by Joanne Pence
Seeing Chelsea’s forlorn face, Angie wanted nothing more than to give this whole crowd a piece of her mind. It was wrong of Moira to have given the tarot cards the spin she did, and to have allowed Chelsea to think that a ghost was going to visit her.
“Is that why you didn’t come to breakfast or lunch today?” Angie asked.
“I didn’t want to take the chance that he’d come here while I was out.” Chelsea wiped away her tears.
“Would you like me to bring you something to eat?” Angie asked.
“No. For once, I’ve decided food will come second for me.” She glanced down at her girth and gave a wry smile. “I’m going to fast until he appears.”
“That’ll make him appear for sure.”
“Do you think so?”
Angie bit her tongue. The words Moira once spoke, saying that Chelsea’s wealthy parents had thought the inn a good investment for Chelsea, made Angie wonder if part of their willingness to pay wasn’t because they wanted to keep Chelsea away from them. But dealing with Chelsea’s naïveté by shunting her away like this was no solution. And for Finley Tay to have taken advantage of the situation was reprehensible. “You have to remember one thing, Chelsea. It’s possible that ghosts—well, those on the ‘other side’ as they call it—don’t exist in the same time zone as we do. His ‘tomorrow’ might not be exactly the same as your tomorrow. So if he doesn’t show up today, I don’t want you to be too disappointed. Promise?”
“I was worried about that myself.” Chelsea sighed. “But then I decided he would translate into my time frame. He’ll be here. He won’t disappoint me.”
“Chelsea, you can’t count on ghosts.”
“You can’t? How do you know?”
Good question. “My Italian grandmother told me. She knows all about ghosts and spirits and the evil eye.”
“The evil eye? What’s that?”
“It’s when someone puts a hex on you. Salt helps ward it off, if I remember right.”
“Salt? Well, that’s good.” Chelsea pulled a big bag of Ruffles out of the armoire and opened it. “Have some. Then we won’t have to worry about evil eyes, at least.”
Angie’s eyes lit up and she grabbed a handful of salty, fat-laden, fried potato chips.
“Here,” Chelsea said, handing her a Pepsi-Cola from under the bed. “Something to wash them down with.”
It was the real thing, not the caffeine-free, diet variety.
“Where’d you get all this?”
“I stocked up before I came. Not that I don’t love the food here. This is just in case I feel stressed.”
“I know what you mean.” Angie popped open the can and drank. Warm, but tasty nonetheless. “I often turn to chocolate, myself.”
Chelsea giggled. “Me, too.” She opened the top drawer of her nightstand. Snickers. Mounds. Butterfingers. Oh! Henrys. A bag full of Reese’s, another of Hershey’s Kisses, and two packages of Oreos. “Have some.”
It was too much to resist. Angie reached for a Snickers. “I like your kind of fasting.”
Chelsea kicked her shoes off, then arranged herself Indian style at the foot of the big double bed. Angie did the same. “Finley always said lunch should be no more than a single piece of fruit or a raw vegetable,” Chelsea said. “Light and healthy.”
The Snickers tasted better than ever. Angie was close to heaven. “This would be perfect if we had some real coffee,” she said.
“No problem. I keep a little electric Krups in the bathroom, and I brought some French roast from home. I’ll put it right on.”
“Chelsea, I love you!” Angie called into the bathroom where Chelsea had gone with her bag of coffee.
“I knew I’d hear those words today,” Chelsea called back over the whir of her coffee grinder. “Only I’d hoped it would be Jack Sempler who’d say them to me.” In a minute, she came out and took her place on the bed.
“What makes you so interested in Jack Sempler?” Angie asked. “Where did you first hear about him?”
“Have you ever experienced dejà vu, Angie?”
“Hasn’t everyone?”
“I mean the real thing. Like you know you’ve been somewhere or known someone before. In a past life, for instance.”
“No, I guess not.”
“Well, I did. I was at a paranormal convention in Anaheim, looking at materials about ghosts. Finley was there telling people about the inn he’d be opening in a few months and inviting them to it. He talked about the healthful regimen he’d have, but also about the Sempler ghosts. He handed out pictures.
“One of them was of Jack Sempler. The one over the mantel in the library. When I saw him, I knew him. I really did. I looked at those sad eyes searching the horizon and I knew he was searching for me. I’ve felt the same way.” She twisted her pearl ring.
Angie leaned forward. “What do you mean? What way?”
“Like…like there should be someone out there for me, but I don’t know how to find him. And if I don’t find him, then I’ll have to go through this life, through my whole life, all alone. Just like Jack did.” Chelsea took a bite out of a Mounds and didn’t say any more until she swallowed it. “You’ll probably think it’s silly, but I used to visualize myself with the man I love. I used to think he was Elvis.”
Angie swallowed an unchewed bite of Snickers and nearly choked on it.
“But I was wrong,” Chelsea continued.
Angie nodded, her eyes watering.
“I now realize that the man looked like Jack.”
“This was before you ever saw Jack Sempler’s picture?” Angie asked.
“That’s right.”
“Wow.” Angie put her chin in her hands. She couldn’t imagine visualizing the love of her life wearing a high stand-up collar and riding britches. But she could imagine someone like that before she’d ever imagine Elvis. Imagining a homicide cop was probably somewhere in between.
“Spooky, isn’t it? They say that if you visualize something enough, it’ll come true. I’ve visualized Jack Sempler until I nearly wore out my eyeballs! Now I just, well, I love him. I don’t know what else to say. And I have to see him again.”
“Again?”
“I believe in reincarnation. I believe we knew each other in a past life.”
Speechless, Angie nodded. Chelsea sighed, then poured them each a cup of coffee.
“And so that’s why you became an investor in the inn?” Angie asked.
“Yes. This way, I can come here whenever I want and stay in this very room. Jack’s room. It’s really much cheaper in the long run, as Finley explained to me before I gave him my money.”
“I’m sure,” Angie said, taking a deep, satisfying swallow of the steaming brew. She felt nerve endings and capillaries throughout her body crying in unison: caffeine, yes!
“Since Jack died here, his ghost is here.” Chelsea stuffed a couple Reese’s Pieces in her mouth.
“It’s strange no one knows how he died.”
“I think it was because he never found the woman he was destined to love.” Chelsea hesitated, then as if floodgates opened, words gushed out. “I understand him, Angie. I’ve never found the man in this life that I should love. But there’s got to be someone for me. I can feel it in my heart. I’m filled with love to give. But I can’t find anyone to love me in return.”
Angie’s eyes stung, but it wasn’t from the candy this time. “You will, Chelsea,” she said softly.
Chelsea shook her head. “No. I’ve tried hard. Nothing’s worked. I’m not very good-looking.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your looks.”
Chelsea didn’t appear convinced. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re thin, not to mention pretty.”
“That doesn’t mean I can get the right man to love me the way I’d like,” Angie said, and sighed. “Not at all.”
They pondered this a moment, then each took another candy bar.
“You think, then, that Jack’s true love wasn’t Elise?” Angie
asked after a while. Her head was beginning to spin from so much chocolate.
“No, not Elise. He never really loved her. If he had, he wouldn’t have left. No one knows the name of his true love. But I’ve heard she had long red hair and big green eyes.”
Looking at the red hair and green eyes of the woman before her, Angie felt a chill. “Finley told you all that?”
“Moira and Finley did. Now that Finley’s gone, though, I don’t know what’ll happen to the inn, or my investment. All I know is that Reginald Vane will be happy.” Chelsea munched on her Oh! Henry.
“Reginald? Why?”
“His main interest in the inn is to see that it doesn’t open. He thinks it’s wrong to disturb the ghosts who live here.”
“So he became an investor? He wants to lose money?”
“That doesn’t make sense, does it?” Chelsea admitted.
Angie stood. “Promise me you’ll at least come down to have dinner with us.”
“I can’t. Give my best to Moira, though. I don’t think I want to see her quite yet.”
“Okay.”
“Angie, thanks for coming here. You’re the first one who’s listened to me. The first one who’s tried to understand.”
“I’m glad we had this chance to talk,” Angie said. “I’ll bring you up a dinner plate later.” She quietly closed the door as she left.
13
With the discovery of Finley’s body, the desire to find Patsy alive and well had whipped everyone but Moira into a frenzy of activity. No one wanted to consider that what had happened to Finley could have happened to Patsy as well.
They’d find her.
Angie made a big pot of vegetable minestrone, served with lots of grated parmesan on top, along with bread, cheese, and a big vegetable salad. The lack of meat bothered her, but since the storm hadn’t let up, she realized she had to be frugal with the food. What if it wasn’t as easy as everyone thought to dig their way out of here? She was afraid of using too many of their supplies in case they’d need them later. She hadn’t grown up with stories of the Donner party starving while crossing into California for nothing.
As those who went outdoors to search for Patsy grew tired, cold, or hungry, they would come inside and eat a bowl of hot soup before going out to look for her once more. But as night fell, an icy wind from the north hit, along with the constant rain. More and more of the group found themselves indoors and hesitant to go out again.
By midnight, Angie sat alone, half-asleep on the velvet settee in the drawing room, listening for Paavo’s footstep. Everyone else had gone to bed. Only the small night-light and the last embers from the evening’s fire lit the room.
The front door opened, then shut. It was him. Relief flooded her as she sat up. “Any luck?”
He stopped and peered into the darkness. Shrugging off his slicker, he hung it on the hook in the foyer, then came toward her. “What are you doing down here?”
“I wanted to see you,” she said tentatively; then, becoming bolder, she added, “I’ve missed you.”
He sat beside her, his arms tight around her as he leaned back on the sofa. She could feel the weariness in him, the frustration. She lay her head against his chest, listening to the steady pounding of his heart, her arms about his waist. “This isn’t exactly the kind of week you were expecting,” he whispered.
“Do what you must, Paavo.” She lifted her head. In the darkness, the shadows were deep under his eyes. She touched his face, finding it rough and scratchy, in need of a shave. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be the man I love.”
He kissed her once, twice—soft, gentle kisses. He stopped, but his hands continued to drift up and down her back while intense blue eyes searched hers. “I came in to warm up a bit. I’ve got to go back. We’ve got to find her.”
“It’s too late to do more tonight. Come to bed, Paavo.”
“Jeffers, Bayman, and Vane are still out there somewhere.”
She held his shoulders. “Actually,” she began, “Martin came in and passed out, so Bethel and I got him up to bed. It seems the whiskey he was using to keep warm had another effect on him. Reginald Vane came in about an hour ago, half dead from cold and weariness. And earlier, Running Spirit came in and went to Moira’s room. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Great!” Paavo said. “The dutiful husband.”
“You need some sleep.”
“I’m used to long nights at work. This is no different. It’d be a lot easier if I had some real coffee, but—”
“Ah!” she cried, here a big smile brightening the darkness. “Ask and ye shall receive.”
“What?”
She ran a few steps in front of him, then crooked her finger. “Come with me to the kitchen, said the spider to the fly.”
He chuckled and followed.
Angie had borrowed some French roast and a handful of Hershey’s Kisses from Chelsea, planning on an after-dinner surprise for Paavo. But he’d been out.
The inn didn’t have a cappuccino machine, so the caffè mòca she was making wouldn’t have any nice frothy milk on top. But it’d be delicious nonetheless. Being his first cup of real coffee since he’d arrived at Hill Haven Inn—was it only three days ago?—would make it particularly special.
She stood over the stove in the kitchen, stirring the chocolate so it wouldn’t burn.
She found it pleasant being here in the warmth and coziness of the quiet room. When she was young, she’d loved to sit in their old-fashioned kitchen and watch her mother cook. Serefina would take boneless rump roast and cut it into long, thin strips. She’d spread the strips with chopped parsley and garlic, roll them up, and hold them together with toothpicks. Cooking them all day in a red spaghetti sauce would make the sauce thick and tasty and the meat so tender it could be cut with a fork. Whenever Angie smelled that certain blend of spices, particularly the hint of anise and basil Serefina used in her sauce, she felt right at home again.
Paavo leaned against the sink, lost in thought, one foot crossed over the other, his hands in his pockets. Seeing him in the kitchen caused her to notice anew how tall and broad-shouldered he was, how sharp and analytical his gaze could be, how stern his features. But then his gaze caught hers, and his features softened. She smiled.
“What’s the smile for?” he asked.
“You.” The chocolate was melting fast now. “Even though I’d hoped you’d be able to rest this week, and that we’d get to spend a lot of time together, a nice woman is out there somewhere, lost or hurt.” She held the spoon still a moment. “I can’t tell you how proud I am of all you’re doing to try to find her.”
Paavo stepped up behind her, his large hands spanning her waist; that simple touch brought a quickening in her, an awareness that prickled her skin. He had to go back outside, she reminded herself, fighting the feeling. Back to search for Patsy.
“So you’ve forgiven me for spending so much time away from you?” He breathed the words against her hair.
“Don’t I always forgive you everything?” She stirred faster.
“Do you?” He moved closer, drinking in her scent, the soft curls of her hair tickling his nose, caressing his cheek. He shut his eyes, wanting more than anything to lose himself with her, in her. He fought the feeling.
She bent her head forward, and without thought he kissed her neck. He heard her breath catch as he slid his hands over her hipbones, then forward to her belly, holding her against him.
“I can’t concentrate,” she said.
“I’ll concentrate,” he murmured. His hands slipped under her sweater, one splaying against her stomach, sliding under the waistband of her slacks, the other finding the upper edge of her bra and inching under it. His fingers were strong, hard, hot.
She melted a lot faster than the chocolate. Where he touched, she wanted more, and wanted to touch him in turn.
To hell with caffè mòca. Still holding the spoon, she spun around to face him, her hands upraised to circle his neck. The chocolate-coa
ted spoon smacked against the side of his nose.
He stepped back in surprise. Laughing, she dropped the spoon, gripped his shoulders, and licked the spot of chocolate.
“So that’s the way it is,” he said.
“Well, I didn’t want it to burn you,” she said. “I guess that’s what’s known as a hot lick.”
“Not exactly.”
She shrieked as he lifted her, in one quick movement, so that she was sitting on the stainless steel countertop. She started to scoot back, away from him, but he grasped her hips and slid her forward, right to the edge of the counter, one knee on each side of him. Her laughter died.
His hands cupped her face. All sense of time and place flew from her mind. Her arms circled his shoulders, his neck. He leaned over her, slowly lowering her onto the counter, her pulse pounding until finally, their lips met in an open-mouthed, groin-throbbing, sight-blinding kiss.
The chocolate sizzled against the bottom of the pan. A burning smell filled the kitchen. But none of that mattered. Nothing mattered but Paavo and the way he made her feel. He lifted her sweater, reaching for the clasp at the front of her bra, his gaze and touch so searing she thought the clasp would melt.
“What’s burning?” Chelsea’s voice rang out as the kitchen door opened. Paavo yanked Angie’s sweater down, straightened, and stepped away, his back to Chelsea.
“Are you cooking, Angie?” Chelsea asked.
Angie struggled to sit up and look nonchalant. Paavo’s eyes were shut and his jaw clenched.
Chelsea walked up to the smoking pan and lifted it off the flame and right into the sink, where she ran cold water in it. “I thought it might be the chocolate. There I was, sleeping, and this wonderful scent woke me up. But when it began to burn, I just had to investigate.”
“It’s ruined,” Angie said. “Oh, well, we’ll try again tomorrow. Good night, Chelsea.”
Chelsea reached into the pocket of her smock and pulled out a handful of Hershey’s Kisses. “I don’t leave home without it…I mean, them.”
Angie bit back a groan of frustration.