by Glass, Debra
I wanted to wrap my arms around his waist and lay my head on his shoulder but fear and uncertainty consumed me and I resisted.
His breath fanned my cheeks as he studied my expression, and I intuitively knew he debated whether he should release me or…kiss me.
My heart skidded.
This close, I could see the slight misshapen crook of the bridge of his nose. I’d never noticed that before. This close, I could see his wealth of black lashes, the sharp slash of his high cheekbones and the soft pout of his bottom lip, which was a tiny bit fuller than his top lip. My gaze lingered on his mouth and I hoped for a heart-stopping moment that he would take that next step and kiss me.
Instead, he gently set me away from him. “I apologize.”
Thick disappointment seeped through my insides. I thought I was going to have to kick myself in order to unscramble my brain. “For-for what?” I stammered.
“I took liberties I should not have taken,” he whispered.
Of all times, why did he play the southern gentleman card now?
The rain had let up and gently pattered the tin roof. Thunder rumbled, low and soft, like a whisper in the darkness, like cannons on a faraway battlefield. Above all, I knew some new intimacy had just formed between Jeremiah and me that sparked a sense of promise in my heart.
As disappointed as I’d been that he hadn’t kissed me, I understood the need to move forward slowly. Even though I wanted there to be more between us, I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it.
After all, he was a ghost.
What sort of future lay in a relationship with a ghost?
“The rain has stopped,” he said, never taking his eyes from mine.
“I suppose I should be getting back to bed, then.”
He gave me a nod.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. This had fast become painfully awkward and I really didn’t know how to just walk away from him after what we’d just shared.
The same discomfort emanated from his gaze but as he took a step backward, a sheepish grin claimed his lips and then he vanished.
I blinked. I’d never get used to that, and I felt the absence of his energy so acutely, it actually made me ache. But as I turned and made my mortal way down the dark stairs, my heart soared like an eagle wheeling high above the earth.
I had touched a ghost. I had touched Jeremiah.
Despite all the warning signals blaring like sirens in my head, a strange sort of expectation gushed through me. I was falling in love.
With a ghost.
Seven
After last night in the attic, I hadn’t been able to fall asleep until well after three. Even then, I’d only dozed off and on, intermittently pushing Ella’s bony little limbs back onto her side of the bed. I stared at the rosette on the canopy above my head, wondering how this relationship with Jeremiah could possibly work.
At times, common sense prevailed and I talked myself out of it, thanking Fate that nothing more had happened between us than our innocent embrace and touching of hands. Other times, I imagined what it would have been like if, when he’d tilted my face up to his, he’d kissed me.
Hot shame flooded my face when I recalled how I’d succumbed to tears in his arms.
I hadn’t cried after the accident. I hadn’t cried when they’d finally told me Kira died. I hadn’t even shed a single tear over my heinous scar. In fact, Mom, the counselors, everyone, had been concerned at the sheer lack of emotion I’d shown.
Why had it all surfaced in Jeremiah’s embrace?
Although I hardly knew him, I’d been comfortable enough—safe enough—to unburden my most guarded and terrible secrets to him.
Closing my eyes, I touched my cheek where he’d brushed away one of my tears. The act was so negligible, so quickly done, so spontaneous it could have easily gone unnoticed.
But not by me.
To me, the compassion behind his gentle touch had reached infinitely further than my tearstained cheek. Just when I began to feel warm from the inside out, the stark reminder that he hadn’t known the real reason for my tears sank in. Would he have compassion for me if he knew what I’d done to Kira?
A chill replaced my short-lived warmth and I twisted onto my side, willing sleep to come.
When I finally crawled out of bed the next morning, I stumbled into the shower and leaned against the cold tile wall while the hot water rained down on my back. I tried to concentrate on the day ahead and how best to juggle Waylon, Ella and my parents but my thoughts seemed furiously fixated on Jeremiah. I couldn’t prevent myself from replaying every magical moment I’d spent with him last night.
Common sense told me this was crazy. Getting involved with a ghost wasn’t rational. There were no guarantees. Just as he’d done when the rain had stopped, at any moment, he could vanish and I might never see him again.
My family had uprooted themselves and sold the only home I’d ever known to move far from Buckhead so that I might have some semblance of a normal life here in Columbia. So I could go to school, on dates, to football games, to prom, all without everyone whispering behind my back that it was my fault my best friend had died.
But now, here I stood, looking for excuses to be alone so I could spend time with a boy who’d been dead for over a hundred years. Not exactly normal.
After my shower, I toweled off and then hastily dried my hair. I usually wore it down to hide my scar but today, I pulled it back into a ponytail. I knew part of me wanted to make sure Waylon noticed the hideous scar. The part of me obsessed with Jeremiah didn’t want to have to make a choice between the two of them.
While Jeremiah’s enchanting beauty and mystery presented a dangerous lure for me, Waylon was a smart, good looking, nice boy. But also the innate aspect of humanity I feared the most. Normal. Average. Typical.
Alive…
I brushed on some mascara and then put on a sheer lip gloss. Although I wanted Waylon to see the real me, I didn’t really want to scare him off.
I threw on a pair of comfortable jeans and a warm sweater and started out of my room but hesitated in the upstairs hall. The attic door gaped just as I had left it. My lashes fluttered shut. No electrical feeling swirled in the air. No Jeremiah awaited me.
Disappointed, I traipsed down the stairs and made a mental note to ask him where he went when he was not with me.
The empty downstairs foyer and rooms seeped strangely through my skin, leaving me lonely and hollow. I wound my way through the formal dining room, glancing at the highly polished table and up at the massive mirrors with the curiosity of a museum patron. My footsteps, muted by the carpet, echoed when I entered the tiled, short hall connecting the dining room to the kitchen. As I arrived at the modern kitchen the architecture abruptly changed and the sense of history I associated with the older part of the house faded away. Jeremiah had been long in his grave when this part of the house was added.
With its warm exposed brick walls and thick wooden support beams, the kitchen served as the family hub of the house. In stark contrast to the cozy, plantation style design, industrial, stainless steel appliances lined the walls.
A high, square table, with an oatmeal-colored granite countertop stood in the center of the room. Friendly voices drifted from a small television situated between Mom’s cookbooks and a seldom used toaster oven.
Ella perched on a barstool at the table, coloring one of her many artworks she refused to let anyone throw away.
Mom whirled on me from where she had been perusing the cabinets, probably in order to make a grocery list. “I thought I was going to have to send Ella to wake you up.”
Her eyes raked me in blatant disapproval of my decision to wear a ponytail but she judiciously said nothing. Still, her thoughts spoke loud and clear. Why’d you pull your hair back? That boy isn’t going to notice anything but that ugly scar.
I ignored the telepathic message she didn’t intend for me to hear. “The storm kept me awake,” I mumbled before delving into the fridge, an
d avoiding her judgmental gaze.
Ella pushed her purple framed glasses up on her nose. “Me, too,” she announced.
“Did not. You snored.” I couldn’t resist ribbing her.
Eyes narrowed, mouth twisted, she raised her hand to slap me.
“Ella,” Mom warned without ever looking away from the cabinets.
Ella’s bottom lip protruded and she grudgingly lowered her hand and went back to her refrigerator door masterpiece.
“Remember, Ella,” Mom added. “When Wren’s friend comes, you are not to pester them.”
Relief surged through me.
Ella puffed up like a cornered alley cat. “But—”
“No buts.” Mom headed her off at the pass. “You’ll be entertaining young men one day and you won’t want Wren in your business.”
“She’ll be an old lady then, married with kids of her own.” Ella’s statement opened a desolate place inside me. If I continued to pursue a relationship with Jeremiah, I would be an old woman, still living under my parents’ roof with no children of my own. I hadn’t considered that possibility but I was fairly certain ghosts didn’t marry and raise kids.
Regret that I had chosen to wear my hair in a ponytail swept through me. I should at least keep an open mind about Waylon. I drew in a deep breath, recalling the hum of energy in my hand when I’d touched Jeremiah. Waylon would never enchant me the way Jeremiah had last night.
Never.
* * * * *
The big grandfather clock rang out one sonorous note. Ella flew through the front door. “He’s here! He’s here!” she announced.
Although I’d conversed with Waylon at school, we’d never been anything more than friendly. Still, butterflies danced in my stomach. At the same time, I had the strange sense I was cheating on Jeremiah.
Trying to appear calm and not over eager, I walked to the front door just as Waylon’s big, red truck rolled to a stop in front of the house.
Ella refused to make herself scarce as Mom had asked. Instead, she stood beside me, intermittently analyzing my expression and sizing up Waylon. Her scrutiny revealed my closed off posture. Without realizing it, I stood huddling, arms crossed over my chest as if I was freezing. Although the autumn storm had left a cold front in its wake, there remained only a little chill in the air. Not even enough for a jacket.
Waylon’s truck engine rumbled and sputtered to a stop. When he leapt out, Ella’s eyes widened dramatically.
Dressed in a blue t-shirt and jeans that outlined his football player’s physique, he looked as he did at school. But today, he wore a gray baseball cap pushed back so far on his head, the bill stood almost straight up.
Before I could greet him, Ella burst off the porch in a whirl of garish colors. Her ensemble consisted of a multi-colored nightgown over a tank top and jeans that were far too short for her. No socks. No shoes.
I flinched.
“Are you Wren’s boyfriend?” she demanded.
Was it possible to flinch twice in the span of three seconds?
Waylon chuckled and his gaze met mine.
My cheeks flamed but he expertly evaded the question. “You must be Wren’s big sister.”
Ella’s hands found her hips and she arched an eyebrow. “I’m just a little girl. Anybody can see that Wren’s older than I am.”
“She won’t be patronized,” I offered.
Ella shot me a look of disapproval. “Patroniz-ed? What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
Waylon touched her on the shoulder, arresting her attention once more. “I think you’re right. It was silly of me to tease you. What’s your name? I’m Waylon.”
She haughtily lifted her chin. “I know.”
“Ella, Mom said not to bother us.” I stepped off the porch. “In the house.” I pointed toward the front door.
She snorted but gave up without a fight and slinked toward the door.
I smiled at Waylon. “I’m sorry.”
“No problem,” he said with a dismissing wave of his hand. “She’s cute.”
I laughed. “You don’t have to live with her.”
Waylon’s gaze drifted over my face and once again, I regretted the ponytail decision. He really was cute and so unlike the pretentious guys I had known in Buckhead. If I hadn’t already met and fallen for Jeremiah, I’d totally be head over heels for Waylon. He seemed like the type who still ate dinner around a table with his family, listened to country music, attended a church and found pleasure in simple things.
I was envious. On the surface, his life seemed so uncomplicated. I hadn’t even been in Columbia a month and already, my life had grown complicated beyond belief.
Waylon scuffed his boot in the pea gravel driveway. His gaze followed the columns upward to the fanlight. “Wow,” he said under his breath. “It looks even bigger up close than it does from the road.”
“You’ve never been inside before?” I turned to glance up at the fanlight, half-expecting to see Jeremiah glaring from behind the thick, leaded glass. He wasn’t. My shoulders sagged with relief. And yet, a twinge of disappointment passed through me.
“No,” Waylon replied, dragging my attention back to the present. “When Miss Polk lived here, I didn’t dare even come up the driveway.”
Old, lonely Miss Polk in love with a ghost…
The same ghost that I…
I bit my bottom lip, not daring to even think about my feelings for Jeremiah right now. “Want to go in?” I took a step toward the porch.
Waylon’s blue eyes lit up. “I thought you’d never ask.”
As he followed me onto the porch, his cologne wafted around me. I couldn’t deny the thrill I felt at the fact that he’d wanted to smell good for me. Maybe my scar wasn’t as bad as I thought. Still, I could deny that the scar served as a mild reflection of the wounds—and blame—I carried on the inside.
The hinges creaked as I pushed the heavy door all the way open.
Waylon entered the house with all the reverence of a monk entering a cathedral. His lips parted as he absorbed his surroundings. Obviously, he felt much as I had the first time I had stepped foot in this house, surrounded by the sharp scent of old wood, the mustiness of ages old drapes and furniture, the shadowy mystery of people who lived and died long before my parents or I were ever born.
“Those are the original crown moldings.” His neck craned back as he scanned the ceiling. “Amazing to think those were all carved by hand.”
He brushed his fingertips on the glossy white trim around the soaring doorjamb. “These walls are a foot thick. They don’t make houses like this anymore.”
I smiled in agreement. “I don’t know anything about building houses. But this one is far different from the one we had in Buckhead.”
His eyes widened. “Buckhead? Well look at you, little socialite.”
I shrugged. “It wasn’t like that.”
He scoffed. “Why’d you leave Buckhead to come here?”
“David’s job.” I couldn’t admit the real reason.
He grimaced. “Weren’t you pissed?”
“Not really. I-I like it here.” That answer was honest enough but immediately, I realized my mistake.
Waylon’s eyes warmed. I’d given him the impression I liked it in Tennessee because of him! Oh no.
An awkward silence ensued and he finally turned his attention to the furniture. I stifled a sigh of relief when he meandered into the parlor. He brushed his fingers along the back of the crimson, velvet-covered settee facing the fireplace. I watched his expression in the massive mirror suspended over the mantle.
Squatting, he examined the woodwork. “This has definitely been reupholstered but this piece of furniture is pre-Civil War.”
For the first time, I really looked at the settee. Had Jeremiah courted local girls while seated there? A sliver of jealously caught me by surprise.
“There aren’t many houses surviving that are kept mostly in their original state with the original furniture. I’d say the cl
osest one to here is The Hermitage, Andrew Jackson’s house in Nashville. Even Rippavilla in Spring Hill underwent major renovations in the 1920s,” Waylon explained. “I assume you have indoor plumbing.”
“It’d be tough living here if we didn’t,” I joked.
He stood, straightening to his full height of well over six feet. “Are all the bathrooms at the back of the house?”
I hadn’t noticed before but his assumption proved correct. “Yes.”
“Sweet!” he exclaimed. “They didn’t change too much about the original structure of the house to add them.”
As we wandered from room to room, he admired the antiques, pointing out details that had escaped my eye.
Now that Jeremiah was in my life, I found the things I’d previously overlooked fascinating. “How’d you get so interested in history?” I couldn’t help but be curious as to why Waylon loved this stuff.
“My dad and I reenact.” He gently opened the glass paned doors over the secretary. “These books are old.”
He fingered one of the dusty volumes out of its place and opened it. I nearly gasped when I saw Jeremiah’s florid signature scrawled on the inside cover.
“It’s a law book,” Waylon mused. “I guess one of the Ransoms was studying law before the war.”
I swallowed. Hard. Waylon had no idea he held what would have been Jeremiah’s future in his hands.
A lawyer.
I easily envisioned him as a handsome young man, wearing reading glasses and seated behind a sprawling wooden desk heaped high with papers and thick books. Thanks to the Civil War, he’d never gotten that chance.
Waylon closed the book and then returned it to its place on the shelf. After he inspected the other titles, he shut the bookcase door and then turned to me. “I volunteer at Rippavilla Plantation on the weekends…when it’s not football season.”