Page 4 of The House on Sunset Lake

‘So you know exactly the type of property I am looking for,’ said Simon, reaching in his pocket for his phone.

Now Jim was really off balance.

‘Simon, the fireworks are finishing, I have the bar to check on, I’ve lost the piper—’

‘I’m thinking of a property like this,’ Simon said, ignoring Jim’s objections and tapping at the screen.

Jim frowned at the image he had called up. ‘That’s Tara. The house from Gone with the Wind,’ he said, recognising the iconic plantation house.

‘Tell me what you know about this type of house,’ said Simon.

Jim felt himself shiver in the cold Scottish night air. ‘Well, it’s Greek Revival in style. Early nineteenth century. Graceful proportions, low-gabled. They were built as a backlash against British style, hence the pillars, the nod to Greek architecture. They were popular with wealthy Deep South businessmen, cotton growers, which is why they were known as plantation houses. If you look, you can often see the darker side to these properties – slave cottages in the grounds and so on.’

‘You know your stuff.’

‘I spent a summer living right by one.’

Simon looked up at him with interest. ‘Where was that?’

‘Just outside Savannah. Georgia,’ said Jim, torn between the discomfort he felt and the desire to impress Simon.

‘Was it your family’s house?’

‘Hardly.’ He laughed awkwardly.

‘But isn’t your father a famous writer?’ asked Simon. Three years working side by side and this was the first time he had asked about Jim’s private life.

‘Writers generally can’t afford houses like Casa D’Or,’ Jim said, looking down at the cold stone beneath his feet.

‘Casa D’Or,’ repeated Simon. ‘What a beautiful name. What does it mean?’

‘The House of Gold.’

Simon began typing, and another image appeared on the screen, one that made the alcohol residue burn in Jim’s throat.

‘Is that it?’ he asked. Not waiting for Jim’s reply, he pointed at the web page he had called up. ‘“Casa D’Or was the winter home of David Darling, the American railroad magnate and art collector”,’ he read aloud. ‘“Alongside Hearst Castle and the Biltmore, it was considered to be one of the great entertaining houses of the twentieth century. It was sold in the 1940s to the Wyatt family, who have owned it ever since.”’

He looked up, his face lit by the light of the screen. Jim had seen that look before: desire.

‘Do the Wyatts still own it?’

‘As far as I know. But it’s been a long while since I was there.’

‘But you know these people, the Wyatts?’

Jim paused, took a breath. ‘I used to,’ he said, stiffening in his seat.

‘Do you think they would sell?’

‘Simon, it’s their family home. You know how sentimental people get about places.’

Simon gave him a level look. ‘And I’ve also seen how quickly sentiment fades away when you open a chequebook.’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘But what, Jim?’ said Simon. ‘Is there something about this place you’re not telling me?’

You have no idea, Jim thought, getting to his feet.