Chapter 2 - The Mansion in the Pines
The bus station in Grey Haven smelled of cold diesel and damp pine needles. Grace stood on the cracked asphalt, her duffel bags resting against her ankles, watching the red tail lights of the bus disappear into the heavy November fog.
Her phone had three percent battery. Her bank account had four hundred and twelve dollars.
She walked two blocks to a small diner with a flickering neon sign reading The River Kettle. Inside, the air was warm, smelling of bacon grease and stale coffee. Behind the counter stood an elderly woman with silver hair pulled into a tight net, wiping down a chrome napkin dispenser.
Grace sat on a vinyl stool, her metal baking case held securely between her feet.
“You look like you’ve traveled a long way, honey,” the woman said, setting down a heavy mug of black coffee without being asked. “Or ran away from somewhere fast.”
“A bit of both,” Grace admitted, her voice raspy from the cold air. “I’m looking for work. Anything with room and board, if possible. I can cook, clean, run a kitchen.”
The woman stopped wiping. Her sharp blue eyes swept over Grace—taking in the high-quality coat, the tired chestnut hair, the subtle red mark on her left ring finger where a diamond used to sit, and the heavy metal case at her feet.
“You’re a baker?”
“Professional,” Grace said. “Twelve years.”
The woman let out a low whistle. “Well, you might be either the luckiest woman in the county or the most foolish. Vincent Marchetti is looking for someone.”
Grace frowned slightly. “Who is Vincent Marchetti?”
The diner went subtly quiet. Two men in flannel shirts at a corner booth stopped talking. The woman leaned across the counter, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper.
“In New York City, people call him a corporate mogul. Around here, people call him the Shadow of the Valley. The Marchetti family has owned half the docks, the shipping lanes, and the timber mills up the Hudson for eighty years. Three years ago, his wife died in a car crash. Since then, he’s lived up at Pinecrest Manor with his three kids. Nobody stays more than a week.”
“Why?” Grace asked. “Is he cruel?”
“He doesn't speak,” the woman replied softly. “He doesn't smile. He looks at a person like he’s calculating how deep to dig their grave. And those children... poor things. They’re like little ghosts. The oldest, Leo, is nine and hasn't said a word since his mother died. The girl, Mia, is seven and runs wild. The baby, Toby, is six and cries until he hyperventilates.”
Grace looked down at her hands. She knew what it was like to feel like a ghost in your own life. She knew what it was like when the world moved around you while you remained frozen in grief.
“Where is Pinecrest Manor?” Grace asked.
The woman sighed, reaching under the counter for a scrap of paper and a stubby pencil. “Four miles up the mountain road. But listen to me, girl. Vincent Marchetti isn't a man you play games with. If you take his money, you do your job, and you stay out of his way.”
An hour later, a local taxi dropped Grace off at the high iron gates of Pinecrest Manor.
The estate rose out of the mist like a gothic fortress—grey stone walls, dark slate roofs, and towering pine trees that blocked out the morning light. The gates were unlocked, creaking ominously as Grace pushed them open with her shoulder, dragging her bags up the winding gravel driveway.
She climbed the grand stone steps and pulled the heavy brass knocker.
The door was opened almost instantly by an elderly butler with immaculate posture, wearing a crisp black suit, though his eyes looked hollow with exhaustion.
“Yes?” he asked, his tone brisk.
“I’m Grace Hollis,” she said, straightening her back. “I was told Mr. Marchetti is looking for household staff. A cook and housekeeper.”
The butler blinked, staring at her duffel bags and the baking case. “Did agency send you?”
“No. I came on my own.”
Before the butler could respond, a low, deep voice resonated from the dark mahogany foyer behind him.
“Let her in, Arthur.”
The butler stepped aside immediately, bowing his head.
Grace stepped into the grand foyer. The ceilings stretched three stories high, draped in shadows. Marble floors cold as ice reflected the dim light of a single chandelier.
Standing at the bottom of the grand staircase was Vincent Marchetti.
He was intimidating. Broad-shouldered, six-foot-four, dressed in a tailored black suit without a tie. His dark hair was brushed back, threaded with silver at the temples. His jaw was framed by dark stubble, and his eyes—a striking, dangerous amber-hazel—were locked on her like a predator evaluating an intruder.
He stepped toward her, his polished leather shoes striking the marble with rhythmic, menacing precision.
“You look like you belong in a bakery, not a mountain house,” Vincent said, his voice a rich, gravelly baritone that vibrated through the floorboards. “Why are you here?”
Grace didn't flinch. She had faced Colin’s subtle, sharp insults three days ago; a man’s harsh exterior wasn't going to scare her off.
“I am a baker, Mr. Marchetti,” Grace replied smoothly, her blue-gray eyes meeting his amber gaze directly. “And I need a place to live where I am judged by the quality of my work, not the size of my dress.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed slightly. He looked down at her heavy metal case, then at the flour stain still visible on the cuff of her dark sleeve.
“My children don't eat,” Vincent said coldly. “Three cooks have quit this month because they couldn't get them to sit at the table. I don't pay for excuses. I pay for results.”
“Give me three days,” Grace said calmly. “If your children aren't eating by Friday morning, I’ll pack my bags and walk back down the mountain. You won't owe me a dime.”
Vincent stared at her in silence for five long seconds. The air between them grew thick with an undeniable, heavy tension.
May you like
“Three days,” Vincent murmured. “Arthur, show her to the servant’s quarters behind the kitchen. If she makes a mess, throw her out.”
He turned on his heel and walked up the staircase, disappearing into the darkness of the second floor.
