“Thank you,” I said, trying to hide my grin. One hurdle down. But how many more to go?

He stepped aside so I could enter, and the rich smell of polished wood met me at once. The foyer was smaller than I expected because a massive staircase took up most of the space. Rich honey-colored paneling graced the wall and followed the polished stairs upward. A ninety-degree left turn after the first few steps blocked my view of the rest of the stairs, but in a house with four stories, they probably made plenty of twists on the way up. Then my eyes widened in appreciation at probably the most stunning grandfather clock I’d ever seen. It stood directly in front of me and was made of black walnut burl wood with arches at the top and a large golden pendulum behind its leaded glass door.

I’d managed to keep my jaw from dropping at the sight of this foyer. On the wall to my left was a small, inlaid glass-covered table. An art deco-looking vase of clear red glass sat on the table, and an oil painting of a wagon and horse traveling on a country road hung on the wall above it.

A brocade-covered bench stood against the wall to my right, and the gentleman gestured for me to have a seat. “Let me check with Miss Preston.”

I assumed she was the assistant. “Thank you so much, but I didn’t get your name.” I smiled.

“It’s George. George Robertson.

“Thank you, Mr. Robertson.”

He nodded, walked away down the splendid paneled hallway and disappeared.

What I hadn’t noticed when I first arrived—perhaps because I kept marveling at this place—was that this house was seriously chilly. More than air-conditioned chilly, even for July. Maybe old-house chilly. Yes. That was what it was. Definitely drafty.