He laughed. “Yeah, but has she seen Elvis?”
Micah, however, did not laugh. His manager had been there for several years and, as an experienced tour guide, needed to believe in such things. It was part of his job description.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” Nash dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand. “I’ll see she doesn’t starve.” He glanced at Micah, unable to stop himself. “But she damn well better like mac and cheese…from a box.”
Micah eyed him warily. “You know she will visit you, eventually.”
Nash frowned. “Miss, uh, Dr. Ingler?”
“Lucille.” Micah did a sweep of his hand to the room. “The very woman whose bedroom you’re standing in,” he said.
Nash noticed then that Micah had stayed outside the room. And, okay, hearing a name tacked onto the superstition maybe caused a jitter, brief though it was. “This was her bedroom?” Nash asked looking around. Most of the furnishings had been moved to the parlor that separated the two massive bedrooms on the second floor. All except the massive four-poster bed that had taken five men to scoot to the corner farthest from the restoration work.
Given his background in period furniture, Nash had noticed that many of the furnishings in the house were not original, but period reproductions. “It appears Lucille had it quite cushy for a tutor in those days, if all this furniture is anywhere close,” Nash remarked with a smile. “I can see why she didn’t want to leave.”
Micah offered him a tolerant look. “Mr. Walker, from what we’ve been able to determine, Miss Harris was the epitome of the humble, southern woman. And as you know, most of the furnishings throughout the house are reproductions.”
Nash nodded. “And quite beautiful.” He tried to soothe Micah’s ruffled feathers.
“All except one,” Micah added, his finger poised in midair for a dramatic pause.
Nash, a true Texan, was a patient man, the advantage of growing up a country boy. Micah’s tour-guide-like gift for storytelling often included long pauses. The attribute, while theatrical for storytelling, currently made him want to throttle the man. He had work to do. He kept his gaze to Micah’s in blessed anticipation. Finally, he tipped his head and pinned the man with a narrowed gaze.
“The bed,” Micah continued as though Nash was on one of his tours. Above, the thump of shingles being laid and the firing of the pneumatic nail gun in rapid succession only fueled Micah’s spiel. His voice rose dramatically. “It’s hers. The entire thing—mattress, frame, right down to the original slats beneath. It was said that the owner had it made especially for her in way of gratitude for her loyalty to teaching his children.”
Nash held his hands up in defense. “Okay, okay. I promise to be a gentleman, should I run into Miss Lucille.”
His manager, seemingly satisfied with Nash’s promise, offered a brief nod. He glanced then at his pocket watch. “I’ll see to Doctor Ingler’s room and then be on my way. I’ll be in tomorrow at the usual time to dust.”
“You probably wouldn’t…” Nash started to remind the man that he’d dusted twice today already, then decided against it. Micah prided himself on serving this house and its history. Nash was grateful for his loyalty. “See you tomorrow, Micah,” he said to his departing form.
Glancing around the room, he noted the pale peach walls—painted within the last five years, if he were to guess. That would save a little after the extensive and unplanned floor restoration, along with the leak issue that had been happening for quite some time in the roof.
He stepped carefully over the open holes in the floor and decided to take care of some finish work on a window they’d had to replace. The nearly six-foot windows had their original pulley-style runners, which thrilled Nash to the marrow. True to its original structure, there were no screens on any of the windows, except those of the newly renovated sun porches on the main and second levels at the back of the house.
Latching the lock, his eye caught a movement in the dusky November shadows below. Drawing aside the chiffon drape, he peered down into the garden maze, its hedges standing more than four feet high. Just beyond was a grove of oak trees that led to more structures on the property. He swore he’d seen someone disappear into the shrouded branches of the trees. He narrowed his gaze, searching the murkiness below. Perhaps it was his new visitor taking a quick look around before it got dark. He frowned, still searching the garden when Mickey walked in the bedroom.
“Roof’s up.”
Nash turned, startled by his foreman’s presence. He glanced at his boots to recover from the shock, blaming Micah for his damn dramatic ghost tales.
Mickey hadn’t noticed. “The shingles on that damaged corner have been replaced.” His foreman rubbed the back of his neck as he eyed Nash. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but I think you’re looking at an entire roof replacement not too far down the road.”
He glanced back out the window and started to ask his friend if he’d run into anyone on the way in, but shrugged it off. It was likely his new guest scouting the premises before dark. “Thanks, Mick. We’ll take a look at it in the morning. I want to get these floorboards in first thing.”
Mickey nodded as he checked his phone.
“Things going okay with your new bride?” Nash asked over his shoulder as he stepped around Mickey and they headed down the steps to the main floor.
Mickey chuckled. “Seemed to be when I left her this morning.”
Nash held up his hand. “Spare me. Get on out of here. Go on home to your wedded bliss.”
Mickey laughed as he marched toward the front door. The lights of several trucks switched on, shining through the front wall of tall windows on the main level. Several years ago, it had been remodeled to house a dining room, library, living room, and the sun porch that stretched the length of the back of the house. “Hey.” Nash turned and pointed to his friend as he spoke. “I don’t want to see your ass in here before nine a.m., got it?”
Mickey’s grin widened. “You’re the best, boss. I’ll tell the guys.”
Nash smiled and nodded. “Yeah, and stop calling me boss.” But his words fell on deaf ears with the slamming of the front door. He glanced around the house, suddenly quiet without a soul in it. He’d been staying nights in the garçonnière, away from the main house. It was smaller and had a few amenities, like a small kitchenette. The original kitchen—a separate building from the main house by design to keep the heat and smells away from the residents—sat off to one side of the garden. It, too, was on Nash’s lengthy list of repairs and restoration work.
He started toward the back of the house, hoping to meet his ghost-hunter guest, and had just stepped onto the dark sun porch when he heard gravel crunching under tires on in the parking lot on the side of the house. Doing an about face, he assumed Mickey had come back to pick up something he’d forgotten.
Nash flipped on the new electric lanterns he’d installed. He’d seen them in many of the businesses in the Quarter and liked the ambience of the lifelike flickering bulb. He tugged open both doors, ready to lambast Mickey’s memory, when he saw a petite figure, head down, dragging a giant suitcase on wheels across the brick pathway—and not so easily, at that. She paused and he heard her sigh before she shrugged off her backpack and dropped it to her feet.
He knew that bright, apple-green backpack.
She looked up then, startled to realize that he was standing there, his hands still glued to the door. It was the second time his heart had had a jumpstart in less than thirty minutes.
Her expression unreadable, she stared at him. “You’re kidding,” she said dubiously.
Now Nash wasn’t exactly a woo-woo kind of guy. Superstitions didn’t faze him. He didn’t really believe in ghosts or vampires or werewolves. Aliens, jury was out. But what were the odds of running into the same woman twice—this making it three times—in less than twenty-four hours? Whatever it was, he was for damn sure going to make the best of it.
He offered a congenial smile. “
It appears we meet again.” He walked out and placed his hand overs hers on the suitcase handle. “Let me get that for you.” He held her stunned gaze as she relinquished her hold on the suitcase. “You have a small pony in here?” he joked as he lugged it over the threshold.
She followed in apparent stupefied silence.
He glanced at her as she took in the enormity of the front hall. “My name is Nash Walker. We met last night?”
“Wait, you mean you’re the—”
“New owner and head of restoration at Evermore.” He nodded. “Guilty as charged.”
She eyed him warily as he allowed her to step into the shadowy foyer. “You own this?” She seemed a tad skeptical.
He chuckled. “Don’t let the tattered T-shirt and tool belt fool you, darlin’. I’m loaded, and I happen to have master’s degrees in architectural history and design. I also happen to have a good eye for things worth my time,” he said, assessing her from head to toe.
She blinked, seemingly not the least impressed. “Does that line work for you often?”
He shrugged. “Depends.”
“Well, save your southern charm, cowboy.” She looked around. “Your manager?”
“Yes, that would be Micah.”
“Yes, Micah. He indicated I’d be staying in the guest house?”
“He certainly did. Come on, I’ll walk you over. It’s getting dark out there with the rainclouds rolling in.” Nash ushered her out to the breezeway. The brick path stretched in both directions from the main doors, connecting the garçonnière at one end of the path and the guest cabin on the other. He switched off the lights, plunging them into an inky blackness in the shadow of the porch above them. “Watch your step.”
He glanced up as he emerged from beneath the second story. A cool breeze kissed with humidity brushed over his face. Above, the moon played peek-a-boo with the dark clouds. “Oh, I forgot to ask—have you had anything to eat?” he said over his shoulder. The path, only wide enough for him and her suitcase, meant she had to follow a few paces behind.
“I stopped a few miles back and picked up some things at a market.”
Nash smiled. This woman had the word ‘prepared’ written all over her. “You’ll find the previous owners stepped it up in the guest cabin. You’ve got your running water, electricity—there’s even an indoor facility.” He dragged her heavy suitcase up the short flight of wooden steps, tempted to ask if she’d packed a ton of bricks. “You basically have everything you need.”
He dug in his pocket to open the door. “Micah left clean sheets and towels for you.”
He stepped inside and switched on the light, illuminating a floor lamp near the fireplace. The light flickered a few times, eventually staying on. His gaze landed on the unmade bed, with all the bed linens and bath linens stacked in two neat piles. “I apologize. I was under the impression that Micah would have your room ready.” He made a mental note to speak with the man tomorrow. “I’ll just get this ready for you, if you want to have a seat.” He grabbed the towels and hung them in the bathroom. It wasn’t like Micah to leave things done half-assed. The light flickered again as Nash stepped into the one-room cabin. His guest was already leaning over the bed, tucking in the bottom sheet.
He stepped up to take the top sheet from the pile and her hand met his. “I know how to make a bed.”
He stared for the briefest of moments into her blue eyes—eyes the color of a dusky-indigo Texas sunset. The light flickered once, then stopped. He pulled himself from her gaze and walked over to check the lamp. “I’ll see to that tomorrow. Probably needs a new bulb.”
“There’s no need. It actually happens quite frequently.”
“In old houses, you mean?” He watched her drop the sheet and move through the room in silent inspection—picking up objects, laying her palms flat against portions of the wall, almost as if listening.
“If walls could talk, huh?” He grinned.
She glanced back at him. “Quite often, Mr. Walker, if you’re careful to listen—they do.”
Okie dokie. “All right, then. By the way, I’ve yet to hear what I should call you.” He held out his hand. “Where I come from we introduce ourselves properly.”
She sighed, and grabbed his hand in a quick shake. “Doctor Somersby Ingler.”
“Somersby? British?” he asked with a cock of his head. Yeah, he was baiting her. But honestly, he wanted to hang out a bit more and take in the scent of her perfume—an intoxicating scent of woods and flowers with a splash of sunshine.
“Scotland, actually. I’ve been in the states for seven years. My home is in Salem, Massachusetts.” She stopped then and held his gaze. “If there’s nothing else, then? I’d like to unpack.”
“Oh.” He mentally chastised himself. “I’m just across the way, at the other end of this path, in the garçonnière. That’s French for—”
“I know that it’s a bachelor’s apartment, Mr. Walker. Where the young men in a family were shipped off to once they reached a certain age, I believe, if my research is correct.”
He nodded, caught again in the color of her mesmerizing violet-blue eyes.
“I wonder if I might impose on you and ask for a key to the main house? I’m rather a nocturnal sort,” she asked suddenly.
He blinked, pulled back his brain, and cleared his throat. Digging into his pocket, he removed one of the keys off his ring and handed it to her. Not a single brush of nail polish on those fingers. He’d bet his lucky dollar—the first currency he ever made mowing lawns—that she had none on those toes, either.
“So, did you see anything earlier?” he asked, making conversation.
Her face clouded. “I had just arrived before you met me at the door.”
“That wasn’t you walking through the garden?”
Damnation. Her eyes lit up like Fourth of July fireworks.
“What did you see? Can you describe it in as much detail as possible?” She quickly fished out a small notebook from her bag, then pulled on a pair of thick, black-framed glasses. “Think carefully. Do you remember the time?” She blinked at him through lenses that only enhanced those eyes a million times.
Hell, he couldn’t remember his own name. Dammit. If he hadn’t already been intrigued by her eyes, that sweet mouth—granted, when it wasn’t yammering—or the spunky swing of her ponytail each time she took a step, she had to go and put on those glasses. His kryptonite—women in glasses. He’d gone for the studious types in college—with glasses, all the better. But he hadn’t found a woman in years that he’d given a second thought to. Now, this sweet woman all but drops in his lap—
“Mr. Walker? Could we please focus?”
I am, he thought, letting his gaze take in the curve of her hips in those tight jeans. She had yet to take off her hoodie sweatshirt, but he smiled at the faded original Ghostbusters logo above her left breast. Focus, man. Focus.
“Uh…” He swallowed, dragging his eyes back to hers. “I didn’t really pay too much attention, to be honest. I just thought it was you.”
She let out an exasperated sigh. Her eyes appeared twice their size as she blinked at him through those horn-rimmed glasses. “Was she wearing clothes?”
Surprised by the question, he nodded. “Fairly certain.”
“Was it…colorful?” she asked.
“Not…really,” he answered, thrown off-kilter by her lightening-round questions. “More like a long coat—like a duster, maybe?” He was clearly out of his element here.
“A trench coat?” She eyed him, but he saw the flicker of skepticism in her eyes. Hell, her eyes fluctuated with every emotion. “Could you see through the coat?”
He rubbed his eye. “I can’t say. It was getting pretty dark by then.”
She sighed—loudly, in fact. “Can you show me where you saw this apparition in a trench coat?”
He was pretty sure it wasn’t an apparition. Not to burst her little ghost-hunting bubble, but there was less of a chance it was a trench coat wandering a
bout on its own. “You mean right now?”
She dug through her backpack, tossing a variety of items on the chair as she spoke. “No time like the present, Mr. Walker.”
He scratched the back of his neck, preferring the idea of opening a bottle of wine and getting to know each other better. “I suppose. Do you really think there’s anything—?”
“Mr. Walker.” She straightened to face him.
Clearly, this was a woman with a mission.
“Are you going to help me or not? I really haven’t the time to waste.”
He blew out a breath and offered a congenial smile, along with the truth. “I have to confess, Doc, I don’t believe in ghosts and all that mumbo-jumbo.” He crooked his fingers for emphasis. “I mean, yes, I know there are stories. But in my experience, the majority are just stories that you tell around a campfire on Halloween.” He hated to sound like a condescending ass, but he felt she should know where he stood.
“If you’re finished?” She handed him a mini-video camcorder. “Turn on the night-vision button and you should be able to see everything quite clearly in the dark.”
“But I just said…”
She tucked a small transistor-looking device in her pocket and held a miniature walkie-talkie in her hand. She jabbed a small flashlight in her mouth as she zipped up her hoodie.
Nash thought his heart might stop altogether at the sight of her perfect pink lips enclosed over the end of the flashlight.
He blinked as she jerked the flashlight out of her mouth and pointed it at him. “Mr. Walker, please understand. Your inability—your refusal, even—to believe in the existence of the paranormal has no bearing whatsoever on whether it exists or not. They don’t need your permission.” She shook the light at him. “In my world, in my experiences, paranormal activity certainly does exist.” She strode to the door and opened it. “Now, shall we go? All I ask is that you follow me and keep the camera running. Do you think you can manage that?”
Nash chuckled. Glasses and bossy. Could this get any better? He sure as hell hoped it would. He trotted down the steps after her, quietly humming the tune of the movie that brought ghost hunting back to life, so to speak. He was about to sing the chorus when she stopped suddenly and spun to face him. He lifted the camera, avoiding disaster as his body slammed into hers.
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