by Gina Wilkins
My children, my babies, are ten years old. Ten years. It hardly seems possible.
I watched them tonight at dinner. They’re healthy, thank God, and growing so quickly. I could see in their young faces the adults I believe they will become.
Mary Anna. My sweet, darling girl. Still as headstrong and impulsive as ever, but so loving. So thoughtful. She will be a good wife, a devoted mother. She radiates love. I can think of no more fitting birth date for her than St. Valentine’s Day. I hope she will one day meet someone who will understand what a true and rare treasure he has found in her.
Ian. I am shaking my head even as I write his name. How can a child be so difficult, and yet so very special? There are times when I cannot imagine what is going on inside his head. He’s changed so much since I married Gaylon. He is no longer the little boy he once was. He keeps his thoughts to himself now, for the most part, except with Mary Anna, who knows him better than any of us. He doesn’t have many friends. I believe he intimidates the other children. He is so serious, so intense. So much an adult in a child’s body.
He is a beautiful young man. He has thick, dark hair, and smoldering dark eyes, and his smile is devastating. I could never forget what my darling James looked like. I have only to look at Ian to call his father’s image to mind perfectly.
Ian is like James in so many ways. When he gives his love, he gives it completely. Fiercely. He feels that way now about Mary Anna, and about me, and about our inn. I hope that someday he will share that devotion with a woman who will love him as passionately in return, a woman who can calm the storms of his turbulent soul, as James once told me I did for him.
James has been so prominent in my thoughts recently, perhaps because I know how proud he would have been of our children on their tenth birthday. Gaylon is jealous. He has finally realized, I think, that I will never love him the way I loved James.
He actually shouted at me the other evening, when we had a disagreement about the running of the inn. He accused me of living in the past, of being unfaithful to him in my thoughts and my dreams: In my heart. I told him quite frankly that I will continue to be a good wife to him, as I have tried very hard to be these past two and a half years, but that I will never forget my first husband, the father of my children. I didn’t want to hurt him, but he should not have criticized me when I made no secret from the beginning that my love for James has never waned. Nor will it ever.
Mary Anna overheard our quarrel. I thought she was in bed, but she had gotten up for water. I regret deeply that she heard Gaylon’s accusations. I tried to explain to her later that all married couples have their disagreements, but she still seemed troubled. She is fond of Gaylon, in her way, though Ian continues to treat him with the polite distance he maintains with guests of the inn and members of the staff.
I have given up hoping that Ian will ever accept Gaylon as a father. Gaylon, too, seems to have stopped trying. If, in fact, he ever really did. Sometimes I wonder if his pretty words of family were motivated more by his desire for the inn than his true feelings for me or my children. He shows favor to his own son, which is natural, I suppose, and he is kind to Mary Anna, but he does not reach out to Ian. At least he is never unkind to the children. He knows I would not tolerate it. And he is not a cruel man. Merely a thoughtless one, at times.
It grows late. I should go to bed. My husband will be wondering what is keeping me.
BAILEY SAT on the floor of the cottage, her back pressed to the door, her gaze fixed on the place where Bran had last stood. She didn’t.know how long she’d been sitting there—minutes? hours?—but she couldn’t seem to move.
Elva hadn’t seen or heard Bran.
She kept replaying the times she’d spent with him. The odd things he’d said and done.
“There are many things about me that you would probably find very hard to believe.”
“You make me want… things I can’t have.”
“I can’t be what you want. What you need.”
She thought of his almost obsessive avoidance of touching her. His sudden appearances and disappearances. The soundless way he moved.
He had never once knocked on her door, she realized dimly.
What was he?
A delusion? Had the series of misfortunes she’d suffered pushed her over the edge? Had she created a dark, handsome, brooding lover out of her wistful romantic fantasies?
He’d seemed so real.
An angel? He’d said several times that he wanted to help her. He’d listened to her problems, bolstered her battered ego, comforted her after her nightmare. And then she remembered his flashes of temper, his moodiness, the visible desire in his eyes when he’d leaned close and whispered that he wanted her.
She couldn’t really picture Bran as an angel.
One word kept echoing through her mind, despite her efforts to ignore it. It was the one word she just wasn’t ready to face.
But it simply wouldn’t go away.
Ghost.
She groaned and leaned her head back against the hard wooden door.
Ghost. She’d never really thought about them, beyond the realms of fiction and fantasy. Had she been asked, she probably would have said she didn’t truly believe in them.
She would have laughed if anyone had suggested she would fall m love with one.
She wasn’t laughing now.
Still sitting on the floor, she buried her face in the crook of her arms and tried to make sense of a reality that had just taken a dramatic shift. Bran had stood right beside her, spoken to her, and Elva had neither seen nor heard him: Assuming that Bailey was still in her right mind— and she wouldn’t want to bet her life savings on that at the moment—that meant Bran wasn’t of her world. Which left her with two options—angel or ghost.
The latter seemed the inevitable deduction.
Okay, she thought as her heart raced in acceptance of the awesome truth. She had to be logical about this. As much as possible, anyway.
The only ghost stories she’d heard in connection with the inn had to do with the murdered Cameron twins. Could Bran possibly be the spirit of Ian Cameron? And if he was, did that mean—
Bailey lifted her head abruptly as several other realizations occurred to her almost simultaneously. Bran had claimed that Anna was his sister. No one knew exactly how Dean and Anna had met. Dean and Anna refused to discuss the legend, making it very clear that they wanted the stories to fade from public memory.
Anna’s voice rang clearly in Bailey’s thoughts, echoing words Bailey had overheard, but hadn’t entirely understood.
“I can’t bear to think that he might still be just drifting, all alone. I suppose I’m afraid to leave because I cling to the hope that hell come back to me someday. Somehow. What if I’m not here when he tries to reach me?”
“No,” Bailey murmured aloud. “Anna is alive. She’s pregnant, for heaven’s sake. She couldn’t be—”
Was it possible—was there any way that Anna Cameron Gates was Mary Anna Cameron, murdered in 1921, miraculously brought back to life seventy-five years later?
Bailey pushed herself to her feet. She pressed a hand to the door when the room seemed to tilt for a moment. She was still half in shock.
She needed answers. Since Bran hadn’t stayed around to provide them, she went looking for the one person who had always been there when Bailey needed help.
MAE WAS in the sitting room, her feet propped up, her “needlework in her lap. She was still a bit pale from the ordeal of the night before, but was obviously well on the road to recovery.
She looked up with a smile when Bailey came into the room. “Hello, dear. Did you have a nice nap?” And then her smile faded. “What is it, darling? Is your head hurting? Have you taken one of your pills?”
Her head did ache, Bailey realized, but she brushed the observation aside. She had more important things to worry about now than a bump on her forehead.
She took a seat in the chair closest to her aunt’s. She wanted to co
me right out and demand to know everything Mae knew, or even suspected, about the Cameron ghosts, but she had a feeling she wouldn’t get very far with that tactic. Mae had proven very loyal to Dean and Anna, and very protective of their privacy, even with Bailey.
Bailey certainly couldn’t fault her for that, but she needed to know the truth. And she wasn’t ready to explain yet, even to Aunt Mae, why it had become so terribly important to her.
“My head is hurting a little,” she admitted, deciding to start with a bid for sympathy. “I couldn’t seem to relax.”
“I’m sorry, dear. Should we call the doctor? Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Bailey said, rather ashamed of herself. “I suppose I’m still just keyed up over everything.”
“And no wonder,” Mae said, clucking sympathetically. “It must have been terrible for you to have been driving when the accident happened. You must have been so frightened, and so concerned about your passengers.”
“Yes,” Bailey said with complete honesty. “It was a harrowing experience. I was so afraid I couldn’t react quickly enough and you and Cara and Casey would suffer because of it.”
“I’m very proud of you for the way you handled it, Bailey. It’s probably because of your driving that no one was more seriously injured. We’re all grateful to you.”
Bailey flushed and squirmed in her seat. Now she really felt guilty. Nevertheless, she determinedly eased the conversation into the direction she wanted it to go.
“I was sitting out in the cottage, trying to take my mind off the wreck, and I started thinking about the history of the inn,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as odd to her aunt as it did to her. “You kept copies of Mark’s article, didn’t you?”
“Why, yes. There are copies in Dean’s office. Er, what made you think of them?”
“Just curiosity,” Bailey replied, inwardly cringing at the lie. She just couldn’t tell Aunt Mae everything. Not yet. Not until she knew exactly what was going on. She was terribly afraid she might start crying if she did—and if that happened, she wasn’t at all sure she would be able to stop.
“I remember that there weren’t any photographs with the article,” she said, looking at her hands to avoid her aunt’s eyes. “Couldn’t Mark find any pictures of the twins?”
She sensed her aunt’s sudden stillness. “Photographs?” Mae repeated. “Um, no, there weren’t any photographs available to him.”
“So no photos of them survived?”
Aunt Mae hesitated so long that Bailey looked up. She could see her aunt’s indecision, and felt a surge of hope. Aunt Mae would never lie to her.
“Well, yes, there is one photograph,” Mae answered finally. “I found it in the attic just after Dean and I moved in. Dean didn’t want it used in the article—I suppose he was afraid something might happen to it in the process. Or something like that,” she added.
Mae had never been good at prevarication.
“I would love to see it,” Bailey said, trying to sound casual. “Do you know where Dean keeps it?”
Mae nodded reluctantly.
“It’s in his room. You should ask him to show it to you when he and Anna get back.”
“I don’t think he’d mind if I look at it now, do you?” Bailey asked, standing.
“I don’t know, Bailey. It doesn’t seem right for you to go rummaging through his things when he’s away. Why don’t we at least wait for him to call so you can ask his permission?”
“Heavens, Aunt Mae, Dean and I have never been so formal. He knows I won’t snoop through his personal stuff. I just want to see the photo. You know how I am about old photographs and other mementos of the past.”
Mae twisted her fingers, and the dagger of guilt twisted more deeply into Bailey’s stomach. She felt terrible about putting her sweet aunt on the spot like this, but she had to see that photograph. She simply had to.
“All right,” Mae said at.last. “You can get the key from the front desk. The photograph is in the drawer of the nightstand on the left of the bed. I’m sure you’ll find it fascinating. The twins are standing in front of the inn. You’ll, er, you’ll notice that Anna bears a striking resemblance to her cousins. Strong family genes, I suppose.”
“How interesting,” Bailey murmured, already moving toward the doorway.
She paused before leaving the room, and turned back to face her aunt. “Aunt Mae—thank you.”
Mae nodded, still looking troubled. “Lock up when you leave your brother’s room.”
“I will.”
“And Bailey?”
“Yes?”
“You will tell me why this is so important to you later, won’t you?”
“You have my word,” Bailey answered sincerely.
Whatever happened, Aunt Mae would know the truth, she decided. The woman had taken in an orphaned little girl and raised her with love and patience and trust. She deserved better than the manipulations Bailey had just put her through.
BAILEY HELD her breath as she set her hand on the brass knob of the Chippendale nightstand in the bedroom Dean and Anna shared. Her hand was shaking so hard she had difficulty opening the drawer.
She saw the framed photograph immediately, but it took her a moment to pick it up. She wasn’t sure what, exactly, she hoped to learn from it.
She picked it up slowly. A moment later, she sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
From within the black-and-white photograph, Bran’s face swam in her tear-blurred vision. His somber dark eyes were the same, and the arrogant tilt to his chin— even the way he wore his hair, longish on top and back, neat sideburns edging his firm cheeks. He looked no different in this seventy-plus-year-old photograph than when she’d seen him less than an hour ago.
She had only to glance at the woman beside him in the photograph to know that it was Anna. There could be no mistaking the lovely oval face, the glittering dark eyes, the impish, challenging smile.
Family resemblance? No. This was Anna, and Aunt Mae probably knew it—or at least suspected it. No wonder she’d tried to steer Bailey away from the photograph.
One tear escaped her as Bailey touched a trembling fingertip to Bran’s pictured face. Ian’s face, she corrected herself. Ian Cameron—who’d been dead for over seventy-five years.
“Have you found your answers, dear?” Mae asked from the doorway.
Bailey looked up slowly. “Some of them,” she whispered. “Not all.”
“Are you ready to talk to me?”
Bailey felt another tear fall, as more welled up in her eyes. “I—I have to speak to someone else first,” she said. “If I can.”
Would she ever see him again? And what would she say if she did?
Why hadn’t he told her the truth?
“Some people thought their spirits were freed when the truth about their, deaths was revealed,” Mae commented, nodding toward the photograph. “But true justice was denied them, you know. Their stepbrother murdered them and then went on to live a long time as a wealthy and prominent citizen of this town. He never had to pay for his crime—not in this life, anyway. I think that’s terribly unfair, don’t you?”
Bailey nodded, unable to speak.
“I’ve always believed in second chances,” Mae added. “I’ve wondered if the twins would have theirs. Maybe, I thought, if they could find someone to love them, they could be given another opportunity at life.”
If they could find someone to love them. The words seemed to echo in Bailey’s mind, as though there was something she should learn from them.
“Bailey?” Mae asked after another moment of silence. “Who is Bran?”
Bailey’s fingers tightened convulsively on the wooden frame. She’d almost overlooked Aunt Mae’s phenomenal memory; and her disconcerting ability to assemble the slimmest of clues into a startlingly accurate conclusion.
Bailey cleared her throat, but her voice was still rather hoarse. “Bran is…a man with too many secrets,” she manag
ed to say.
“I see.”
“I have to go out now, Aunt Mae,” Bailey said abruptly, clutching the photograph to her chest as she stood. “I’ll be back inside later to talk to you.”
Mae looked resigned. “Dean acted exactly this way when he was falling in love with Anna,” she murmured. “Always dashing off without explanation.”
“I’m sorry. I—”
“Never mind.” Mae waved a dismissing hand. “Do what you have to do, Bailey. I’ll lock up here.”
“Thank you.” Bailey paused to kiss her aunt’s cheek on the way out. “I love you, Aunt Mae.”
“I love you, too, dear. And I think you deserve a second chance, too. I hope you find it.”
Bailey swallowed hard, turned on one heel and made her escape, the old photograph still cradled in her arms.
IT WAS GETTING dark outside. The days were growing so much shorter as winter approached, Bailey mused. The nights so much longer.
It seemed she was destined to spend them alone.
She headed toward the gazebo. She could still recall that first moment when she’d opened her eyes and seen Bran standing there, gazing back at her. She remembered now that he had looked momentarily startled when she’d spoken to him. Apparently, he hadn’t expected her to see him.
Would he appear to her now if she waited for him there?
But the gazebo was occupied. A man and a woman snuggled on the bench beneath the festive little lights, oblivious to the world around them.
Honeymooners, Bailey thought with a deep sigh.
Did they have any idea how fortunate they were?
She turned and quietly walked away, suspecting that the couple never heard her footsteps crunching softly on the garden path.
Bran wasn’t waiting outside her cottage. As she turned the key in the lock, she wondered if she would find him inside. Locked doors hadn’t kept him out before—and she knew now that she had locked them.
The cottage was empty.
She closed the door behind her. “Bran?” she called softly. “Are you here?”
Where had he gone when he hadn’t been with her? Had he been here all along, silently watching her? Did he see her now? Hear her? “Bran? Please, I need to talk to you.”