Better Homes and Hauntings

by Molly Harper

  Gerald has announced that we will be building on an isolated island off the shore of Rhode Island proper. A new start, he called it. Anyone could build a mansion in Newport, he says, but a home on its own island is an estate, a country unto its own. I asked him if I was going to have to address him as Mr. President. Oddly, he didn’t laugh.

  I worry, diary, about living in this strange, isolated spit of land in the middle of nowhere’s oceanic twin. What if I get angry with Gerald and cannot walk away from our argument because I am trapped on all sides by water? What if I just want a cup of tea with a friend? My entire sphere will be cut down to the children and the servants. And Gerald has made it quite clear how he feels about me making friends with them. How often will I be allowed to leave? To have visitors? Although I am sure that Gerald doesn’t intend it this way, this change of household feels a bit like a punishment.

  As an added irritant, Gerald is insisting on hiring a local builder for the house, while other first-circle families have hired the best in French and English architectural minds. I believe he wants to endear himself to our more “pastoral” neighbors, as we will be living in this location year-round and will need to maintain good relationships with them—even if we are separated from them by miles of ocean. However, he doesn’t seem to understand that it makes him appear miserly to his peers, using an unknown, unproven name when our contemporaries have selected the masters of the field. He will be judged, whether he believes that is important or not, and he will be treated differently by the people with whom he would like to make connections. Oh, la—what a snob I am turning out to be! To think I used to be one of those more “pastoral” folks myself. Oh, bother, what’s done is done. I hope that the builder’s ideas will be so unique that his origins will be forgotten.

  Nina glanced down at Catherine’s hand, resting against Gerald’s arm. And she realized what was bothering her. The ring. Catherine’s wedding set. It was a large diamond ring set with sapphires. Just the like the ring she saw in her recurring bed-making dream. The woman in the dream was definitely Catherine Whitney.

  “How soon after did they hire Jack Donovan?” Jake asked.

  “A few weeks, but there was an added wrinkle for Catherine,” Dotty said, flipping through the journal until she found the appropriate entry:

  This morning marked our first meeting with the builder Gerald has hired for the Crane’s Nest. Imagine my surprise when Gerald elected to hire Jack Donovan, the very same boy who used to sit on my front porch and steal kisses in between sips of lemonade. I hadn’t realized that Jack had trained as a builder; we lost track of each other when he went off to university and my family moved away. I must confess, he is little altered since our brief “romance” when we were barely more than children. There is no great tale of loss here, diary. This morning, I told him that he was lucky that I hold no resentment for how easily he moved on and established himself after “breaking my heart.” He merely laughed, while Gerald looked on in irritated confusion. He was—and is—a perfectly nice young man. He has the same dark good looks and easy smiles. Still, I cannot help but wonder how my life would be different had I waited for Jack—if my parents hadn’t moved me to New York to put me in a more “suitable arrangement.”

  Would I have married Jack? Would I have been happy as his wife? Would I have been able to stand hearing about the fine houses he was building for other folks while we lived in a single room in some unremarkable section of town? Would I have continued loving him in that stubbornly romantic way only girls of seventeen master? Or would I eventually resent the loss of my “destiny” as the young heiress to Newport’s upper circles?

  So yes, Jack’s presence has left me unsettled to the extreme.

  Cindy blew out a low whistle. “So I guess the theory about Catherine’s inappropriate relationship with the architect wasn’t too far off the mark.”

  Nina thought of the way the dream man’s hands fit over her body—Catherine’s body—and blushed. She wanted to fan her hot cheeks but resisted the urge. She didn’t want Dotty or Cindy to notice.

  “Maybe, but that’s one of the last entries of the diary, and I haven’t found the next volume yet,” Dotty said.

  “Is it weird for us to be talking about this?” Cindy asked. “I don’t want to offend you two.”

  “It’s not as if I ever met them,” Dotty said with a shrug. “And I’m just as interested in the story as you are. I’ve always been sort of morbidly interested in my ancestors. I mean, most people think of their great-great-grandparents as being these cute, cuddly, old folks, but mine were a tragic horror story. I have to wonder what drove Gerald to kill her. I mean, he looks so cold. Who would have thought he had it in him to strangle the mother of his children? Love, jealousy, anger, those are all very powerful, dangerous emotions. Imagine he had to be pretty desperate to do something like that. It doesn’t justify it, but . . . Gerald never came across as a cruel man. Just cold. It’s strange. I know she’s not doing the right thing, or at least, it seems like she won’t eventually, but I can’t help but feel a little bit sorry for her. She’s a young wife, and her occasionally emotionally unavailable husband’s dragging her out to the middle of nowhere to build a house with her ex-boyfriend? That’s got to be a bit of an ethical muddle. Deacon?”

  Deacon nodded. “I thought I understood, but hearing it in her own words humanizes her. When you’re finished with the diaries, would you mind if I read them?”

  Dotty beamed at him. “Of course! In the meantime, we document everything. We journal all of the experiences, weird dreams, visions, eerie feelings, noises.” She reached into her giant shoulder bag and pulled out blank steno pads, tossing one to each in the circle.

  “First question: Who keeps five blank notebooks in their shoulder bag?” Jake asked as Dotty threw one at his head. “And second: We’re just going to stumble through our days here waiting to get another glimpse of the possibly-not-real or, even better, get knocked down the stairs?”

  “The physical interactions are an illusion,” Dotty said, sounding incredibly self-assured for someone discussing ghostly assaults. “The apparitions can’t really hurt us. Psychic energy can’t interact with the physical plane. We may see it, we may feel it, but it’s not real.”

  “Feels awfully real,” Cindy murmured.

  “Just remember to stay calm,” Dotty told her. “Fear can cloud your judgment, amp what you’re seeing and feeling. Focus on what you know is real. And if it goes too far, just tell the apparition, ‘I don’t welcome your energy. I banish you from my space.’ ”

  DEACON RAISED HIS hand, as if he was about to launch into a list of reasons why this was an asinine suggestion, but Nina caught his wrist and pressed his hand to the table, shaking her head. He felt as if he’d been stunned by one of Dotty’s possibly illegal Tasers, a warm, electric tingle that traveled up his arm and lodged in his chest. Nina’s hand didn’t move from his, holding it steadily as she laughed at his space-cadet cousin’s ghost-busting advice and Jake’s inevitable facial contortions. Deacon could feel his heart rate slow. He could actually sense the serotonin levels in his brain increase, giving him a sense of well-being and calm.

  How did she do that? How did she make him feel better by simply touching his arm? He stared at her, watching the light from the refurbished ring fixture dance in her hair. Deacon’s brain hadn’t been calm since he’d discovered online gaming and Mountain Dew. He’d thrived on stress and caffeine for ten years. Hell, he needed his brain to fire on all cylinders.

  Nina was dangerous, the ultimate unknown quantity. Anyone who could alternately make him murderous and blissed-out in a twelve-hour span was not someone with whom he should spend a lot of time.

  And yet . . .

  If he’d learned anything since “coming into money,” it was that time was the most valuable commodity on earth. There was a limitless supply, but everybody had a finite amount assigned to him or her. And how you chose to spend that assigned amount defined your entire existence. If
he could spend what time he had with Nina, feeling this strange, still serenity, he would consider that worthwhile. Of course, being able to kiss her again would be nice, too. Even if it did end in a very expensive lawsuit and/or eventual divorce.

  “And yets” were a total pain in the ass.

  “Hey, at least you’re seeing something. I’m still sort of bummed that I haven’t had an experience yet,” Dotty said, nudging Cindy’s ribs.

  “Maybe you’re too open to it,” Jake suggested. “Maybe ghosts can smell desperation on you. Like single men and student-loan officers.”

  Dotty chucked an orange at him.

  “Stop throwing things at my head!” Jake exclaimed.

  You Only Snark the Ones You Love

  JAKE KNEW THAT a gentleman would probably take Cindy’s rejection at face value and give up. But Jake couldn’t stand the idea that she didn’t like him. Something about her compelled him to prove that he was a good guy. Although he would have to do it without tampering with Nina’s flowers again, because she seemed pretty serious about that mini-rake thing.

  So here he was, seeking out Cindy to surprise her with what he considered his most brilliant romantic gesture yet, something that would entice her into agreeing to a genuine date, one that would involve actually leaving the island and spending some time in the real world. He found her supervising her cleaning crew as they meticulously cleaned out a storage closet on the second floor in the master wing. He was surprised that she would go anywhere near this part of the house after her experience on the stairs. But then again, Cindy was too obstinate to give up, even when it could put her in danger. He tried to find that charming, but mostly, he was just annoyed that she would venture up there on her own just to spite the house.

  “Jake,” she said, with her usual amount of warmth toward him, which meant little to none.

  “Hey, Cindy, I want to show you something,” Jake told her.

  “If this is about the satyr murals in the men’s steam room, trust me, I’m aware,” Cindy groused, dusting her hands off on her pants.

  “No, come on.”

  Pulling her to her feet, he led her into the grand ballroom. It hardly resembled the grimy, decayed mess they’d walked into weeks before. The walls were spotless, scrubbed down to the plaster. The windows shone, even in the full glare of the midday sun. The floor had been ruthlessly swept and polished to a glossy shine. Her crews had worked with Anthony’s to create the best possible strategy for restoring the floor. There was buffing, lots and lots of buffing. This was the first time Cindy had seen the whole picture.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she breathed, turning in a circle so she could take in the full effect. “I’m sorry we got into such a fuss over it. I just get so focused on my goals and timelines that occasionally I get tunnel vision. Also, you drive me nuts sometimes.”

  Jake rolled his eyes heavenward. “It was almost a nice apology. You were so close.”

  Cindy blushed. “Well, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t shared this with me.”

  “You really get a lot out of your work, don’t you?”

  Cindy was flushed with pride. “This is why I was hired. This is the sort of difference I love seeing in a home when I work. This house, for all its history and historical complexity, will be a better place after I leave it. And that means something to me.”

  “Hold on, you haven’t seen anything yet.” Jake yanked on a rope, and several heavy canvas drapes dropped from the ceiling, puddling on the floor with a soft whump. Cindy covered her mouth with her hands, gasping as golden, ethereal light flooded the room. The ballroom ceiling was made up of massive stained-glass panels. The repeating Venetian floral patterns in their jewel tones created a garden effect that was both dizzying and beautiful, leading to a dome that featured several alternating floral motifs.

  “In case you’re interested, that’s Tiffany glass,” he said. “Mrs. Whitney happened to be a friend of Louis Comfort Tiffany, so old Louis was happy to doodle her a little design for the dome and windows. We only had to replace a few panels, which is sort of remarkable given the time that’s passed.”

  “It’s a shame that you lose this effect at night.” She sighed, rubbing her arms. It was lovely to have goose bumps for a positive reason for once. “It would have been such a beautiful setting for a fancy midnight ball.”

  “Actually, Mrs. Whitney thought of that,” Jake said. “She had Jack Donovan install curved mobile metal panels around the exterior of the dome, and gaslights would shine through the stained glass at night, giving it this really cool, sunlit glow.”

  “Will you be able to do the same?” she asked.

  “We install new gas lines in the morning. We’re even backlighting the ceiling panels to give them the same effect. This is the one room in the house where Regina showed some sense in her design. She’s keeping the walls stark white, bringing in a little warmth with the color of the flooring, but the main color element in the room will be the windows. But before she could put her ‘signature touch’ on the space, Deacon and I were able to convince her that whiting out the stained glass would be a violation of the National Historic Mansion Registry’s rules on antique windows.”

  “Is there such a thing as the National Historic Mansion Registry?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. And they definitely don’t have rules about antique windows.”

  She snickered. “Very clever.”

  “Now.” He bowed over her hand, making her wish that she’d washed up before entering this cathedral-like space. “May I have this dance, milady?”

  “What are you doing?” she asked, pulling her hand out of his grip, although she did it without her usual vehemence.

  “You told me that I could have one date with you, but we had to stay on the island. So I’m taking you dancing—dancing. Ah! Knew I forgot something!” He jogged over to a heavy shrouded chair. If he had a violinist hidden under that tarp, Cindy would be deeply concerned. Instead, he pulled out an MP3 player and a docking station, cueing up a lilting, woodwind-heavy waltz.

  “You couldn’t have warned me about this quote-unquote date so I could clean up a little?” she asked sourly, glancing down at her dusty T-shirt and jeans.

  “I was afraid you would find some reason to back out if I told you ahead of time,” he said, holding his hand out to her.

  A flash of guilt tugged at Cindy’s chest. She hadn’t been very nice to Jake. OK, sure, he’d been a jerk to her. But name one college-age boy who didn’t go through a jerk phase. It wasn’t like her to hold grudges. And it was beneath her to continually treat this man with contempt and an oversensitive, fault-finding eye.

  She couldn’t fault Jake for being unpleasant, really. In fact, other than their argument about the memorabilia room—which she was willing to admit she’d provoked on purpose because it amused her to see him wring his hands through his hair—he’d been pretty sweet. He was funny and kind and considerate, particularly of Nina, whom he seemed to have adopted like a kid sister or a stray kitten. If he was a blue-collar guy who worked down at the marina, she probably would have agreed to move in with him immediately and have a dozen of his beautiful blue-eyed babies. She supposed this was a shameful example of reverse classism, and she would take the time to feel bad about it at a later date.

  “Look, it can’t be a proper ballroom until Cinderella dances here. You’re doing Deacon a favor. So may I have this dance, miss?”

  Cindy nodded, curtsying the way she’d seen Keira Knightley do in that Jane Austen movie. Jake beamed and slid his arms around her waist, holding his hand at an angle so she could slip hers over his. His left hand remained at a completely respectful area near her waist. He stepped forward, leading her into a simple box step that eventually circulated into the waltz. He wasn’t even counting under his breath.

  “You took lessons for this, didn’t you?” she asked, her snicker barely held in check.

  Jake grimaced. “Might have, when I was a kid. My mom insisted that if I was g
oing to play baseball or soccer, she wanted me to dance, too. She said it made me a well-rounded person. But then, when I was seventeen or so, I figured out that she just didn’t want to be left without a partner at weddings or parties when my dad was off in the den drinking with the other masters of the universe.”

  Cindy frowned. She remembered Jake making a few comments about his parents on their first date. They’d talked about their families, and Jake had said his “hadn’t spent enough time with him to be worth mentioning,” then asked her another question about her beloved father.

  They hadn’t danced on that first date. And now Cindy regretted it. Jake moved smoothly, without being conscious about it. She tried to remember any time she’d seemed that comfortable in her skin and came up short. Nor could she remember the last time a man had bothered leading her in a dance that involved steps and not just grinding up on her or doing the standard “stand and sway.”

  She tried not to let it go to her head. The colors, the beautiful lush light, the smell and feel of the man in her arms. She had to keep herself grounded, remind herself why a real relationship between the two of them would never work out—like aversion therapy, only with skanky interior designers.

  As they completed a circuit around the dance floor, Cindy peered up at Jake through her lashes and asked, “So, Regina, huh?”

  “Let’s not talk about that,” he said. “That is definitely not good first-date conversation.”

  “If you want there to be a second date, I’d like to know where that stands.”

  “That was a long time ago,” he assured her, his face flushed. “Regina’s parents are friends with mine. We were thrown together a lot when we were kids.”

  “So she’s not your type?” Cindy asked.