That evening, though, after Brianna left, she had only thoughts of Connie and Flirting with Pete for distraction. If the manuscript was part of a scavenger hunt, she was more than game.
She went through the den inch by inch. She didn’t find anything remotely related to the journal, but she did find Connie’s personal files— bank statements, canceled checks, income tax returns. They were in plastic bins in lower cabinets, neatly labeled and consecutively arranged. Sorting through, she learned that he wrote his checks by hand, that he paid his bills promptly, supported public radio and television, and gave large amounts of money each year to naturalist causes in Maine.
He had been born in Maine. He still had a thing for Maine. Casey bet that Little Falls was there, fictitious or not.
She sorted through those Maine receipts, hunting for a reference to the town. She sorted through brochures on which he had filled out applications for hikes, canoe trips, bird-watching expeditions, and mountain-climbing adventures. A few looked as though they had never been sent— actually, quite a few, some even with uncanceled checks stapled to the top. Others must have been sent, because there were letters confirming receipt. She read through them all. Nowhere was there any reference to Little Falls.
By the time she had put everything back in its place, she was too tired to return to the condo. With a client coming at eight the next morning, it didn’t make sense.
This time, she went straight to the guest bedroom. Connie was still right down the hall, but after going through his bills and realizing the size of the responsibility he had left her, she was feeling brash. After all, she reasoned, since she was the one— not some ghost— who would be paying those bills now, she had a right to bed down wherever she pleased.
She fell asleep thinking about safe, practical, physical things like heating, air-conditioning, roofers, house painters, and exterminators— but came awake at midnight with a start, sure that she had heard a noise. She sat up in bed and looked around. The room was lit by gaslights from the Court. She could see quite well.
She saw nothing.
Holding her breath, she listened. The city was sleeping, snoring softly outside her window. She didn’t hear anything in the room. She didn’t hear anything in the hall.
Telling herself that her imagination had gotten away from her while she slept, she lay back down and closed her eyes. Seconds later, though, she was up again, this time slipping out of bed. Pulling on the robe, she crept to the door and listened. She had left it half open, and half open it was.
Of course, that didn’t mean anything. Ghosts walked through doors.
But she didn’t believe in ghosts.
Slipping out into the hall, she held herself very still and listened. She heard a hum from somewhere deep in the house, but it was a mechanical sound, nothing eerie or odd. Tiptoeing to Connie’s door, she listened. And she did hear something. The sound was very soft. She couldn’t define it.
As always, the door was ajar. Without touching it, she peered inside, but she couldn’t see much.
She wasn’t going in. She wasn’t that brave. Assuring herself that there was a perfectly rational explanation for the sound she heard and that Meg would give it to her in the morning, she backed off. That was when she saw the eyes.
Chapter Eight
Casey didn’t linger. In a flash she returned to her own room and shut the door tight.
She had imagined the eyes. No psychosis here, simply the power of suggestion. Her neighbor had mentioned a ghost, so a ghost was what she saw. It was not a whole lot different, really, from carrying on a conversation with her mother. The doctors claimed that Caroline hadn’t talked in three years, and who was Casey to argue? If she heard a voice, she imagined it.
Of course, she heard Caroline’s voice because she wanted to hear it, which was not the case with a ghost.
So, was it the strangeness of the house that got her imagination going? Or the fact that the room at the end of the hall had been her father’s and a part of her did want him to be there, after he’d invited her into his house?
Very quietly, she got back in bed. She didn’t take off the robe—she wasn’t having any imaginary ghost see her in the nude— but lay on her back in the middle of the bed— lay very still with her hands laced at her waist and her eye on the door.
There was no movement. There was no sound. She watched and listened for an hour before finally falling asleep, but she slept uneasily, awakening often to listen and watch. When daylight finally arrived, she was feeling more perturbed at herself than anything else.
Taking a yellow singlet and shorts from her gym bag, she hurriedly pulled them on and stretched a scrunchie around her hair. She gave a moment’s thought to the night sounds she’d heard when she opened the door to her room— and she did glance at that narrow strip of darkness where Connie’s door was open. But she made it to the stairs without mishap. From there, it was a straight shot down, through the front hall, past Ruth’s paintings— keeping her eyes on the stairs— through the office, and out to the garden.
Emerging from under the pergola, she felt instant comfort. Dawn in the garden was fresh, even on another warm day. The air was sweet with… lilacs, she smelled lilacs. This scent drew her to a pair of bushes on her right. Lavish purple clusters in leafy green bouquets rose behind the cultivated flowers. She smiled, closed her eyes, savored the scent.
Minutes later, soothed by the flowers in a kind of spiritual foreplay, she staked out a spot in the garden’s wooded section and lowered herself to the ground. She had the routine down pat, fifteen minutes moving through the postures of the sun salutation, focusing on her breathing as much as she did on fluidity and stretch. She relaxed one part of her body after another, concentrated— really concentrated— on letting go of the tension brought on by scary little thoughts, like ghosts, bombing as a therapist in Connie’s office, and Caroline dying and leaving her alone in the world. Drawing positive energy into her system with each complete breath, she felt the release of tightness in her neck, her back, her belly and legs. When her mind began to wander, she dragged it right back. Again and again, she drew in deep belly breaths and exhaled slowly and completely.
She went through the cycle of poses three times, and when finished she felt infinitely more relaxed. As always, she saved the best for last. Using the trunk of the old chestnut for backup, she fit the top of her head to the ground, clasped her fingers behind it for support, and slowly lifted the rest of her body— hips, then legs, then feet— until she was perfectly balanced and still.
Inversion was restorative. She always felt it, but never more so than after a restless night. The force of gravity pulling her body in a different direction gave the flow of her blood a refreshing jolt. It made her body tingle, her skin breathe, her breasts rise. Like cool water slapped on cheeks burning with fever, it woke her up.
Viewed upside down, the garden was a revised world of color and shape. There were no ghosts here. Everything was geometric and solid— not the least of which being the man who suddenly, silently, appeared before her. He had come in from the back gate while she was lost in deep breathing and concentration, but he was as real as the junipers and yews that formed a backdrop for his upside-down form.
At least, she thought he was real.
Then she changed her mind. Tuesday wasn’t his day. She simply wanted him there— wanted him to see how athletic she was, how attractive she was in her workout yellows. She wanted to tease him, wanted to feel power in the teasing to counter the lack of power she felt when it came to her parents. She wanted him there for the male-female thing. His presence added pleasure to the garden, an Adam to her Eve.
Imagining Jordan wasn’t so much the power of suggestion as the power of wishful thinking. The gardener was a cool guy to conjure up— and intriguing upside down. He was solid as brass this way, what with the weight of his body resting on shoulders that were amply broad to support it. They were handsome shoulders, she decided. Not bulked up. Just leanly muscled. Sh
e could see this, because in her mind he wore a tank top. It was black, stuck loosely into low-slung jeans that were in turn stuck into half-laced work boots. She knew that the jeans and boots were for protection as he gardened, but she guessed they would make him warm. The flush on his cheeks suggested that. But then there were those brown eyes, steady as the chestnut behind her. And that dark brown bed-head hair. Viewing it upside down, she fancied he was planted right here in her father’s garden, rooted to the spot by that hair. But then, she guessed that he would be firmly rooted no matter where he stood— he was that hardy a guy.
The image moved. It was a subtle move, the shift of weight to one hip, but it was real enough to jar her.
She swayed and began to totter.
He started forward, extending an arm.
“No no no,” she cautioned quickly. Without the weight of gravity, her voice was higher than normal. “Don’t touch.” She steadied herself. “I’m fine.” She concentrated, took a leveling breath, refocused.
He was still there.
“This isn’t Wednesday,” she said in that higher than normal voice. She didn’t usually sway, didn’t usually totter. Her yoga instructor was amazed at how long she could stand on her head. As shows went, this was definitely not her best.
“The impatiens need water,” he said.
It was a reasonable enough explanation, though it raised another question. “My father had every modern convenience in the house. Why not an automatic sprinkling system out here?”
“No need. He had me.”
“Having you stop by to water flowers is neither time-nor cost-effective.”
Jordan lifted one of those broad shoulders in what Casey’s mind correctly translated into a shrug. “Doesn’t bother me.”
“You like watering.”
“I like watering.”
“But to come all this way…”
“The shop’s not far.”
“Ah.” She had been thinking about his home. She couldn’t imagine he lived here on the hill. Even the smallest apartments here were way too expensive. “How long have you been doing his garden for him?”
“Seven years.”
“And before you?”
“No one. The place was nothing but overgrown grass and weeds.”
“And wonderfully aged hemlocks, maples, birches, and oaks,” she reminded him sweetly.
He was quiet for a minute, before granting, “Yes. There were those.”
“What about those shrubs one tier down— the ones with the buds about to burst? They look pretty old.”
“The big ones are rhododendron, the little ones azalea, and no, we brought them in.”
“Who did the landscape design?” She was holding herself well now, even starting to get used to her voice.
“Me.”
“Through Daisy’s Mum?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a degree in landscape design?”
“No. I just know plants.”
“Did he?”
“Who?”
“My father. We established that he loved them. Did he know them?”
“He knew what he liked.”
“And you took it from there.”
There was a pause, then a curious, “Does that bother you?”
It was the type of question that Brianna would have asked her, the kind that might have brought an approving nod from Connie, because it was definitely the right question. And the answer? Yes, it bothered Casey. Call it envy or jealousy. Call it resentment. It seemed to her that her father’s employees had his confidence and respect, even his affection, while his daughter went without.
But she couldn’t blame the gardener. He was obviously good at what he did. “You’ve produced an incredible garden,” she said. “But you never did tell me if he did any of the gardening himself.”
“Your father? He pitched in from time to time.”
“So he… just… liked doing it, too?”
“No. It was his way of thanking me for helping him out with other things.”
“What things?”
“Things. Moving stuff. Carrying stuff up the stairs.”
“What kind of stuff did you carry?”
“Files. Whenever he closed a case, he put the file in a special drawer. When the drawer got filled, he moved the contents upstairs.”
“To the spare bedrooms? Those boxes can’t all be filled with files.”
“There are books.”
“More books? Omigod.”
“And letters. Professional correspondence.”
“Anything personal?”
“Those’d be in boxes with m-e printed on top.”
Connie’s me-files. If there was more of the journal to be read, it would be there. Casey’s thoughts flew up to those carton-filled bedrooms so quickly that she swayed again.
Again, the gardener reached out.
“Don’t touch,” she cautioned as she had before. She pulled her mind back down. “I’m fine.”
She had barely steadied herself when he asked, “Do you have a problem with that?”
“With what?”
“Touching. Your father did. He didn’t like to be touched. If there was the brush of an arm or a hand, it was accidental. He kept a physical distance from anyone who was near.”
Casey had always sensed that, but she had always seen Connie in professional situations where physical distance was appropriate. Working in and around the house was different. She might have asked Jordan more about it, if she hadn’t been bothered by his first question. Her own image was at issue here. She felt compelled to set him straight. “No. I don’t have a problem with touching.”
“Then with the hired hand? That was the third time you’ve told me not to touch.”
The third time. Ah, yes. Once in the office the evening before, twice now.
“No,” she replied patiently. “I have a thing about being self-reliant. I wasn’t about to fall off that chair, and I’m not about to fall now.” As if to prove her point, she slowly bent her knees. Hands flanking her shoulders, she carefully curled her body forward, lowering her legs until her feet touched the ground. Refusing to be rushed despite the view of her backside that he surely had, she slowly raised her head and reacclimated herself to being upright. When she felt confident she wouldn’t topple, she took a final breath, rose to standing, and turned.
The gardener was tall, far more so than five-foot-four Casey. She compensated by tipping up her chin and looking him in the eye. “Some men think women are fragile. I’m not.”
He seemed mildly amused.
No, she realized. He seemed mildly aroused. Those dark eyes held a definite flicker of appreciation.
Incited by it— and, truth be told, by a sudden, fanciful recollection of D. H. Lawrence’s passionate Lady Chatterley and her virile groundskeeper— Casey walked right up close to him. “As for touching,” she said, sliding an arm around his waist, “I like it a lot.” Holding his gaze, daring him to be the one to step away, she pressed a palm up his chest, over his shoulder, down his arm, over his wrist. Her fingers sifted through his, caught up by them for a brief moment. “I love touching,” she said softly. “I’ve never had a problem with it, and as for your being a hired hand, I grew up eating dinner with hired hands. I shared an apartment with one in college and lost my virginity to another.” She shouldn’t have said that, because the moment was suddenly hot— that flicker in his eyes had grown into something beyond the clasp of his hand, something that licked at the touchpoints of their bodies— and mention of sex didn’t help. Rushing to tamp down the heat on her end without moving away, because not only was he lovely to touch but he smelled like pure man, she said, “No, no problem with hired hands. Yes, a problem with ghosts. What do you know about Angus?”
Jordan was silent as he looked down at her. His eyes were an even richer, deeper brown, his cheeks more ruddy. Casey felt the movement of his chest, barely an inch from hers and less steady than before. It was a heady sensation.
Pulling her hand free of his, she stepped quickly back. With some indignation, she asked, “Is Angus a joke?”
“No,” he said, though the corner of his mouth did twitch. “He’s a cat.”
“A cat.”
“Haven’t you met him?”
Eyes in the dark, a soft padding across the floor in the night, a sound that could as well have been purring as the flutter of a ghost’s breath. And Meg’s murmurs. Of course. Casey should have guessed.
Feeling the fool, she frowned. “No, I have not met him. No one told me about a cat.”
“If it’s a problem, I’ll take him.”
She wasn’t having any part of that. “If he comes with the house, he’s mine.”
“Angus and I get along great.”
“He and I may, too.” There could be one problem. “Is he always in the master bedroom?”
Jordan’s mouth lost its humor. “During the day, yes. He may wander around at night, but since Connie died, he doesn’t go far. He’s waiting for his friend to return.”
Casey felt a pang. “That’s the saddest thing.” She started toward the house, then stopped and looked back at Jordan. “Will he resent me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does he scratch and snarl?”
“Never has.”
She raised her brows, pressed her lips together, stepped back, gave the gardener a might-as-well-check-it-out look, and set off. Cutting back through the office, she went up one flight, then a second. Her pace flagged when she reached the bedroom landing. Turning toward Connie’s room, she approached with caution. Not a ghost, but a cat; not a ghost, but a cat— she kept telling herself that, but still her heart rapped against her ribs. When she was a good three feet away, she sat down on the carpet and folded her legs.
She knew cats. Her mother had always kept them in the barn. Two were there at the time of the accident. Casey would have taken them to live with her if one of Caroline’s weavers hadn’t begged to do it. The woman had a big house, a big heart, and a big void in her life, having lost her husband of thirty years out of the blue the year before. How could Casey say no? Her own house was small, her heart was preoccupied with Caroline, and she was already used to ignoring the little void inside— which wasn’t to say that she hadn’t thought of kidnapping those cats. She might have liked the company at night. More, though, she might have liked to tell Caroline that she was caring for the cats herself. Caroline would have approved.
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