For that she was grateful. As her dad had told her once, every man and woman would die. An easy death was something that meant even though God might take a man early, he loved him enough to keep him from suffering.

Now she was glad to be home, where there were no memories of Clay, and glad to have moved into her house.

She didn’t drive to work anymore; her house and the museum were in the area that was referred to as Old Town. After stopping for a twelve-pack and walking another four blocks through enclaves of tourist-centric businesses, she was thinking that a six-pack would have been fine.

She was almost at the walk that led up to her house when she saw him. The man she had noticed during her lecture.

While many buildings in Old Town sat right up near the sidewalk, there was actually a stretch of lawn in front of her place, along with a front walk and driveway—they’d needed a place for the cars and hearses to go. The man was only on the sidewalk, but he was right at the start of the coquina shell walk that led to her front porch. And he was staring at the house.

He must have sensed that she was watching him, because he turned, looked at her gravely, then smiled as she walked toward him, eyeing him carefully.

“Well, hello. It’s Ms. McKinley, right?” he said. “Excellent lecture—thank you.”

She nodded, staring at him warily. “Can I…help you?”

“I was admiring the house,” he said.

She wasn’t sure if she should say that it was hers or not. People had a tendency to be friendly in St. Augustine. In fact, there were dozens of B&Bs in the city, most of them homes that were open to strangers. In fact, she couldn’t wait for her own house to be one of them.

But at the moment, she apparently had a bigger-city attitude going. And the first rule was never let a stranger know where you live.

He didn’t look like a stalker. In fact, he was extremely attractive.

She reminded herself that many a serial killer had been attractive. They weren’t all wild-eyed Charles Mansons. Ted Bundy had traded on his boy-next-door good looks.

She decided she was being ridiculous. The odds were strongly in favor of his being a tourist, one with an interest in history, given that she’d first seen him at the museum. Plus, there were still plenty of people about on the streets, and though the day was dying, there was still lots of light.

He didn’t seem to need a reply. “The architecture is striking. It’s quite a compelling place. Haunting, even.”

“Thanks,” she said. When he looked at her curiously, she added, “I own it.”

He studied her for a moment, then laughed. “Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised that a historian owns a piece of history. I see you have a lot of work going on.”

“When you buy an old building, you have to be prepared for a lot of work,” she told him. The twelve-pack was getting heavy but she fought against shifting the weight. She didn’t want him offering to carry it and walk her up to the house. It wasn’t a B&B yet, just a big old place without an alarm, and she didn’t own a dog—not even a teacup Yorkie.

Of course, he didn’t seem the menacing type. He looked far more likely to go after what he wanted with wit and charm. My, how her thoughts had quickly wandered.

“Well, congratulations on owning such a beautiful old place. Oh, by the way, my name is Caleb Anderson. And I know you’re Sarah McKinley. It’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said. Then she startled herself by what she said next, because he had already turned to walk away. “Are you in town long?” she asked him.

She thought he hesitated before answering—only a half second, but a hesitation all the same.

“I’m not sure. I’ll be around a few more days, at least. Thanks again. I really enjoyed your lecture—especially the way you handled those kids.”

“Thanks,” she said.

He lifted a hand. “Hope to see you again,” he said casually and walked on, heading in the direction of Old Town and the shops that stayed open into the night.

She watched him go, then felt the heaviness of the twelve-pack again. She turned and hurried inside, and was immediately glad of her efforts. Gary Morton, all muscles and friendly smiles, kissed her cheek and told her she was brilliant. The two men working with him were equally happy.

“Although I did wonder when you were actually going to make it into the house,” Gary said. “Who’s the hunk?”

“Hunk?” she asked, pretending not to know exactly who he was talking about.

“Tall, well-built guy you were just talking to out front?” he teased.

“Oh. Just some guy who was at one of the lectures today. He was admiring the house. This is the historic district—people are supposed to admire my house.”

He grinned. “Are you sure it was just the house he was admiring?”

She laughed. “Since he was staring at the house before I got there, I’m assuming that, yeah, it was just the house he was admiring. Anyway, we—as in you and me—were invited to dinner,” she told him. “Will, Caroline, and Renee and Brad from the museum.”

“What? You didn’t invite Mr. Gorgeous?” he queried, grinning.

“Gary…” she said warningly.

“Okay, okay. Don’t hit me.” He put up a hand as if to protect himself, smiling all the while. “But pizza is good enough for me. I want to get this place in shape for you, so I need to knock out that last wall. I know it means a lot of work and a lot of mess, but you can’t have a leaking water pipe. It will destroy the whole place on you, given time. You can go ahead if you want to. You don’t have to be here wielding a sledgehammer.”

“No, no, thank you, but I’m just as happy to hang around while you knock down walls,” Sarah assured him, pulling out her cell phone. “I’m dialing the pizza guy right now. What do you guys want…?”

“One cheese, one pepperoni, that’ll be great, thanks,” Gary said, then turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Sarah ordered the pizza, then took a minute and looked around.

At the moment, everything seemed to be coated in a thin layer of white dust. But even as she noted the dust, she was happy. It was such a beautiful place. So what if it had been a mortuary for a while? It had originally been built as the home of an American politician’s aide soon after Florida became a territory. She had a sweeping porch that led to the original etched glass entry door. There was a small mudroom, still with the original tile. The house boasted a huge foyer, with a hall that stretched back toward a multitude of rooms that, while certainly viewing rooms during the house’s tenure as a mortuary, had been planned as an office, a formal dining room, dual parlors—one for ladies and another for gentlemen—a music room and a laundry room. Somewhere along the line, a kitchen had been added to the house proper. The original kitchen had been a separate building out back; it was now empty but would one day make a beautiful apartment. The old carriage house had already been turned into an apartment, and though it, too, needed work, it was livable. The plumbing worked, and she’d put new sheets on the old four-poster bed in the large downstairs room. She’d put in sink, refrigerator and a microwave, just in case some of Gary’s crew should ever need to stay. The carriage house stood just to the left of the driveway, creating an L with the main house. She couldn’t help but take a moment to bask in the fact that she actually owned such a beautiful house. Well, she and the bank.

So far, Gary hadn’t had to rip apart either of the front parlors. The men’s parlor, on the right, was done in wood and dark tones. The ladies’ parlor was light, with soft beige-toned wallpaper and crown molding painted to match. It was peeling, but that was all right. She could handle the cosmetic details later. There was a grand piano in the parlor, out of tune, but it had come with the house, and she intended to have it tuned and lovingly repaired eventually. There was also a small secretary, where she worked when she was home. Now she took one of the beers for herself, sat down at her desk and started looking at the articles she had collected on old St. Augustine, looking for anything about the house.