Widow's Tale

by Miller, Maureen A.

  "To keep an eye on me," she said. "Maybe I might say something, reveal something incriminating."

  "Maybe," he agreed quietly. "Or maybe it’s because I realize that I’ve been too judgmental. Maybe, just maybe, I was wrong about some of my accusations." His gaze dipped to the shadows beneath her eyes. "Maybe I want to see you get a decent night’s sleep."

  Serena felt edgy. Her glance fled to the black night beyond the window. But in that glass pane she did not see the night. She saw their reflection.

  Her figure was daunted by the giant man behind her. Brett filled the alcove, making it seem even smaller, and he was so close that she could feel his jacket pressing against her back.

  "I don’t think that’s in the cards for me, but—"

  Serena froze, her eyes darting to the doorway. The sound sent a jolt through her as she clutched the dresser for support.

  Brett came alert. He reached for her arms and gripped them with force.

  In the mirror their eyes locked.

  "Stay here," he ordered.

  Brett heard it too. The unmistakable footfall that echoed from the hall. A solemn invasion. Rooted, his gaze shifted, awaiting something to materialize. He listened as the pace crossed the floor, and in disbelief heard the ghostly gait vanish through the door and into the night.

  For a moment he expected Serena’s frilly yellow curtains to billow in the breeze, but they remained still. With a jerk, he broke from his stupor and vaulted towards the door. At the bottom of the stairs his gaze shifted, scanning the arc of light. He peered through the stairwell and raged to discover moist footprints trailing down the center of each step.

  Brett slipped into the shadows, circling the foundation of O’Flanagans. A cloudbank obscured the moon as a black void blanketed the frigid ground. Only his breath broke the raw silence.

  Starting off at a jog, he rounded the far corner of the inn and lingered beneath the awning. Above him, the O’Flanagans sign rocked in the wind. Dangling from rusted chains, its plaintive screech nearly muted the dull tread resonating from the shadows. An overhead streetlight disclosed a figure in the distance, the body and head obscured by a slicker and hood. Hunched against the bitter cold, the nebulous profile revealed little, and into the darkness the silhouette vanished like a vapor of mist.

  Like a ghost.

  Brett started to give chase, but thoughts of Serena slowed his pace to a halt. She was alone, vulnerable, and with a prophetic sense, he felt that he would encounter this specter again. And when he did, he would make him pay for the damage and suffering he had witnessed in Serena’s eyes.

  Brett marked the trail as he ascended the staircase. He calculated the source as a pair of men’s boots, the pattern of the heel now evaporating into illegibility. Standing outside the door, staring at the yellow-frilled curtains, he was plagued with thoughts of what could have happened had he not been here.

  Lost in deliberation, a motion caught his attention through the filmy material. Alarmed, he yanked the door open and rushed across the room to the figure huddled on the floor.

  Brett’s heart pounded as he crouched down beside Serena, taking in the protective state of arms locked around shins. Her cheek rested atop her knees as tears streamed down her face and her body rocked back and forth.

  "Serena!" He touched her, running his thumb across the moist skin.

  "It’s okay." He was crazy with concern. "It’s going to be okay. I found your ghost."

  Bleary eyes opened as Serena whispered, "My baby?"

  Jolted, he pitched back on his heels and reached a hand to the wall for support.

  Serena’s eyelashes fluttered down, locking him out. Pain and anger assailed Brett as he cursed whoever was attacking this woman’s emotions. He regained enough control to hook an arm beneath her knees, and loop one behind her back, lifting her with ease.

  Making his way to the love seat, Brett draped Serena across his lap where he held her until the tears subsided.

  Lucidity returned with the heat of embarrassment. Serena shifted to stand, but strong arms locked around her, securing her in a masculine embrace.

  "No, not yet." Brett whispered.

  Shivering, yet unnaturally warm in this new haven, Serena cleared her throat.

  "Sorry ‘bout that," she choked. "Sometimes I just lose it. My grip on reality is tenuous at best."

  When Brett didn’t respond, she continued. "You should go back to Boston, Brett. Forget about your crazy sister in-law. Go home and grieve for your brother, have a service, do something special for him, and please try and forget how you saw me tonight."

  "Are you done?" He spoke gently, his palm still splayed across her thigh as if he thought she might flee.

  "Well," Stunned—at a loss for words—humiliated that he had found her in such a state—Serena struggled for something objective to say. "Well, er—yes."

  Brett squelched his grin, but she caught it. She almost smiled.

  With his arms around her, Serena began to feel warmth permeate her body. It was addictive, compounded by the masculine scent of him. When she felt Brett’s fingers comb through her hair, she closed her eyes and caved completely against his shoulder.

  "Why were you crying, Serena?"

  She listened to Brett and thought his voice was soft, and his touch so gentle. Beneath her ear she could hear the rhythmic beat of his heart.

  "Your ghost will not haunt you anymore." His whisper rumbled deep in his chest. "I’ll find him and put a stop to it."

  Weary from expelled tears−not fully comprehending him, Serena whispered sleepily, "He doesn’t scare me anymore—it—it’s the other one."

  Brett tipped his finger under her chin, lifting her face to consider her with intense gray eyes.

  "What other one?" His voice was low, lethal if used in any other vein than the concern it expressed.

  Serena’s glance slid towards the fire, and her body tensed again.

  "No," he commanded. "Talk to me, Serena. I want to help you."

  "Why?" she pleaded and struggled to be set free.

  Brett’s arms locked, but his voice was assuring, luring her back towards the security he offered. Serena fought the temptation. She struggled upright as much as his hold would allow.

  "How do you know my ghost won’t hurt me anymore? What did you find out there?"

  "I found," he frowned, "that your ghost wears a size eleven boot."

  Reeling, Serena clutched Brett’s forearm for support. She felt the muscle jolt.

  "I followed the sound outside, and on the steps there was a trail, as if someone had just tramped through the wet grass in boots and came up that staircase." His voice turned cold. "Someone hell bent on scaring you."

  Brett’s grip tightened. "I almost missed him, but out front there was a figure in a raincoat, heading the other way. I would have gone after him, but I didn’t want to leave you alone up here."

  "You—you’re saying it was a man—a real man? But, but you’ve been here, how do you explain it?" Wildly, Serena explored the shadows that concealed a ghost’s tread. "How’d he do it?"

  Brett looked past her, seeking the murky corners of the ceiling, the ornate latticework that could harbor any mechanical device. At first light he would scour this apartment and locate the source of Serena’s madness. Till then there were questions to be addressed.

  "With a little ingenuity anything can be achieved," he reasoned. "Why would someone want to scare you like this? Do you have any enemies?"

  "Enemies?" Serena stared into the fire. "I wouldn’t say I have enemies. The only people who’ve ever had it out for me are Alan—and you."

  This time when Serena hastened to rise, Brett let her go.

  "I’m not your enemy, Serena."

  Brett rose. The motion forced Serena to tilt her head back to look up at him. He dominated her, but she stood her ground.

  "Look at me, Serena." The tip of his knuckle softly grazed her chin. "Do you really think I’m an enemy?"

  She stared up at him
.

  "Brett—I—"

  His hands dropped to her arms. "Do you think I’m your enemy?"

  "You—you insinuated that I killed him," she choked, "you, oh God, what you said on the deck about the baby—"

  Brett’s grip was now used to haul Serena against his chest, to keep her from saying the words.

  "Oh, Christ, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know." He held her tight against him and whispered into her hair, "I made the mistake of listening to Alan. I was wrong."

  Serena closed her eyes and felt his strength envelope her. This refuge was so warm. It staved off the chill that permanently racked her body. She allowed herself to stay in the embrace for a few seconds too long, and then drew back to ask, "And how do you know that you’re wrong?"

  Brett stared at her for a moment. "Your eyes," he said quietly. "And when I found you just a few moments ago—it was your voice."

  "Maybe I’m just a real good actress." She tossed out bitterly, scared by how close Brett had gotten, scared at how good it felt.

  Intent now on alienating him, if only to preserve their tenuous status, Serena retreated several steps.

  "Maybe I paid someone to haunt me," the words lost their impact when her voice failed her, "all as an elaborate hoax to convince you of my innocence."

  Serena’s withdrawal drew her back against a three-tiered plant-stand beside the bay window. Touching the piece for support, she swiveled towards the glass, gazing out at the near full moon that finally broke free from the clouds. It cast a brilliant sliver of light across the black sea.

  In the darkness she saw Brett’s silhouette advance behind her, but there was nowhere to go, and she was too tired to flee.

  He placed his hands on her shoulders. When his fingers began to knead at the tension there she thought she might collapse. He spoke softly against her ear.

  "I was suspicious, yes, but I wanted someone to lash out at—someone to explain to me what has been a mystery so far. I was hurt that Alan commanded no respect or remorse over his loss, and yes I wanted to blame you for that. I am guilty of these things. But Serena," Brett touched her hair. "I have never been, nor will I ever be your enemy."

  Serena’s eyelashes pressed firmly down against her cheeks, hoping to lock out the sight of the couple in the window. She leaned back and felt Brett’s hands slip down her arms, drawing her closer. For the briefest second she welcomed that embrace. For just a whisper of time, she felt every hard inch of him pressed against her back.

  It was good.

  It was wrong.

  She shook her head and wrenched away.

  "I—I’m very tired. I—I have to try and get some rest."

  "Yes, you do," he whispered, setting her at ease by widening the gap between them.

  Serena fled to her room. With her door closed, she leaned against it to draw in a deep breath. According to Brett, one of her ghosts was real. A man intent on terrifying her, and for what reason? For what possible reason could someone hate her that much?

  Only one person capable of such loathing came to mind.

  But he was dead.

  "Serena." Boom, boom, boom. "Serena!"

  Dammit to hell, Brett muttered as he erupted from his light sleep to put a stop to the annoying thud at the front door.

  Don’t people let this woman alone?

  He pondered the tall silhouette concealed behind the veil of gold curtains as Serena opened her bedroom door.

  "It’s okay, Brett, I’ve got it."

  One ankle hooked over the other, Brett leaned against the wall, his stance seemingly casual as he watched Serena pass. His eyes, however, were alert, and all his muscles were honed to attack should that shadow prove to be her tormenter.

  "Serena, oh my God, I just had to talk to you. I’ve been up all night thinking about a theme for next Thursday. I’ve got brilliant plans."

  Reaching her hands up into her tangled hair, Serena stifled a yawn and managed a plaintive smile for her wayward maitre de.

  "Theme? I was more or less thinking we’d go with—oh, I don’t know—something like, Thanksgiving."

  Simon’s hand dismissed that notion. "That’s so boring." Then his eyes alighted on Brett and flared.

  Simon’s fingers rose to his mouth. "Oh my." He glanced at Serena. "I guess I’ve come at a bad time."

  Serena tried to draw her gaze from Brett as well, hypnotized by the smoky eyes that languorously followed her. Heat tinged her cheeks when she connected with them. She saw what must have rattled Simon. Brett’s shirt was unbuttoned most of the way, revealing a sparse trail of dark hair that dipped down a ladder of muscles.

  God, he looked good.

  "No—no," she stammered. "Not at all. Umm, Simon you’ve met Brett Murphy haven’t you?"

  "Alan’s brother?" Simon stepped closer, cocking his head, staring until Brett shifted uneasily. "No, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure." He extended his hand and Brett obligingly returned the shake. "You don’t look much like Alan."

  "I’ve been told that before." Brett muttered.

  "Yes—well, Brett’s here to help me out this morning. I’ll be downstairs in a little bit." Serena reached the front door and grabbed the knob, the gesture blatant enough to cause anyone to retreat.

  Simon caught the hint and hefted a pale eyebrow. Grinning at his boss, he darted a hasty glance over his shoulder. Then, reluctantly, Simon followed Serena’s lead and stepped outside.

  "No rush." Simon said. With a twist, he jogged down the steps, leaving Serena blushing to her toes.

  "Damn." She slammed the door shut and marched into the kitchen.

  Brett propelled himself off the wall with a shrug of his shoulder. He ambled in behind her, and reached over her head for the mugs.

  "Something wrong?" He tried to keep the smirk off, but she looked so riled he couldn’t help himself.

  "No, nothing’s wrong." She grabbed his offered mug with force, having noticed his amused grin.

  "I wouldn’t look so damn smug if I were you." Her gaze dropped down his chest, and Brett found he enjoyed that womanly perusal. "I do believe Simon likes you."

  "I’m flattered.”

  Serena chuckled. She poured coffee into his mug and he saw her mirth quickly segue into doubt.

  "Are you sure, Brett? Are you sure it was someone real?"

  "You mean, am I sure you’re not going crazy?"

  Plaintive green eyes spiked by the sun’s golden rays awaited his reply with such intensity he didn’t dare hesitate.

  "He was real, Serena. Someone is deliberately messing with you."

  Brett sipped his coffee and set the mug down. "And this morning," he declared, "I’m going to search this place for a recording device to prove it."

  Serena released her withheld breath as her shoulders slumped. Her head dropped too, until his touch on her arm jarred her. She looked up at him.

  "Don’t look so glum sweetie," he whispered."At least you aren’t the object of a gay man’s lust."

  The laugh from Serena’s lips warmed the loft.

  Brett craned his neck to search inside the window frame, squinting against the glare of the sun as his breath clouded the glass panel. "We’re in agreement that the noise seems to stem from this room, right?"

  Arms crossed, Serena’s eyes restlessly scanned the corners of the room. Sensing her unease, he allowed the short navy drape to fall back into pleats as he searched her face. It glowed from her recent shower, yet still harbored traces of fatigue.

  "I’m sorry," he added softly.

  She shrugged, but the gesture did not conceal her apprehension. "I still don’t believe someone would do this. I mean, how did they get in here and set this up?"

  "Don’t be naïve, Serena. You’re downstairs nearly all day and night," he said. "It’s simple enough to do. But I’ll tell you…whoever did this is a pro, because I can’t find anything in here."

  Folding to her knees, Serena stooped over to peer at the cobwebs beneath the loveseat. Her breath disturbed the fi
ne dust as she spoke. "What should I be looking for?"

  Serena’s shiny crown of hair fell forward as she skimmed the wooden legs. Brett noticed the revealing tremor in her fingers. He crouched down beside her and placed a hand on each shoulder to pull her up to his level, and ducked his head to produce a wan smile. "Why don’t you go downstairs—I’ll take care of this."

  She sat back against her heels and searched his eyes.

  "This is my house," she challenged, "and my problem."

  "You’re my sister in-law," Brett countered. "He was my brother, and I want to know what’s going on here. Serena goddammit, trust me."

  "Why should I?" She tipped her head in aggression but her eyes were plaintive.

  Brett roved that tilted chin, and the soft trembling lips—so close that all he had to do was slant his head and seize her mouth, showing her exactly why she should trust him. The impulse was so strong, he nearly yielded to it.

  "You’re absolutely right," he agreed. "You haven’t seen me in ten years. Why should you trust me?"

  His frustration was fueled by a brief glimpse of Serena’s wedding photo. He hoisted himself up and shoved a hand out to assist her.

  Serena ignored the offer and rose. For several heartbeats they stared each other down until she drew in a long breath and uttered. "I have work to do. If you need me, I’ll be downstairs. Kindly lock up when you’re done."

  "Okay."

  Serena turned her back on him.

  "Wait," He drew in a deep breath, relieved to see her stop. "I’m going to ask you something, and I don’t want you to get angry."

  She crossed her arms. "What?"

  "I want to look through Alan’s papers. I want to know what he was working on just before the accident. He could have been in over his head. This—this—man pretending to be your ghost might be after something he left behind."

  To his astonishment Serena began to laugh. Her fingers clamped over her lips to stifle the stark noise.

  "What’s so funny?"

  "Go ahead. Search all you want. I think about all you’ll find are a couple of his shirts." The humor fled her eyes.

  "When my parents moved to Florida, Alan and I moved into this loft. Ten years of marriage and he had very few personal affects to bring with him. I found it odd, but I was too busy trying to run a business." She sighed. "Tax time was hell around here. I couldn’t even get him to produce any documented source of income. There was never any paperwork here," she emphasized. "I’m sure it exists somewhere, wherever he disappeared to for all those months, but go ahead, Brett." She flung her arm in disdain and marched to the front door. "Have at it."