must be within a
foot now, so close Nick imagined he could hear a breath.
Muscles tense, he waited. The instant he saw movement, he
lunged, grabbing the form. Several things happened at
once. He realized he was clutching a female, he felt her
swing something, and he heard the crack as it hit his leg
with numbing force. Another crack, a banshee shriek, and
an orange ball of fur plummeted toward the floor.
The cat turned on a dime, hissed, and spat at him, spine
arching. The woman, yanking free of his grasp, looked as
if she’d like to do the same. Nick had a quick image of
shining auburn hair, pale creamy skin, and bright green
eyes that seemed to shoot sparks of rage.
“What are you doing? Are you insane?” She held what he
now realized was a cat carrier, its door hanging by one
hinge. She raised it threateningly, and he had no doubt
she’d hit him again at an unwary movement.
He raised both hands, palms out, and took a step out of
range. “Take it easy. I could ask you the same thing.
What are you doing in my shop?”
“Your shop?” she echoed.
Nick saw the doubt enter her face, and a delicate pink
stained her cheeks. The green eyes were framed by
uncompromising brows, and her heart-shaped face had a
stubborn cast along the line of her jaw. As for her lips…
for a moment he was distracted, and he forced himself to
focus.
“That’s right, my shop. I’m Nick Whiting. This is the
office and showroom of Whiting and Whiting Cabinetry. I
repeat, who are you? How did you get in? Or maybe I
should just call the police.” He sketched a gesture
toward the pocket that held his cell phone.
“That’s not necessary.” Her chin lifted. “You’re Mr.
Whiting? I’m Allison Standish.” She said it as if it
should mean something to him.
It did. “You’re Ms. Standish? The long-lost granddaughter
Evelyn left this place to?”
“I haven’t been lost, Mr. Whiting,” her tone was cool.
“But yes. I’m the new owner of this building, so I have
every right to be here.”
He raised an eyebrow, wondering if it would infuriate
her. “You may or may not be the owner of Blackburn House,
but this is my shop. According to my lease, I’m supposed
to be notified in advance if the owner wants access.”
Nick had no idea if the lease actually said that, since
it had been negotiated by his father years ago, but if it
didn’t, it should.
“I see.” Her tone was icy. “I suppose I should have a
look at all the leases, shouldn’t I?”
Naturally she would, possibly to his sorrow. Maybe he
shouldn’t have mentioned it. He took the opportunity for
a long look at her. Sleek chin-length hair the color of
polished mahogany, earrings a delicate tangle of silver
and jet, jacket of butter-soft leather and a silk shirt
that molded full breasts, a skirt that flirted with her
legs and a pair of high-heeled boots that looked capable
of kicking if necessary.
Well. With this woman taking over Blackburn House, there
might be a lot of changes coming.
© 2003-2025 off-the-edge.net
all rights reserved Privacy Policy