She shook her head as she finished chewing. “He’s fine,” she said with a little laugh.
He hated to bring down the light mood, but he knew she wanted to hear the details he’d received from his mother, so he scanned his notes to remind himself what she’d said. “Okay, so my mother spoke with a few of her friends at the retirement community, primarily two women who lived in Truro most of their lives. But between the three of them, they have some ideas on who else to talk too.” He glanced up at her with an apologetic smile. “I hate to say it, since their mystery is your reality, but this is the most exciting thing that’s happened over there for a while.”
She bobbed her head in a small nod. “I get it. It is pretty fascinating, if you take out the having to live there part.”
He was tempted to reiterate his invitation to crash in the guest room, but he didn’t want to push her. He’d already told her—more than once—she was welcome to stay with him; hopefully she would keep the offer in mind. “Exactly. And I will say I didn’t give my mom a full account of everything that’s happened, since it’s not really my place to tell her all the details.”
“I appreciate that,” she said, her voice tinged with gratitude and relief.
An ache opened in his chest at her reaction to this minor act of respect. “Of course. My mom may not live in Truro anymore, but the Cape Cod community is still pretty small.” He took a swig of his beer. “Not that anything that’s happening with that house reflects badly on you…it’s just up to you who you choose to discuss it with.”
She blinked rapidly, the slim column of her throat moving as she swallowed hard. Swiping at the corner of her eye, she reached for her beer as well.
Was she holding back tears? He wanted to reach out and squeeze her hand, but she was sitting across from him, the table keeping them at a distance. Damn it. Frustration coiled through him, his fingers tightening around the cool glass of the bottle instead of her warm flesh. The only thing he could think of to ease her emotional response was to draw attention away from it, so he plunged into the story his mom had relayed.
“Anyway, the house was built around 1946, after the war had ended. The Holloways had been living in a small house owned by the parish, but apparently Martha’s health was pretty delicate, so they felt getting her out of such an old building with a few centuries of dust and mold would be a good idea. Oh, and they were hoping to start a family, so a bigger place would be necessary for that as well. One of my mom’s friends said that according to the grapevine, Martha had already had multiple miscarriages.”
“Oh!”
He glanced up, his brows raising to match hers. “What?”
She grimaced, her expression turning apologetic. “Yikes. I mean…that’s so sad. Sorry. It’s just that…well, the miscarriages might explain something. I still need to fill you in on that. But I’d like to hear what else your mom found out,” she added, leaning forward.
He nodded, clamping down the rising concern as he checked his notes. What else had happened over there since Saturday? Clearing his throat, he continued. “I guess at that point, Martha was doing poorly enough to warrant help, so the bigger house also meant they were able to have someone move in to help her with housework, cooking, shopping, that kind of stuff. No one seemed to know exactly what was wrong with Martha—she was somewhat private—but the guess is maybe some kind of autoimmune issue, possibly combined with depression or something else related to her mental health.”
A mosquito whined in his ear, and he swiped at it. “Let’s see…what else? You’ve probably found the obits online already, but my mom looked them up too. Martha died on September 6th, 1950. Keep in mind, my mom hadn’t even been born at this point, but some of the older ladies at the retirement community were children then, and of course there was always gossip about the house. So the general story is that Martha woke up in the middle of the night, got out of bed, and fell on her way downstairs.”
He paused as an uninvited image slid into his mind: a crumpled body, head twisted at an impossible angle, lying right beyond the open door where he and Lark had said goodbye on Friday night. Their gazes locked, and he could tell from Lark’s expression she was picturing the same thing. A sinking feeling pulled at his stomach, but there was nothing to be done. Talking about ghosts meant talking about dead people—there was no way around it. Still, he hurried to move the conversation away from Martha and her broken neck.
“Um…after the accident, John stayed on as pastor for another five years, until his decline reached a point where the parish decided he had to be replaced. He…well, you know. He hung himself in 1960.” Crap. That imagery wasn’t any better. And he was about to make it worse. He hesitated, debating whether to reveal the rest of the details.
“It’s okay. I can take it,” she said after a few beats of silence.
What choice did he have? This was her house, her mystery. Her relative. Blowing out a breath, he continued. “Right. Sorry, it’s just that it’s a bit grisly. Okay, so like I was saying, he hung himself in 1960 inside the house, off the hallway bannister. At that point, he had become very reclusive, and he lived alone, so no one found him for a while.”
Some of the color leached from her face as she nodded, lips pressed together. Reaching for her beer, she took a healthy swallow.
He slapped at a mosquito hovering near his calf. The light was fading as dusk settled in, bringing with it the irritating insects. He’d have to get them inside soon. “Anyway, he was buried in the church cemetery, but my mom and her friends don’t know anything about what kind of service it was. One thing did occur to me, though…Mom mentioned that the consensus seems to be that rumors about ghosts began shortly after Martha died. John would have still been alive, which means if there was a haunting going on then, it wasn’t him. I don’t know if that means it’s not him now, but it’s something to think about.” He shrugged, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
“It’s not him,” she said, shaking her head. “My theory was wrong.”
He blinked, momentarily taken aback by this turn of events. So something significant had happened since Saturday. Why hadn’t she come to him immediately? The concern he’d pushed aside returned, mixed with something less noble—disappointment that she hadn’t wanted to share whatever she’d discovered right away. They’d exchanged texts for the past few days, mostly about dinner plans, but there had been no mention of any revelations. She’d simply assured him she was okay whenever he asked.
He forced his taut muscles to relax. She was okay. She was sitting right here across from him. Just because he’d offered to help didn’t mean she owed him anything. And it had already become fairly clear she was reluctant to depend on anyone. She might be mostly alone in the world, but she was also strong and independent.
He respected that. Respected her. But at the same time, he wanted her to trust him. And there was no denying he cared about her—he simply couldn’t stop himself from worrying about her, alone in that haunted house.
Trust takes time, he reminded himself. And she was leaving.
She was here right now, though, and she was ready to tell him. That had to count for something.
He recovered himself before the delay in his response became awkward. “It was? You mentioned you needed to fill me in on something.”
“I do. The good news though, if you want to call it that, is that I think I have a new theory now. What you just told me seems to support it.” A mosquito landed on the bare skin of her shoulder, and she brushed it away absent-mindedly.
“Good. We should probably head inside, though, if you’re finished?” He gestured at their plates.
She nodded, and they began gathering everything off the table, the dogs at their heels as they made trips inside. Once all the food was in, she grabbed her tote bag, and he snagged two more beers from the cooler before closing the screen door against the bugs. He offered her one, handing it to her as she set her bag on the kitchen island.
“So…what happened?�
� He stood across from her, leaning back against the counter.
She fished through her bag for a moment before pulling out a small rectangle. “Remember Saturday?”
“I do,” he replied, unable to keep a roguish grin from tugging at his lips.
A flush rose on her cheeks as she returned his smile. “Right. Well, I took some photos of the house, and the property, before I went down to the beach. I need to show you something.” She held up the object, revealing a flash drive. “Do you have a computer we can use?”
His pulse accelerated as trepidation sliced through him. Show him something? He didn’t like the sound of that. Pushing himself away from the counter, he tipped his head toward the laptop charging in the corner of the room. “Laptop okay? Or I have a bigger computer in my office.”
She followed his gaze. “That should be fine.”
He carried it over and set it in front of her on the island, quickly typing in the security code before stepping aside to let her insert the flash drive.
“So, after I got home on Saturday night, I pulled out my camera to look at my photos. And when I got to the ones of the woods in my backyard…well, let’s just say it was a bit of a shock.” Opening the folder, she scrolled through the thumbnail images before clicking on one. Her backyard filled the screen, and she turned it toward him.
He leaned forward, his gaze scanning the image. Whoa. What the hell? Squinting, he bent his head closer to the screen. A figure lurked along the edge of the woods, staring out from the tree line. But it wasn’t…solid. It looked more like the suggestion of a person—translucent and hazy, with blurred features and an eerie luminosity. Still, it was distinct enough to rule out a trick of light, and to pick out a few details. Like a white dress. And long hair.
His stomach tightened. A ghost. A female ghost. The ramifications slammed into place. “It’s not John because it’s a woman,” he said slowly.
“That’s what it looks like to me. And she’s in every one of the pictures of the back woods.”
“I can’t believe you caught a ghost on film.” The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he reached back to rub the sensation away.
“I can’t either. Well, I mean, figure of speech aside, I can believe it, because of everything that’s been happening to me. But anyone else will just assume I photoshopped it.” She caught his gaze, her emerald eyes seeking reassurance in his. “I swear I didn’t do that.”
“I would never think that, Lark.” And truly, he didn’t. It was surprising how easily he was accepting that some kind of supernatural phenomenon was going on over there. Despite being a man of science, he didn’t find it impossible to believe there were forces in this world beyond his understanding. Especially after everything he’d heard about the house on the other side of the river, both over the years and in the past few days. Not to mention what he’d seen with his own eyes—her struggle in the woods, and now this. Actual photos.
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I mean…you don’t know me very well. This could just be my warped way of attention-seeking.”
He touched her arm. “I definitely don’t think that’s what you’re doing.”
Their eyes remained locked as warmth flowed between their skin. She pulled in a shaky breath. “That’s good, because I have something else to tell you.”
Oh, no. The stormy look on her face told him it wasn’t something good. “I’m listening,” he said, giving her a reassuring squeeze before he let his hand fall away.
She swallowed audibly. “Right as I discovered the photos, I heard…singing.” A shudder traveled through her.
“Singing?” Dread pooled in his belly.
“Yes. Coming from upstairs. A lullaby—Rock-a-bye Baby.”
“Oh, Lark,” he murmured, unable to think of anything else to say.
“It was a woman’s voice, coming from that front bedroom where I saw the face the day I moved in. So I went up to check.”
His muscles tightened as he pictured her alone in that house, climbing the stairs to investigate a ghostly voice as the storm lashed outside. Why hadn’t she called him?
“When I opened the door, the room was freezing. The singing stopped, but right before it did, I saw…” Her voice broke, and she twisted her hands together, gathering herself before she continued. “I saw a woman, sitting on the bed. She had her back to me, but I saw the long hair. And the white dress. Then she vanished, but I could still see an imprint on the comforter, as if a real person had been sitting there and left a depression.” She closed her eyes for a long moment.
He could no longer resist. “Why didn’t you call me?” he asked gently, reaching for her hand.
“I wanted to.” The words tumbled out quickly, and she bit down on her lip, as though she could catch them and reel them back.
“Then why didn’t you?”
She shook her head even as she gripped his hand. “I don’t want to be a burden. It’s not how I was raised. My father always taught me to be self-reliant.”
Understanding dawned. He bent forward until she meet his gaze. “It’s a good lesson,” he agreed softly. “But this isn’t like being able to support yourself or knowing how to work a fire extinguisher. There’s something very scary happening, and I happen to know you don’t know anyone else in town.” His tone took on a firmer note. “I want to be here for you. Do you believe me?”
“I…” She blinked rapidly, taking a breath. “Let’s just say I’ve been disappointed before.”
There it was. Someone had hurt her, badly. Anger for the unknown person bubbled up like acid, but he pushed it down. Right now, it was about making sure Lark understood that he wouldn’t disappoint her. And that he had no ulterior motives.
“Lark, I care about you. I don’t think it’s any secret I’m attracted to you, but even if we’re just friends, I still want to help. And maybe you don’t know me all that well either, but I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
Emotions played across her face. Her lips parted, but she only nodded, the silence stretching out as their fingers twined together.
A tremor crept into her voice as she spoke. “I’m attracted to you, too. I’m just…scared. Of getting too close.”
She lived in a haunted house, and this was what she was scared of. His heart contracted. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Shaking her head, she moved closer. “No. I definitely don’t want to talk about it.” Her eyes darkened as she looked up at him. “Actually, I don’t want to talk about anything at all.”
His body stirred, responding to the current sparking between them. But he forced himself to make sure he was reading her signals correctly. “Are you sure?” he asked, reaching up with his free hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.
A sound of assent, low and seductive, came from deep in her throat, and his blood heated. She lifted her mouth toward his, and he plunged his fingers into her thick auburn waves, cradling the back of her head as their lips crashed together. Need pounded through his veins, and he pulled her closer, desperate to feel every inch of her body against his.
They kissed each other hungrily, with the fierce urgency of a forbidden act. Her nails dug into his shoulders, driving him crazy. He wanted to feel her fingertips against his bare flesh, wanted to feel her warm skin sliding against his. Her soft moans were driving him wild, and he pressed her back against the edge of the island. He needed to get her into bed. Now.
She ground her hips against his, igniting a surge of exquisite agony. Holy hell. He slid his hand down her lower back and over the curve of her bottom, catching the back of her thigh as her bent knee hiked up toward his waist. The warmth of her soft, taut flesh filling his palm triggered a groan deep in his chest.
A mechanical trill cut through the rush of blood in his ears, and a dim part of his brain registered his cellphone ring. No. He ignored it even as he felt her tense in his arms. The sound continued, and despite his best efforts, the implications of not answering it began to pierce the he
avy fog of desire. For anyone else, it might not be a problem. But he was the town’s only vet, it was after hours, and his cell phone number was listed as the number to call in an emergency.
He tore his lips from hers, muttered curses mingling with apologies as he touched his forehead to hers.
“I understand,” she murmured, pulling away slightly as he snatched the offending device off the island. An unknown number; not local. He swiped the screen, gripping the phone with a bit too much force as he lifted it to his ear. “Holt,” he said roughly.
“Is this the vet?” The woman’s voice was filled with barely contained hysteria.
Oh, crap. He stared down into Lark’s eyes, hoping his expression conveyed what was going on as he said, “Yes, this is Dr. Holt,” into the phone.
“I think my dog’s been poisoned,” the woman cried. “We’re at a rental house, and I don’t know what he could have gotten into. But he’s vomiting and convulsing and I don’t know what to do!” The last sentence rose to a wail that Lark could hear, and she frowned up at him, her flushed features clouded with concern.
Something inside him shifted, and it took him a moment to process it as he gave instructions to the desperate woman on the phone. Despite the interruption, despite the bad timing that would now end their night, Lark wasn’t mad. There wasn’t the slightest hint of annoyance on her face or in her demeanor; only a genuine look of distress that made his chest tighten. And he didn’t think for one minute she didn’t feel the same ache of frustration he was currently experiencing…it was just that she understood his obligations, understood that someone else’s pet emergency would have to take precedence. After all, she’d been in a similar position when she’d first called him. But not everyone would immediately react in such a sincerely selfless way. With that realization, he understood that his feelings for her had moved beyond simply just caring about her.
He ended the call, acutely aware that his own body still wasn’t ready to accept this turn of events. Grimacing, he tugged at his shorts, trying to will the painful throbbing away. He’d need to change into long pants to ride his bike; that would give him a minute. But he had to get moving. “I have to—“
Ghost Moon (Haunting Romance) Page 9