The jeans I pulled on were the kind you wear when you want to be comfortable, broken in with little holes in the knees and the seat. I planned to spend the day unpacking and removing the layer of dust that coated everything in my new home. Just when I’d started working on my hair, the doorbell rang. I jogged down the stairs and checked the window.
It was Rick—hoodoo Rick—in a black cotton button-down shirt, blue jeans, and black boots. Sexy. I wished I had already done my makeup …and owned a Taser. I opened the door.
“I came by to check on you. How are you feeling today?” he said.
I stepped out on the porch, closing the door behind me. “Better.”
“What exactly happened last night? You came to my door screaming and then passed out. I carried you home.”
“Bad dream,” I said. I wasn’t sure how much I should share with Rick after what I saw the night before. He was into some weird stuff. I’m not the judgmental type, but the human skulls were a definite red flag. I mean, where did he get them? They weren’t exactly handing them out at Red Grove Grocery.
“Are you sure it wasn’t something more? Has anything unusual happened since you’ve been here?” He tilted his head toward the house.
I narrowed my eyes. It almost sounded like he was digging for information about my ghost. He’d brought up the possibility of a haunting his first time here. I was suspicious.
“Not at all,” I answered. He looked at me skeptically, so I threw him a curveball. “Well, maybe seeing all that weird stuff in your house.”
“What weird stuff?”
“You know, the candles, the skulls…”
“Grateful, had you been drinking last night?”
“No!”
He stood up and offered me his hand, his long, graceful fingers beckoning me. “Come, come with me.” His gray eyes twinkled beneath thick lashes, the sun glowing behind his head like a halo. Inexplicably, an avalanche of attraction rumbled down my spinal cord. Deep inside my muscles clenched, compelling me to accept his grasp. I allowed him to lead me down the porch steps, my stomach fluttering the whole way. My senses were on overload. A slight breeze was a taunting caress.
Surprised at the sensation the touch produced, I didn’t immediately withdraw when we reached the bottom of the steps. My fingers were at home in his, as if we’d been holding hands for decades instead of days. We walked hand in hand all the way to his little stone cottage across the bridge.
The delicate tinkling of wind chimes welcomed us. Dozens of them dangled from the ceiling of the little cedar porch. Their sound reached me about the same time as the smell of the wild herbs growing around his home. Strange, I hadn’t noticed either last night. I must have been hysterical.
Rick opened the door to his place and I followed him inside. The cottage was sparsely decorated. But what did I expect? I didn’t figure that the job of cemetery caretaker was as lucrative as some others. There was a couch with a crocheted blanket, the kind grandmas everywhere made for their grandkids and a dusty television that looked like it belonged in a museum. A wood stump held up a lamp in the shape of a lantern. On the wall, across from the door there was a crucifix—one small gold crucifix. No skulls, no candles, no devilish pictures. Had I created it all in my mind?
My head hurt again. I rubbed circles over my temples. In a heartbeat, Rick’s hands were rubbing my shoulders.
“Can I get you some water?” he whispered into my ear.
“Yes, please. No. Coffee. Do you have coffee?”
“Just made a pot.” He walked toward the tiny kitchen that was separated from the main room by a counter. It seemed only big enough for one, so I stayed where I was.
“I’m sorry, Rick. I don’t know what happened last night.”
“You were frightened. Maybe you were still half asleep. “
“I was completely terrified.”
“Well, that explains it. You passed out at my door. Your nightmare must’ve continued when you lost consciousness.”
That made sense, but something inside of me wouldn’t let it go. The ghost was real and this was too. I walked toward the only door to the rear of the house and pushed it open, sure there would be skulls and candles piled behind the wood. What I found was a king-sized bed, black silk sheets, and gauzy white window coverings that filtered the light into a soft glow. Was there anything about this guy that didn’t scream sexy?
As if he could hear my thoughts, a mug of coffee appeared in front of me. Boy, was he smooth; I never even heard him leave the kitchen. He was close, so close his chest brushed my back. Wrapped around me with the coffee, his inner arm created a warm tingle where it touched my outer shoulder.
He inhaled deeply and whispered into my ear, “Is there something you want to see in my bedroom?”
The caress of his breath on my neck made me shiver. I closed my eyes, and everything went quiet but the rhythm of my breath and the lub-dub of my heart. Everything in me wanted to turn, to move those last two inches and press my lips against this stranger’s. With a shake of my head, I swallowed hard and took a step away.
“No.” Yes, you liar! I turned my back to the bed and faced him.
The corners of his mouth sagged and his head jerked backward.
I lifted the mug from his hand. The sweep of his fingers against mine in the process made my mouth go dry. “I mean, I hardly know you,” I blurted.
“It didn’t bother you the night before last, mi cielo.”
I couldn’t argue with the facts. I’d practically jumped him on my couch less than forty-eight hours ago, and now I was playing coy. “I don’t usually…” I sighed. “I just think we shouldn’t rush into anything. It wouldn’t be right.”
“So get to know me. Have lunch with me today. I’ll give you that tour of the cemetery I promised you, and then we can have a picnic lunch on Monk’s Hill.”
“Where’s Monk’s Hill?”
“Come with me this afternoon and I’ll show you.”
Our eyes locked. His were gray, not black. What had happened last night? What had I seen? “Deal,” I said, my insides quivering at the thought.
“Meet back here at noon?”
“Sure. Sounds fun,” I said.
The corner of his mouth lifted into a lopsided grin, and something inside of me melted. I wanted to run my fingers over the cotton of his shirt and feel the contrast between the soft material and the hard muscles underneath. “It’s a date.”
I nodded, hyperaware that it was the second time I’d heard those words today.
“You haven’t tried your coffee,” he said, stepping closer.
I took a deep swig. The coffee itself was slightly bitter, but he’d added my favorite accouterments. “How did you know?” I asked.
“Know what?”
“This is exactly how I take my coffee—cream and sugar with a dash of cinnamon.”
“Lucky, I guess. That’s how I take mine too.”
He was so close to me now, the only thing that kept us from touching was the coffee mug. It radiated a circle of heat that warmed my chest but had nothing to do with the burn working its way down my body under his intense stare. I swallowed another gulp and forced myself to blink to break the connection.
“Can I borrow this mug?” I asked. “I should probably get home. I haven’t even unpacked yet.”
“Of course. I’ll get it back from you later.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.” I backed toward the door.
“Oh, and Grateful,” he said with a smile that made my heart skip a beat. “Wear your walking shoes.”
Now, I am not the type of girl who usually dates two men at once, but since the ghost was dead, I didn’t think he counted as a real date. I mean, he didn’t have a body. I was sure this situation wasn’t covered in Cosmo’s dating guide. So I felt no guilt whatsoever as I walked out of Rick’s door.
I decided I’d keep an open mind about both dates—one with the ghost and one with the graveyard.
Chapter 6
&n
bsp; I Take The Tour
I finished unpacking my moving box and rummaged through my closet for something to wear. I decided to go with jeans, but I changed out of my comfy ones and into some that fell lower on the hip and were more form-fitting. Then I tossed on a black lace camisole. It showcased just enough cleavage to prove I put some effort into my appearance but had enough support and coverage to be appropriate for a first date.
I was finishing my makeup when the phone rang, Michelle calling me back.
“I called as soon as I got your message. What’s going on? You sounded frantic.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Grateful, I’m between classes. Spill the beans!”
“My house is haunted.”
Silence. I could hear Michelle breathing but nothing more. Then she broke into laughter. “Very funny. But really, if you want to joke with me, do it when I don’t have school. Okay?”
“I’m serious. But, it’s all right. Turns out he’s a friendly ghost.”
“Yeah, okay, hon. Joke’s over. Gotta go.” The call ended and Michelle was gone.
Well, what did I expect? It wasn’t exactly a believable story. I tossed the phone down on the dresser, noticing it left a trail as it slid across the dusty wood. Jeez, I desperately needed to clean in here.
With my finger, I wrote myself a note in the filth. Clean me. Good enough. I’d get to it later. Probably.
It was almost noon, so I locked up and met Rick at his cottage. After I returned his mug, he slipped his arm through a picnic basket waiting on the small table near the kitchen and opened the door for me.
“You made lunch?”
“Of course.”
“Can you cook?”
“When you live alone as long as I have, you need skills.” He smiled and held out his hand. I didn’t hesitate this time. I slid my fingers into his and savored the resulting ache his touch elicited.
Rick led me across the street, the basket swinging from his elbow.
“You look like red riding hood with that basket,” I quipped.
He paused, his intense stare making my heartbeat quicken. “Funny, with you I feel more like the big, bad wolf.”
Damn! I swallowed hard.
He continued to an iron gate that looked exactly like the one in my backyard. This was an entrance to the same cemetery. From the street, you couldn’t see the headstones because of tall hedges and a series of maple trees lining the path within.
It dawned on me that this was where I’d first laid eyes on him, driving into town. A heap of fresh earth told me why he’d been digging; a new signpost to the left of the gate read Monk’s Hill Cemetery: trespassers will be prosecuted.
“Do you get a lot of trespassers?”
“You would be surprised.”
“What about the people who come to visit loved ones? How do they get in?”
“There are none. The youngest grave is over one hundred years old. No surviving relatives.”
“So you maintain this place for no one?”
“It has historical significance, but to be honest, you’re correct. It’s been years since anyone else was here.”
Weird. As we crossed the threshold of the gate, I felt both privileged and a little freaked out by the remoteness of it.
“Did you know there’s a gate behind my house?” I asked.
“Yes. The only other one besides this one.”
“Why?”
Releasing my hand, he retrieved a heavy key from his pocket and locked the gate behind us. “I wouldn’t want you to get away, mi cielo,” he said playfully, ignoring my question.
Mi cielo. There it was again. My sky. A warm feeling blossomed behind my breastbone at the pet name. It was so romantic. The smell of the outdoors rolled off him again, this time with a hint of fresh rain. My mind went blank.
“Are you wearing cologne?” I asked.
He lifted the corner of his mouth. “You like how I smell? This is a good start.”
Captivated by his smile and the way his lips moved when he spoke, my head swam, maybe because all of my blood had rushed south, called by the heat he elicited. I stepped off the trail and almost walked into a headstone. When I realized what I’d done, I pulled up short of the faded stone marker.
“Watch your step,” he said, steadying me with a hand that seemed to fill the space between my elbow and shoulder. “You’re treading on Martha Whitacker.”
“Oh!” I scurried back onto the path.
He laughed. “Just teasing. She’s a long way from caring. This is one of the oldest graves in the cemetery. She was an early financier of Reverend Monk’s.”
“Reverend Monk?”
“The man Monk’s Hill Cemetery is named for.” He pointed up the hill toward a quaint chapel. “I want to take you there, to Monk’s church. I’ll show you where he and his wife are buried.”
He rejoined our fingers and led me to a winding pebble trail. With my hand in his, our shoulders bumped as we walked. Whether from the sunlight or the heat coming off him, I broke a faint sweat.
Rick knew all about the people buried around Monk’s Hill. Most of them were associated in one way or another with Reverend Monk’s ministry. I tried to pay attention, but it was difficult to hear what he was saying when my eyes kept fixating on how the muscles of his shoulders and chest formed a deep groove behind his collarbone. I wondered how it would feel to kiss that spot at the base of his neck. Could I wrap my fingers around his bicep? Was his stomach as hard as it looked?
“—and this is Monk’s Hill Church,” he said.
The top of the hill afforded a spectacular view of the cemetery. From this height, I could see that the topography wasn’t a traditional rectangle shape but a large five-pointed star in a circle of wrought iron fencing. My house was past the point to the west.
“This is unexpectedly picturesque,” I said. For a place where people were buried, Monk’s Hill was surprisingly homey. The full-sized maple and oak trees gave the cemetery warmth, like a park or forest preserve. I turned my face toward the cloudless blue sky and then the wooden church behind me.
“Would you like to see inside?”
“Absolutely.”
Rick led the way. Behind a painted black door, two rows of wooden pews stretched toward on altar. Rick explained that the iron bins at the foot of the pews were where churchgoers would place their coals in the winter. The sconces on the walls and at the ends of the pews were for candles. Women used to sit on the left and men on the right.
“So, no one uses the church anymore?”
“No. Not regularly. There was a wedding here a few years back but not many people want to drive all the way out here for a ceremony.”
“It’s a shame, really. It’s beautiful.” For a moment, I pictured the aisle lined with sprays of white flowers, candles lit and flickering in the sconces, a handsome groom waiting with a priest at the altar. This church was grossly underutilized.
I was pulled from my reverie when I noticed the oil paintings lining the walls. “Do you mind if I look at the art?”
“Go ahead. They’re paintings of the parishioners.”
I wandered up a row toward the most recent-looking one, while Rick hung back by the altar. The portrait was labeled 1692. Stoic-faced men and women with gaunt cheeks and dark clothes were lined up in the churchyard.
“These people look like pilgrims.”
“Technically, Puritans, but the terms are used interchangeably these days.”
I squinted at the details in the portrait. They each had a large book in their hands, probably a Bible. I scanned the hollow faces, looking for some hint of emotion. “Why didn’t people smile in old pictures?” I turned toward Rick, who was watching me, motionless, and with an unreadable expression.
“Life was harder then,” he said. “People here were desperate. Starving.”
“Starving?”
“In sixteen eighty-nine there was a war north of here, King William’s War. Refugees fro
m Canada and upstate New York settled here in Red Grove. The people who were here first, Monk’s parishioners, welcomed the refugees in because that’s what Puritans did. Hospitality was part of their religion. But they were farmers, and that year there was a drought. There wasn’t enough food to feed themselves and the refugees.”
“How awful. What did they do?”
“Some of them died. The old ones. The weak ones. Some others were able to feed themselves by hunting in the woods. All of them asked Reverend Monk for help.”
“You mean, like, to pray? To ask for rain?”
“Yes. But more. Word from Salem was there had been a confession of witchcraft. Salem was starving too, but they were doing something about it. They were finding the witches who caused the problem and burning them.”
“Wait, are you talking about the Salem witch trials?”
“Yes.”
“But obviously, there are no such things as witches. I think I read somewhere that the whole thing in Salem was caused by mass hysteria. Did Monk really believe the drought was caused by a witch?”
“Oh, yes. The hysteria had made it all the way to Red Grove, and his parishioners insisted he weed out the witch. They got more than they bargained for from Monk though, as legend has it.” Rick smiled and shook his head. “I’m boring you with my stories. Let’s enjoy our lunch and this beautiful afternoon.”
“I’m not bored,” I said. “The Salem witch trials are super creepy. I had no idea they extended all the way to New Hampshire. But I’m hungry and more than curious about what’s in the picnic basket. Save the story for later?”
“Of course.”
The spot we chose for lunch was under the shade of an elm tree. Rick spread out a gigantic burgundy blanket made of plush velvet. We removed our shoes and sat cross-legged in the middle. From the picnic basket he pulled two wine glasses and a bottle of Shiraz.
“Your favorite, if I remember correctly.”
I nodded. “But I don’t think I should have any.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just…I want you to respect me. And, well, I think, last time, I moved too fast.”
The Ghost and The Graveyard (The Monk's Hill Witch) Page 4