by Susan Conley
“Well, did she say anything else?”
Chelsea glanced at her grandmother with disbelief; obviously Grams didn’t perceive the problem as Chelsea did.
“I don’t know, Grams, I’m going to bed, my head’s achy and I’m tired.” She stood and kissed her grandmother’s cheek. “Don’t worry about this mess.” She gestured to the kitchen. “I’ll take care of it in the morning.” She pulled Grams to her feet. “Come on, you too, it’s way past our bedtime.”
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning arrived with a booming headache. Grendel rubbed her head along Chelsea’s cheek, and meowed with the need to be released from the bedroom. “Hey you, not so loud … ” Chelsea groaned as she held her pounding head in both hands. Never again would she down glasses of Jack in rapid succession, she vowed. Especially after a night spent talking to ghosts.
She crept down the stairs and entered the kitchen, expecting to find Grams. Instead, she found Deloris Rearden waiting patiently, sitting at her kitchen table.
Chelsea gasped. “Mrs. Rearden? What … Why … How come you’re here? Wasn’t last night enough?” She went through the motions of making coffee, and her hands shook as she wondered where Grams was.
She spun around, hoping the visage of Deloris Rearden would be gone, but she wasn’t. In fact, she was folding napkins left from the night before. “Sweetie, why don’t you sit down, we need to have a heart to heart.” She smiled at Chelsea, and patted the chair next to her.
Chelsea stumbled to the table, grabbed ahold of the back of the chair, and slid into it with a quiet thud. It wasn’t often that a dead lady asked for help, and she felt obligated — Deloris Rearden had left Chelsea her estate after all. She shook her head, making it pound harder. What the hell was she thinking?
She spoke, barely louder than a whisper. “Last night, what did you mean by ‘you have the power’?”
“Just exactly what I said. You can save him, help him, you’ll be there for him. He’ll need your strength to face everything.” She nodded her head, and stretched across the table, touching Chelsea’s fingers with her icy hand. “It’s going to be okay, you’ll find your place. You only need to ask him.”
Chelsea lifted her eyes from her hand to find herself alone. The only sound was the gurgling coffee pot and Grendel’s growl from the living room. Grendel was going to have to get over having ghosts in the house — it seemed like it was going to be a common occurrence. Chelsea’s hands shook as she picked up her cell. She rummaged inside her bag until her fingers found the card, and slowly she dialed the number.
“Hello?” came the sleepy response.
“How did your aunt die?” Chelsea asked quietly. She didn’t know why she hadn’t asked before.
“Chelsea?” Brad asked into the phone, more alert this time.
“Do you know? Have you checked into how it happened? Lord, what am I saying, of course you’ve checked.” Her head began to clear as the alcohol bled from her system to reveal a stark clarity. “What did you find out?”
“Why? Chelsea, what’s the matter?” He was starting to sound bewildered and annoyed.
“I just need to know, please,” she begged. “How did your Aunt Deloris die?”
“She slipped outside. There’s a pond on her property. If appears that when she slipped, she hit her head on a boulder hidden beneath the water. She drowned out there, all by herself.” He said it like it was the last thing he wanted to relive. “Why? Why did you need to know?”
“There wasn’t any evidence of foul play? No evidence that someone was there with her?” Chelsea held her breath. She really liked Brad Rearden, and now she was probably alienating him with all her weird questions.
“No, no evidence of anything but an accident. What’s this all about, why the questions?”
“Could you come out to the house today?” she asked, but hurried to add, “I’ll understand if you don’t want to. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
He sighed. “What the hell, I don’t have anything pressing, and now I have to know what’s going on.”
She began to relax, listening to the timbre of his voice, his deep tones working on the knots forming in her stomach. For some reason, his voice calmed her, drew her in like a moth to a flame. “Great, why don’t you come for dinner? It’ll make up for cutting our evening short last night.”
“Sounds good. And Chelsea? You better have some answers to my questions too.”
Chapter Seventeen
Chelsea raced up the stairs and knocked on her Grams’s door, poking her head inside. “Grams?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
“I am now. Who were you talking to?” Grams asked.
“Just now? Brad on the phone,” Chelsea said, and smiled.
“No, I mean before the call.” Grendel followed Chelsea into the bedroom, and leaped up on the bed, demanding Grams’s attention.
“She was back again this morning, Grams. Deloris Rearden. And I think I know what she wants.” Chelsea sank down next to her grandmother, resting her head on Grams’s shoulder.
“And what would that be?” Grams brushed her fingers through the soft wisps of Chelsea’s curls.
“I think someone hurt her, someone caused her death,” Chelsea whispered, almost to herself.
“You mean, someone killed her.” Grams grew quiet.
“I don’t know, and I’m almost afraid to find out. Brad’s coming over for dinner. Better get up, sleepyhead. I’ll make us breakfast.” Chelsea scooted out of Grams’s bed, carrying the cat with her, shooing her out the door. “I’m really glad you’re here, Grams. Thanks for everything, for helping me, for believing in me.”
“Sweetie?” Grams called. Chelsea turned back to the door. “Hildie wanted me to head over to her house today — it’s our canasta night.”
“You’re not going to be here?” Chelsea asked, her face falling.
“I can, if you want me to be.”
“No, you go ahead, have fun with your friend.” She smiled. She could handle Brad Rearden on her own — she hoped.
• • •
“So, I had another look at the reports surrounding my aunt’s death,” Brad began as they finished the Caesar salads and baked salmon they’d had for dinner. The scent of fresh cut lilacs mixing with the aroma of mocha coffee filled the kitchen, a gentle breeze stirred the open window’s curtain in a quiet flutter. The sun sank closer to the horizon in the evening sky. “Other than the accident, there’s nothing to be found.” He lifted his eyes to catch Chelsea’s. “Why did you ask? I’ve wondered all day.”
“Who found your aunt? Since she drowned, someone had to find her, call the police.” She looked away; his eyes were too probing.
“It was a neighbor. After Uncle Mick passed, she joined a card club — they look out for each other. When she didn’t make it to the card game, one of her friends drove over to check.” He glanced down at his folded hands. “Now, I’ve answered your questions, how about answering mine?” His eyes followed her movements as she stood, paced around the room, and ended up standing in front of the fridge, moving the magnets around.
Chelsea swallowed, and looked over her shoulder to meet his eyes. “I don’t know how to say this.” She glanced up at the ceiling, trying to find a way to put it into words, praying silently to Great-Granny for strength.
“Something happened to me … hell, even I don’t believe it.” She swallowed, and her cheeks pinked. “When I was electrocuted,” she began again, “it caused this thing that some of my family members are able to do … “ She picked her fingernails, avoiding his eyes. “It seems that it tends to skip generations, some have it, some don’t. Everyone thought I was one of the lucky ones who didn’t have it, until that day.” Her eyes moved over his face, taking in his high cheekbones, his slightly crooked nose, the laugh lines surrounding his hazel eye
s.
Brad peered at Chelsea. “I’m still lost, I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
She inhaled deeply, and released a huge sigh. “That’s just it, it’s impossible to believe.”
“Hey, just slow down and tell me.”
She paced a few circles around the table, his questioning eyes following her. “I can … ” She looked away from his eyes. “Cripes, this sounds crazy to say … I can … I see dead people.” She squeezed her eyes closed and waited for his laugh or his curse, because that’s what she would have done.
“You mean like in The Sixth Sense?” Brad asked, closing his own eyes.
“Kind of, well, yes, exactly.” She opened her eyes.
He pushed away from the table, his face pale. “You know, if you wanted me to leave you alone, why didn’t you just say so? Just tell me to leave you the hell alone. No, you have to come up this some asinine story … ” His anger showed on his face, but she wasn’t surprised, it was what she expected. “I can’t believe you! So, what? You’ve spoken with my dead aunt? Is that it? Is she here now? Can you see her? Aunt D, if you’re here, rattle the table!” he shouted to the empty room.
“You … ass!” she shouted at him, her eyes full of daggers. “Do you think this is easy for me? That I wanted to tell you … any of this?” She waved into the clear air as she stormed around the kitchen, seething. “Do you think this is how I get my jollies?” She opened drawers, then slammed them closed, jangling the flatware, more pissed at herself than she was at him. “Here, let me rattle the table for you!” She grabbed the table, shaking it with all her might, making her head throb harder. “There! Happy now?” The bruise on her forehead became angry, and she touched it gingerly.
His eyes narrowed, his lips formed in a hard flat line. “What the hell did you expect? Me to jump for joy, to believe every word because it fell from your lips?” He looked at her lips, and she remembered their kiss. She knew he was remembering it too. “What do you want from me?” It was almost a whisper.
“I don’t expect anything.” Chelsea slumped back into her chair, eyes closed. “I’m sorry I bothered you. You can leave now, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind.” Steel filled his voice. He grabbed her hand, dragged her to her feet. His fingers wrapped around her upper arms. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?” And then he kissed her, hard, bruising her lips.
The sad part was that Chelsea wanted Brad to kiss her, to hold her and tell her everything was going to be okay. That he believed her, that this wouldn’t destroy their budding relationship, because without meaning to, Chelsea had come to like this man. But, he also needed the truth, if he couldn’t deal with that, then to hell with him.
She pulled away, wiped a hand across her lips. “No, I don’t care what you think, frankly,” she spat out. This wasn’t what she wanted to say, any of it, but how could she take it back now?
Just then, Chelsea heard Deloris Rearden’s whisper in her ear, as if she were still in the room with her. “Make him understand.”
She shivered and jerked away. Her arms were suddenly icy as if the coldness of a grave had embraced her.
Brad dropped his hands from her arms. He rubbed them as if to warm his chilled flesh, and stared in confusion at her. “What’s wrong with you? You’re as cold as a January day.”
“Nothing, there’s not a damn thing wrong with me. Why are you still here?” She backed away from him. “Leave, don’t bother me again.”
“Fine, I can do that.” He left without looking back.
Chelsea turned away from his retreating back, fat tears rolling down her frozen cheeks. “I have to get out of here.”
• • •
Brad sat in his Jeep, fuming over the confrontation. He slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. What the hell was the matter with him? He wanted to understand her, not piss her off. He really seemed to excel at that. Damn it! Why did everything have to be so hard with her? He started the Jeep, then looked back up at the house. The curtain shifted, then fell back into place. What? Now she was watching him, to make sure he left? He turned the car back off. He shook his head, what was he doing?
• • •
Chelsea fled from the house when Brad’s Jeep started. She stalked across the backyard, to the field behind the house, rubbing her arms, chasing the last of the chill away. “Arrrggg!” she shouted, aggravated, to the cornfield. “Who the hell does he think he is?” She stomped near the field in the dimming light, kicking away clots of dirt thrown by the spring planting. Her hands fisted at her sides, her temper at a boil.
She swung back, seething, anger filled her steps as she stormed around to the front of the house. At the same time, Brad was striding to the door. They met on the sidewalk.
He grabbed her and his hands tight on her arms. “What are you trying to pull?” Then he crushed her body to his and captured her lips in another hard, punishing kiss.
She broke away and rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth, wiping his kiss from her swollen lips. Her temper blossomed, challenging him to touch her again.
His hazel eyes blazed. “Don’t.” Then he grabbed her again, kissing just as hard, but softening until Chelsea felt herself responding, her traitorous body wanted the bastard.
Chapter Eighteen
His breathing came hard and fast, and he leaned his forehead against her own. “Why do you have this effect on me? Please make me understand … you can’t mean you talk to dead people, like in ghosts.”
Chelsea shrugged from his arms. She wished he could believe her. But she’d botched the news in her own supremely efficient way. “Do you want to come back in?” It was a soft voice that asked the question.
He hung his head. “Yeah, I guess we need another do over. Let’s pretend none of this happened.”
“I can’t do that, have a ‘do over’, pretend it’s not real.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I can’t because I wasn’t telling tales, or lies, or craziness. It’s the truth. And you can’t — or won’t — believe me.” She turned away to trudge back to the house.
He called out after her, his voice holding a hint of panic. “Wait. Damn it, just wait.” He walked up behind her, turned her back to face him, and lift her face to meet his. “I can … I can try … ” His eyes searched hers. Tears glistened on her cheeks, trailing down to her chin. “Tell me what to do. Tell me what you need.” He cupped her face in his hands, and his thumbs caressed the bruised skin below her eyes, brushing away the tears, but it only made her cry harder. His lips claimed hers in a soft kiss, his tongue brushed her seam until she sighed in surrender, allowing him entrance, and he tasted her. He scooped her up, his lips never leaving hers, and carried her back to the house.
It was Chelsea who broke the kiss. “What are we doing?” She pressed closer to his body, and she brought her lips to his again, tasting him as he had tasted her.
“I don’t know.” He shook his head and lowered her to her feet. “I think maybe I should go.” But his arms curved around her body, claiming her, denying what his lips said. Chelsea could see the want in his stormy eyes, his need to touch her, to feel her.
She nodded, but caught his hand as he made to release her, and drew him further into the house. When they got to the stairs, he stopped her. “What are we doing?” he asked her this time, his eyes begging with stark need.
“I don’t know.” It was her turn to answer. She pulled him up the stairs, pushed her door open, and tugged him into the room. “I don’t know, but I want to find out.”
“I don’t know if this is a good idea … ” He pulled back, an internal struggle crossing his face. “Damn.” He stepped forward again to entrap her lips.
“I want … ” She fingered the collar of his black t-shirt, traced her hands down his well muscled chest, sliding to the waistband of his jeans. She j
erked his shirt free and pulled it over his head. Her eyes filled with the expanse of his tanned flesh. A soft brush of hair formed a T down the middle of his abdominals that trailed lower, beyond where her eyes could see. She lifted up on her toes, and stole another kiss.
His calloused hands ran up and down her arms, wrapping around her to crush her closer. “I’ve wanted to do this for ages. You offer something missing from my life, Chelsea.” He caressed the soft fabric covering her breasts, and his fingers found the flesh of her stomach, slowly pushing the fabric out of the way. She lifted her arms, and he tugged the loose blouse over her head, messing her curls. “Damn, you’re beautiful.” His eyes became hazy shadows as they devoured her.
He pushed her back until her legs brushed the comforter, and she tumbled onto the bed. She smiled up at him. He leaned down over her, making her catch her breath, and robbed her of another kiss. Their tongues danced together, exploring, tasting. He captured her face in his hands, grazing his thumbs across her cheeks which filled with soft color. She claimed his thumb between her lips, drawing his eyes to their full red richness. Chelsea pulled him closer until they were stretched out on the length of her bed.
She settled back against the pillows, heart still pounding, and reached across the bed to her iPod. “Hey Jude” filled the small room as Paul McCartney sang. “You like the Beatles?” she asked. She needed to slow down, think about what she was doing, but she didn’t want to, she wanted to feel. Her heart throbbed in her ears; she could taste it in her throat. His fingers traced the soft cup of her bra, and every once in a while, he stroked the pink edge of her areola, causing her body to tingle.
“I love the Beatles.” He pushed up on his elbow, and brought his lips to the tender flesh above the lacy cup, placing small kisses. “And Queen.” He kissed her again. “And David Bowie.” His fingers brushed over the lacy material, lifting it to touch the satiny skin beneath. “Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Jackson Brown too.” He left another kiss, closer to the edge, pushing the cup down ever so slightly, the tip of her rosy bud exposed.