“I know. I understand, I really do. I hope you can save the dog.”
He reached out and touched her hand. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine. Really.”
He hesitated, torn. The gentleman in him wanted to offer her a ride; make sure she made it home safe. The doctor in him was firmly reiterating that the clock was ticking, and bringing her home on the bike would take him in the opposite direction of the clinic for a few minutes. That could be life or death for the dog. Damn it. This wasn’t a situation he’d dealt with before.
She read his mind. “Go,” she instructed, squeezing his hand before releasing it and gesturing toward the front of the house. “I’m fine. I’ll finish cleaning up. You need to hurry.”
He did. He turned and strode toward the stairs, calling over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about clean up, Lark. Leave now, okay? I just want to make sure you get home safe.” He reminded himself that she’d arrived on her own perfectly fine. It was just that now it was dark. And he’d seen an actual photograph of something lurking in the woods. Then again, that thing in the woods lived in her house. Damn it to hell. “Will you text me as soon as you’re home?”
“I’ll be fine,” she called back. “I’ll leave now. Just hurry. And yes, I’ll text.”
11
She tucked the house key into a little pocket in her leggings, zipping it closed as she strode down the driveway. Seemed a little silly to lock the door when the biggest threat to her safety appeared to be inside, but habits from the city died hard. Breaking into a jog, she did her best to focus on the rough terrain of the driveway to avoid injury. The last thing she needed was to step into a ditch and break an ankle, or trip on a root and go flying. She’d been distracted her entire shift today, and she knew exactly why.
She’d hoped by this evening she would have stopped thinking about Jesse. Or at least stopped thinking about him every ten minutes. No such luck. That kiss… God. That kiss was so hot, she couldn’t even imagine what sleeping with him would be like. Although her mind certainly was trying.
Lifting her hand, she brushed her fingertips across her lips, still tender from last night’s devouring kiss. A flush that had nothing to do with exercise warmed her cheeks. She snatched her hand away and leapt over a wide rut in the sandy dirt. Honestly, she had no one to blame but herself. She’d instigated things this time. Part of her was angry with herself, but it was a small part. There was no denying this kind of attraction. She simply didn’t have even a tenth of the willpower it would take to stop herself if they ended up in that situation again. Truthfully, she didn’t even want to stop herself. Every part of her body was aching for him. She would just need to keep her distance emotionally. That way, when it was time to say goodbye…whether because she was leaving, or whether because things had just run their course, it wouldn’t hurt.
She could manage that. She was strong. Nathan and Brittney had taught her how strong she really was. They’d hurt her—nearly broken her—but she’d survived. And learned a valuable lesson.
A disgusted sigh escaped as she thought of those two. They deserved each other. And Nathan…he’d never kissed her the way Jesse had, not even in the beginning. Like he’d just crossed a desert and she was water. Heat surged through her lower body and she sped up, as if she could outpace her desire for Jesse. Good luck.
Seriously, what had she even been thinking, saying yes to Nathan’s proposal? Why had he even asked? She’d been vulnerable after her parents’ death, and he’d been…what? Taking the next logical step? Complying with his family’s expectations? Keeping up with his newly married friends? Who knew, exactly? The whole thing had been a mess, they’d just been too close to see it.
If only Brittney hadn’t been involved. To lose her best friend as well as her fiancé in one fell swoop had been a huge blow. The two of them, betraying her like that, had shattered her trust in people. She was forever damaged. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t seek pleasure when she wanted it, as long as she remembered to keep the walls around her battered heart strong and tall. She pictured a mediaeval fortress inside her chest and smiled grimly. Maybe she could even add a moat.
She wished she had her parents to talk to about all this. Or anyone, for that matter. Maybe she’d call Madison later. She probably wouldn’t discuss Jesse—and certainly not the paranormal stuff—but it would be good to chat with someone from home. She needed to nurture the friendships she had in the city for when she returned.
At least the ghost had left her alone last night. It had been quiet and she’d slept great, although Jesse had featured in several steamy dreams. They’d been texting frequently since last night, when she’d let him know she was home safe, as promised. He’d checked in later and let her know the dog was stable. A warm mix of relief and joy had spread through her at the news. Another emotion had snuck in, too…admiration. She was impressed with his abilities.
Then he’d called her this morning, when he’d had a lull at work, and they’d batted around some ideas about Martha. Maybe it hadn’t been an accident or a murder…maybe she’d taken her own life after the emotional pain of the miscarriage. Maybe it was Martha who needed absolution in order to move on.
Either way, Lark was glad things had been quiet. This morning before her shift, she’d managed to set up a few appointments to get estimates on some of the work needed around the house. There was money in the trust designated for upkeep, but she had to be careful. She’d need to have enough for taxes, especially if it took a while to sell the house once she’d put it on the market.
Up ahead, a rabbit darted across the road, and she smiled to herself. She had to admit, it was nice seeing wildlife other than pigeons and squirrels, and the occasional rat. A flock of turkeys had been visiting her birdfeeder, drawn to the spilled seed. She’d been meaning to photograph them, but she was slightly concerned about what other images she might capture if she started taking more pictures of her backyard.
Her breathing became ragged as she pushed herself up the steep hill at the end of the road. From there, she’d head down the dunes and run along the beach. She’d thought about asking Jesse if he wanted to go with her, but he’d mentioned something about having practice tonight with his summer soccer league team.
As she made her way down toward the water, she did her best to clear her mind and appreciate the beauty surrounding her. The warm evening sun on her shoulders and the fresh, salty air in her lungs. Now that summer was in full swing, there were more people on the beach, even at this late hour.
Farther down the beach, a few people stood in a cluster, pointing out at the ocean, and she slowed to see what they were looking at. Seals were bobbing near the surf, their smooth dark heads popping up from the water as they searched for fish.
By the time she made her way back to the house, the sun had disappeared behind the tree line, draining the sky of its golden hue and replacing it with shades of rose and violet. Soon it would be the ‘blue hour’, that time of day between sunset and twilight that photographers coveted. She briefly considered grabbing her camera and setting up some shots, but she was tired and dripping with sweat. Instead, she let herself into the house and wandered into the kitchen. Grabbling a bottle of water, she sank into a chair at the little table. As she guzzled the water, she reached for a few sheets of paper from the top of a pile and fanned her face. Perspiration ran in rivulets from her temples and the back of her neck. As soon as she had cooled down, she’d jump in the shower.
Her gaze landed on a corner of paper she’d revealed when she’d disturbed the pile. The family tree she’d created. The euphoria derived from exercise seeped away by a few degrees as her thoughts turned back to her parents. Once again, she wished it was one of them trying to connect with her from beyond, and not a distant relative she’d never known. Still, it helped to keep in mind that Martha was a relative, and hopefully didn’t mean Lark any harm. She just needed to find out what it was she wanted. Or needed.
“What is it you need, Martha?” sh
e murmured, her heart rate speeding back up as she realized she’d spoken aloud. That had gotten her into trouble before. Then again, communication might be the only way to solve this. It was just probably a bad idea to invite that communication after the sun had gone down.
Sighing, she pushed herself up, passing Preston’s cat tower and giving him a quick pat before she climbed the stairs. She allowed herself a long shower, luxuriating in the warm spray of water over her sore muscles. It probably would have been an even better idea to take a bath, she realized as she rinsed conditioner from her hair. A long soak in the tub sounded decadent. Maybe tomorrow night after work.
As she stepped out of the shower, the bathroom lights flickered, and she froze, her breath catching. Uh oh. She remained motionless, as if that might keep anything else from happening, her towel clutched against her damp chest. Another quick sputter plunged her into total darkness, and she blinked against the sudden curtain of black.
Before she could react, the lights returned—slowly, as if someone was increasing the power strength by reversing a dimmer switch. The breath she’d been holding came out in a painful whoosh. Maybe just a power surge? It was an old house.
You spoke to Martha, a chastising inner voice reminded her. You literally asked her what she needed. Idiot. She opened the towel and wrapped it around herself, securing it in a knot. Okay. Everything was fine. Still, she’d prefer to hurry up and get out of this room. Stepping in front of the sink, she swiped at the steam fogging the surface of the mirror.
The face that stared back at her was not her own.
The eyes were brown, not green. No dusting of freckles across the cheekbones. Pointier chin, thinner lips, higher forehead. Long hair that was brown, not red. And not wet.
Lark screamed, and suddenly it was her own face in the mirror—her familiar features, her green eyes, wide with fear but recognizable. No sign of the intruder. Still, she spun around, her heart flailing like a trapped bird.
No one was there. Reaching back, she gripped the sink with trembling hands. What was happening? Or rather, who was happening? The rogue face was already fading from her memory, but she was certain of one thing: the mysterious woman in the mirror had been young. Younger than Lark. If it was Martha, it was a young Martha. Was that how ghosts worked?
Before she could change her mind, before she lost the details, she raced through the hall and into her bedroom. Slowing at the door to the study, she scanned the room, then cautiously approached the portrait of Martha. It still hung on the wall, suspended in time, devoid of its partner.
It wasn’t the same face.
Martha’s eyes were a pale shade of blue, not brown. Her chin was soft, not angular, and the flare of her nose was nothing like the girl in the mirror’s. The shape of her face was different; even the hairline was different.
Oh, God. Confusion and dread spun together in her stomach like an out-of-control carnival ride. Had she gotten everything wrong? Did John and Martha have nothing at all to do with the haunting?
She backed away from the portrait slowly, her legs numb and unsteady. Her bare foot bumped against the fallen portrait on the floor, and she nearly shrieked. Pressing her lips together, she stared for a moment at the back of John’s portrait. None of this made any sense. Strange things had started happening in the house after Martha died. The house hadn’t even existed until they built it; no one else had lived here before them. The haunting had to be connected to the Holloways.
But then, whose face had been in the mirror?
Once she’d made it into her bedroom, she sank down on the edge of the bed. Maybe there was an explanation for the face in the mirror she hadn’t thought of: maybe she was finally cracking up. She’d certainly been under a lot of stress lately. “It doesn’t make any sense,” she moaned, dropping her head into her hands. Her hair fell forward in ropey tendrils, dripping water onto the floor. She hadn’t bothered to towel it dry in her rush to get out of the bathroom.
A heavy thud rattled the floorboards, and she sprang to her feet, clutching the towel to her hammering heart. Now what? Her eyes snapped to the doorway of the study. Something else had fallen. Or had been pushed. Would this nightmare never end?
It will end when you figure this mystery out, her inner voice insisted. The ghost is trying to communicate. Be brave. Pretend it’s your parents.
She took a tentative step forward, trying to force her dry throat to swallow back the fear. Despite her internal pep talk, she knew it wasn’t her parents. Maybe it wasn’t even a relative. She inched toward the open door, goosebumps rising over every inch of her skin. That terrible chill was slithering out of the study, coiling around her. Shivers wracked her body as she peered into the room, fully expecting to find Martha’s portrait missing from the wall, joined with John’s to send some kind of indecipherable message.
She sucked in a breath as her eyes landed on Martha’s portrait, intact and exactly where it had been a few minutes ago. Her gaze dropped to the floor, landing on a thick book beneath the shelf.
Not just a book, she realized as she moved closer. A Bible. Open to a page of handwritten notes.
Her hand rose in slow-motion to cover her mouth. She’d noticed the Bible on the shelf at some point…why hadn’t she thought to look inside? Sometimes people kept family records in there; certainly a pastor would be especially likely to do that. Computer word documents and the internet had not existed during John and Martha’s lifetime.
She bent forward, snatching it up as if a bony claw might shoot out from under the bookshelf and grab her wrist. The spine was worn and loose, and she made sure she marked the page it had fallen open to with her finger as she spun back toward the door. The room was so cold, she was surprised her breath didn’t crystalize into puffs of smoky vapor as she fled.
Setting the Bible on the bed, she quickly changed into the warmest clothes she could find. What she’d really like was that warm bath, but no way was she going back in there right now. She hoped the whole spirit-in-the-mirror thing wouldn’t affect Preston—he seemed to feel the bathroom was his safe space. At least he also liked his cat tower downstairs.
Downstairs sounded like a good idea. She didn’t want to be up here. Wrapping her hair in the towel, she picked up the Bible and headed down to the kitchen, taking the back staircase from the middle landing. She poured milk into a mug, heated it the microwave, and sat back down at the kitchen table.
A cursive “Births and Deaths” headed the left page, with lines underneath for entries. A few births were listed from what appeared to be Martha’s side of the family. Lark recognized some names from the family tree she’d constructed. Two daughters had been born to Martha’s sister, Elizabeth; the eldest, Joan—the owner of the house before Lark—had a birth date recorded in 1930. The most recent death listed was a Holloway, so one of John’s relatives. A brother, perhaps? She didn’t linger over it, since it was a male name. Martha’s death hadn’t been recorded—John had probably been too distraught.
The right page was dedicated to “Important Dates”. She studied the last two entries. “Moved into the new house—May 22, 1946”. Then: “Eva arrived—October 12, 1949”.
She stilled. Eva? Who the heck was Eva? Her heart thudded against her ribcage as she wracked her brain. It wasn’t a baby; there hadn’t been one. Unless it referred to a miscarriage or a stillbirth? Something like that belonged on the opposite side though, under births and deaths. A tingling sensation spread through her nervous system. She was onto something. She could feel it.
Who could have arrived here in October of 1949? She pulled the family tree from the pile of papers and glanced over it. No one named Eva.
The answer slammed into her, nearly taking her breath away as she rocked back in the chair. The housekeeper! There was someone else living here, according to what Jesse had told her last night. Someone hired in response to Martha’s declining health, to help with housework and cooking. Maybe even to help care for Martha.
Despite all the terror throw
n at her this evening, her feet tapped out an excited dance beneath the table. The woman in the mirror had to be Eva. Now she just needed to find out everything she could about the mystery housekeeper.
She reached for her phone, eager to text Jesse. But she paused as she thumbed the screen, remembering her plan. Keeping an emotional distance was her armor. She had to quell the instinct to immediately share things with him. She could do her own homework tonight, emailing the lawyer, the realtor…anyone who might know who Eva had been. She wasn’t sure how to frame the bizarre question without sounding a bit crazy, but she’d figure it out. Then, tomorrow, she could fill Jesse in and maybe ask him to see what his mother could find out. Yes. That way, he wouldn’t worry about her tonight either. She wasn’t sure she would be able to say no if he invited her to his place. If that happened, she was pretty sure other stuff would happen. It would be one thing if they ended up having sex one of these days. Another thing entirely if she also started sleeping over at his house.
Somehow she had come full circle, back to Jesse. She dragged her fingers through her damp hair in an attempt to dislodge him from her brain. Then she opened up her emails and started typing.
12
“Are you okay?” one of the waitresses, Tatiana, asked. “You seem jumpy tonight.”
That was the right word for it. When Lark had come out of the bathroom stall to find Tatiana in front of the mirrors, fixing her ponytail, Lark had startled, complete with a little “Oh!” of surprise.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she assured Tatiana. It’s just that two nights ago, I saw a ghost in my own bathroom mirror, and I’ve been a little on edge since then. “Just too much caffeine today,” she finished out loud, which wasn’t exactly true.
Ghost Moon (Haunting Romance) Page 10