Haunting Jordan by P. J. Alderman

as if he were a long-lost friend. Despite Jase’s personal avowals, Ed had eyed her with deep suspicion.
    “You sure about her?” he’d asked Jase outright.
    “She’s already talked to Hattie and Charlotte.”
    “Oh, well then.” Ed had nodded, and Jordan had resisted the temptation to roll her eyes.
    She was now the proud owner of three ladders—a six-foot, a ten-foot, and an extension; a pile of books on historical renovation Jase had insisted were required reading; at least four hammers, each of which—he had patiently explained—served very different purposes; and a few large, lethal-looking power saws and drills that he’d made her promise not to turn on until he could demonstrate their safe use.
    “I can follow instructions,” she said as they unloaded the shiny red tool chest she would use to store the smaller tools, a little miffed by his lack of confidence in her skills.
    “Instructions are iffy, and I don’t want to be the one hauling you into the ER, so humor me.”
    She would’ve continued to protest, but they were interrupted by the arrival of a middle-aged woman, conservatively dressed in cotton slacks and a short-sleeved knit top, walking across Jordan’s front yard, carrying a foil-covered casserole dish.
    “Hey, Felicia,” Jase greeted her.
    “Hey yourself.” She returned his grin, then turned to Jordan, thrusting the casserole dish into her hands. “I’m Felicia Warren, your neighbor to the east.” She waved at the pretty white bungalow next door surrounded by a white picket fence. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
    “Thanks.” Jordan had an immediate impression of cheerful, energetic, and down-to-earth. “Your yard is gorgeous.” She’d noticed it the day before as she sat on her front stoop reading, wincing when she’d contrasted it with her overgrown, weed-ridden jungle.
    Felicia’s yard looked chaotic, but there the similarities ended. An artfully designed riot of flowers overflowed onto meandering stone paths, encouraging visitors to wander through and linger awhile on one of several bent-wood benches. No doubt Felicia was thrilled that someone would finally be taking care of the yard next to hers.
    She beamed at Jordan’s compliment. “I’m so pleased with it! Amanda, my daughter, handled all the planting and design. I taped her business card to the foil right ontop of your dish.” She pointed. “Amanda specializes in historical restorations.”
    Jordan retrieved the card, reading it. “I’ll be sure to give her a call.”
    “No need—she’ll be in contact,” Felicia assured her.
    “Felicia is a member of the Port Chatham Historic Preservation Committee,” Jase put in.
    Jordan perked up. “Really? Did you restore your own house?”
    “Yes, with the help of my husband, who is an architect.” Felicia smiled. “Of course, its time period is different from yours—Arts and Crafts, early 1900s. Once you’re settled in, come by and I’ll give you a tour.”
    “Actually, Felicia is the person you’ll want to talk to, if you decide to apply to have Longren House listed on the historic register,” Jase said. “And even if you don’t go that route, she can provide all kinds of resources relating to historic preservation.”
    Felicia waved a hand, looking a bit embarrassed. “It’s just that our group is connected with most of the other regional and national groups working on historic preservation,” she explained. “Anyone on the committee can help you get started with all the paperwork.”
    “I’m just getting started,” Jordan warned, a bit overwhelmed by their suggestions, “but I’m sure I’ll have questions for you as I progress with the restoration of Longren House.”
    Felicia smiled reassuringly—no doubt she was used to seeing the growing panic on people’s faces. “Restoring a home like Longren House is really a community project.We love our old homes here in town!” She was obviously warming to her topic. “And the prior owners …