Thunderstruck

by Amanda McIntyre

  He paused long enough to offer her a kiss and she thought they might not make it beyond the curved stairway. He strode into what had been Lucille’s room and dropped her to her feet beside the bed. “This is me, Somer,” he said. “Tell me to stop and I will.” He held her gaze as he unbuttoned her shirt and drew it off her shoulders. His amber gaze melted her fears; the light brush of his fingers down her cheek sent her body aflame. Smoky desire flickered in his dark gaze. He kissed her forehead, following to her temple, her cheek, his gaze roaming over her face as he spoke. “Tell me what you want, darlin’.”

  “You, Nash. I want you.”

  In the murky darkness, barriers between them were quickly stripped away, left in a heap on the new wooden floor. Somer tossed back the vintage quilt, drawing Nash into bed with her. She relished the weight of him, surrendering to his exploration, his hot breath trailing kisses down her body, the burn of his unshaven cheek against the sensitive flesh between her thighs. Somer gripped the bedsheets as he teased insistently, pleasuring her to the point of torture until, screaming his name, her body shattered in a powerful climax.

  A rolling, deep thunder rattled the windows. Bright flashes of lightning illuminated the room. Nash stumbled from the bed, grabbed a foil packet his jeans and quickly set to work sheathing himself, wasting no time returning to her outstretched arms. She welcomed him, determined to stay in control of her senses, to have no doubt that this was very real. That she would remember every moment.

  “This”—he pressed deeply— “this is real, Somer.” She met him in a searing kiss, an unspoken declaration that she believed it as much as he did. She held his gaze. People searched a lifetime for true love. Was it possible that fate had brought her here to find hers? She hugged him close, pressing her hands around him, moving down his back, feeling his corded muscles bunching and moving beneath her fingers. Oblivious to the storm, she moved with him, their bodies in perfect syncopation.

  “Jesus, Doc,” he breathed. His thrusts quickened. Skating on the edge of her release, she opened her eyes and met the stormy gaze of a young woman, her blonde hair coiffed in a bun at the nape of her neck.

  A scream tore from Somer’s throat.

  “I’m with you, sweetheart.” Nash quickened his pace.

  She pulled him close, clinging possessively to him, her gaze directly in challenge with the specter. “Mine,” she whispered, as a thunder began to roll through her body bringing the impending storm that she had no desire to run from.

  “All yours, baby,” Nash repeated, unaware of their uninvited guest.

  “Yes,” Somer closed around him, claiming what was hers.

  The feminine specter dissolved and, clinging to each other, they rode out the storm together.

  ***

  Nash woke with a start. He’d been in a deep sleep. Looking around, he blinked, realizing he was alone in Lucille’s bedroom. It wasn’t nearly as disturbing when Somer had been snuggled next to him. He didn’t know how long they’d dozed after a second round of lovemaking. She was an amazing lover and, more than once, she’d quizzed him on various current topics, just to be assured that neither was under the influence of restless spirits. They’d lain listening to the rain, talking about mundane things, until both had drifted off to sleep.

  Anxious to find her, he got up to dress. As he shoved himself into his jeans, he noted that she’d laid his now dry T-shirt on the end of the bed. He smiled at the disappointing thought that her clothes were gone, which meant she was wearing them again. He picked up his wristwatch off the antique drum table and, much to his surprise, realized it was mid-afternoon. Dazed still from a restful sleep, he paused at the bedroom door and listened for evidence that she might be upstairs. A gentle, steady rain tap-danced on the roof. He heard the front door open, and he walked to the banister overlooking the main floor.

  Somer, carrying a tray of crackers, cheese, and a teapot started up the steps. He grinned. “You weren’t beside me when I woke up.”

  “Oh, I didn’t see you standing there. Good, you’re awake. We have visitors stopping by soon.” She smiled and he swore the sun had sliced through the dank skies outside.

  “Visitors?” He came down the stairs and waited until she’d placed the tray on the table before putting his arms around her. “I was thinking that maybe we’d spend the rest of this rainy day upstairs.” He pressed his face into the warm curve of her neck. Yeah, he could get used to this.

  “I’m not sure that Lucille would approve.”

  Nash straightened. “She’s not invited.” He chuckled.

  Somer didn’t.

  “I saw her, Nash.” She turned in his arms and looked up at him. “She was watching us.”

  He couldn’t mask his skepticism. “Honey, that’s kinky, even for a ghost.”

  “You didn’t hear me scream?” she asked.

  A slow grin crawled up the side of his mouth. “Well, I did, but I thought you were just enjoying yourself.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  He saw lust flash in those sexy, violet-blue eyes and knew that, in part, he was right.

  She sighed. “I was…I am.” She closed her eyes as though her brain was—

  “Befuddled?” he asked with a grin. He had to admit, the idea that he’d befuddled her brain was kind of sexy.

  “Listen. I understand you Texas boys like to think you’re God’s gift to women.”

  He raised a brow.

  “What I’m trying to say is—”

  “You’ve had better?” he asked, truly curious, because that little episode earlier had pretty much rocked his world…amongst other things.

  She opened her mouth to speak and he tugged her against him. He felt her body soften to his. Yes, indeed, this Texas boy had struck gold in this bonny lass from Scotland via Salem, Massachusetts.

  “No,” she answered, not meeting his gaze.

  He tilted her chin and smiled. “What was that, Doc? I didn’t hear you?”

  She searched his eyes. “What do you want to hear? That you’re the sexiest man I’ve ever met? Okay, sure. That the mere thought of you arouses me? Okay, that, too. That I can’t wait to feel your naked body next to mine again? Okay, you got me.”

  It was a lot to take in all at once. He blinked, then narrowed his gaze on her. “For starters, is that true? Because”—he held her gaze— “except for the sexiest man part, it is for me.”

  Her watched her swallow, her eyes drifting to his mouth, which damn near did him in. “Somer, stop looking at me like that,” he warned before he locked his lips to hers. He was thoroughly entertaining the thought of sweeping her back up those stairs when there was a knock on the front door.

  “That’s probably Savannah.” She ducked beneath his arm and hurried to answer the door.

  Savannah?

  “We’re so glad you could take the time to stop by,” Somer said, pulling one side of the double-wide doors open.

  “Hi, you must be Dr. Ingler?” A lovely, petite woman stepped in first and held out her hand to Somer.

  “I feel as though I know you so well from our phone conversation earlier,” Somer responded to the woman.

  Nash walked up behind Somer and offered his hand. “Nash Walker, the new owner of Evermore.” He shook the woman’s hand and followed through making eye contact with the formidable-looking man behind her.

  “Patrick O’Rourke,” he said, gripping Nash’s hand briefly. It was evident he was already checking out the place. He met Nash’s curious gaze.

  “I’ve been wanting to meet Evermore’s new caretaker.”

  “She does have quite a history, so I’ve been reading,” Nash said. He studied the man’s keen assessment of everything around him. Clearly military through-and-through—marine, possibly special ops, if he were to hazard a guess. He’d had a friend just after college who had served in Iraq. Nash knew the demeanor. And from the no-nonsense look in his eye, it looked like he’d seen some action. “Well, come on in. I’ll get us something cool to drink whi
le Som—Dr. Ingler fills you in on what we found.”

  Nash fixed a pitcher of sweet tea and brought it out to the sun porch. By the look on Somer’s face, the three were already deep into stories about the house.

  Somer looked at Nash as he sat in the chair next to her. “Mr. O’Rourke—”

  “Please, it’s Patrick.” The man smiled and helped himself to a glass of tea.

  “Patrick,” Somer continued, “used to live here as a boy. His grandfather was Evermore’s caretaker.”

  “Did he have something to do with that garden maze?” Nash asked. “It’s a beautiful one. I just need to find someone with the skills to take care of it.”

  Patrick nodded. “Let me talk to a couple of people. I’m sure we can find you someone.”

  Nash nodded, raising his glass to Patrick. Patrick responded in kind. He liked this guy.

  “He was explaining that even as a child, there were spirits living here. He mentioned a little boy he used to play with when he was little,” Somer said.

  Nash’s gaze darted to Somer’s. He hadn’t fully wrapped his head around one ghost wandering his property. Now there were supposedly two? His skepticism—it was quickly becoming apparent as the odd-man out on all things paranormal— could well be a façade for his denial. “Really? Uh, nope, no little boys running around.”

  Somer got a quizzical look on her face, then pulled out a ribbon she’d been using as a bookmark.

  It garnered Patrick’s immediate attention. “Do you mind is I ask where you got that?”

  Somer held the length of taupe-colored ribbon with two thin red stripes down either side out for his inspection. “It didn’t occur to me until now that it might have some kind of connection to Evermore. A little boy—a spirit, actually—left it in my room. Do you know what it is?” she asked.

  Nash listened, feeling as though he’d just entered an episode of an old Twilight Zone episode where everyone but him knew what was going on.

  “When I was young, this little boy would leave this very style of ribbon in various spots around the property. I’d found it in once in one of the storage cabinets.” He shrugged. “Maybe left by a previous owner. There was a whole bolt of it. It was our secret code for where to meet in specific places.” His expression was thoughtful, but his smile sad. “There must be hundreds of these left around this house, on this property. Where’d you say you say this came from?”

  “At the Hotel Monteleone,” Somer answered.

  Patrick looked puzzled as he held the ribbon.

  “Do you suppose there’s a reason he wanted me to bring the ribbon here?”

  Patrick shrugged. “It’s possible. After I got older, I didn’t see him as much. It’s almost as though he’d served a purpose and moved on.” He stared at the ribbon, then looked up at Savannah. “Until you came hoping for a connection to me. Then he came back.” Patrick looked at Somer. “Do you believe that spirits can move from place to place, Dr. Somers?”

  Somer smiled. “I’ve heard of such things. That certainly would explain how people claim to see spirits of people in various places. In my line of work, I’ve learned anything is possible.”

  “And this little boy knew that you were researching this house?” he asked.

  Somer appeared surprised, as though remembering something. “I came back to my room after being out in the Quarter”—she turned to Nash— “the day we bumped into each other on the square.” She looked at Patrick. “When I returned to my room, my laptop was left open on the bed, as though it had been used.”

  “Technologically savvy ghosts, Somer?” Nash was starting to ease into the “restless energies” idea, but ghosts using laptops? “Come on,” he said with a chuckle.

  No one else laughed.

  Savannah, who’d been quiet throughout most of the conversation, spoke, her quiet, southern accent commanding the room. “It sounds to me like this little boy wanted to make a connection to Evermore.” She looked from Somer to Nash. “When I did the investigation with PROOF, I saw the little boy Patrick played with. I was able to convince him that he needed to move on, that his mama was waiting for him on the other side.” Savannah reached for her husband’s hand.

  Nash was touched by the powerful love he saw between them. “Do you mind if I ask why you chose to investigate Evermore? Was it just coincidence when you were working with PROOF?” Nash asked.

  Savannah paused a moment, as though the memories might be difficult. “It’s a complicated story, but the reason I got involved in the investigation was to see if I could find a connection to Patrick after he’d died.”

  Nash glanced at Somer. She placed her hand on his arm as she listened to Patrick.

  “In short, I was taken captive when I discovered that my commanding officer was playing both sides to his advantage in the war. I was taken captive and a ruse was planted to make it appear I’d died in battle. My family and friends were told I’d been killed.”

  “How awful that must have been for both of you,” Somer said.

  “I was desperate. I don’t know what I would have done without the support of friends.” She looked at Patrick. “Our good friends.” She squeezed his hand, and then refocused on Somer and Nash. “So, we’re in agreement then that Lucille is trying to communicate in some way, for some reason, correct?” she asked.

  Somer nodded and handed her the journal. “I agree, and after reading some of these passages, I’m even more convinced.” Somer looked from one to the other seated around her. “If the restless energies here are trying to communicate with those with similar issues, it would make sense then—the connection you two have to this house. You came here looking for Patrick and spoke to the little boy. Lucille is trapped here, between this world and the next because she’s looking for her lover. Maybe the little boy was hoping the ribbon would connect us all to Evermore for whatever reasons.”

  Savannah glanced at her husband. “When I worked with PROOF, I remember they found evidence of a young woman on an EVP recording. All they could make out was ‘my true love.’”

  Nash glanced at Somer who seemed to be soaking up every word.

  She pointed to the journal she’d handed to Savannah. “We found this beneath the floorboards in the bedroom upstairs. Lucille, who my research indicates was once a resident tutor here for a widowed man with younger children from his second wife. He also had an older son, a year older than Lucille, who lived here, too. She writes at great length, talking about her secret lover, and then suddenly the entries stop, as though she’d quit writing. There’s nothing about what happened to her lover, or to her.”

  “The story as it’s told here is that she died suddenly,” Nash said. “Here at Evermore.”

  Patrick pushed from his chair and looked at his wife. “Would you mind, sweetheart, if I take a look around while you two ladies discuss the journal?” He looked at Nash. “I’d love to see the place. I haven’t been here in a while.”

  Nash was all too happy to oblige. “Sure, come on. I’ll show you what we’re doing upstairs.” Grateful not to have to listen to any more ghost banter, he looked forward to talking with Patrick, hoping to gain some perspective on the house when he lived there.

  Nash followed him up the staircase and into the large room flanked on either side by doublewide pocket doors leading to two massive bedroom suites. At the far end of the room were another set of doors leading to the glassed-in sun porch along the back wall of the house. “In the original blueprints, this was the main level of the house. The ground level was used for storage and food. I surmise flooding from the river and security would have been the primary reasons at the time. I know previous owners had discussed—even drawn up plans—to chop up the rooms, make them smaller and add hallways to make it easier for tourists, but I’m glad they chose instead to create a living space downstairs and leave this as it was originally designed.”

  He slid open the doors at the back of the room and followed Patrick out onto the sparse glassed-in sun porch where they’d set
up their table saws and extra lumber. At each end of the sun porch were two smaller rooms. In recent years, both had been converted to full bathrooms that opened directly into each bedroom.

  “It looks like someone added another bathroom where the second cabinet room used to be.” Patrick glanced at Nash. “When I was little, the cabinet room on the east side was nothing more than a giant linen closet for cleaning supplies. I used to hide in there when I didn’t want to be found.”

  Patrick took his time, now and again touching a wall, gliding his hand along a newly polished pocket door leading between rooms.

  “Bet you have a lot of great memories growing up here as a kid,” Nash commented as they stood on the back sun porch overlooking the garden.

  “Some, yeah.” He looked at Nash. “My grandfather took care of her like she was a princess. I never really understood why he connected so well here—more so than anywhere else.”

  Nash shrugged. “Folks took ownership in what they did for a living. Pride in hard work meant more to some people back then than now, unfortunately.”

  Patrick narrowed his gaze on Nash. “You see her the way my grandfather did.

  He nodded. “I have a great respect for these grand dames,” Nash answered, walking up beside Patrick. “She’s weathered a lot of storms in her day.” He chuckled and glanced at his guest. “You know, if walls could talk, right?”

  Patrick smiled, then looked at Nash. “Maybe that’s what you’ve been experiencing.”

  Nash hadn’t considered how simple his comment seemed. “Do you think it’s possible she’s trying to get some message across to us?”

  Patrick grinned. “You’re asking the guy who played with a ghost when I was little, Nash.”

  “Valid point.”

  Patrick shrugged. “Here’s another perspective, and sometimes that’s all it takes for things to start to make sense.” He pointed to the old oaks standing proud beyond the garden. “There’s an old legend about a well on this property. It’s out there somewhere—maybe it’s been filled in, who knows. When I was around thirteen, I was dared to look into the well by a buddy of mine at midnight on Halloween.” Patrick glanced at Nash. “The only time it worked, apparently, and you’d see the face of your true love.”