A hairbrush and comb sat neatly on Belinda’s dressing table, along with various other toiletries and an open travel case of jewelry. He stepped closer, wondering what kind of baubles the uptight businesswoman he’d met yesterday would wear.
Pearls: that’s what she’d wear. Simple, elegant, and luminescent, they coiled in a neat pool on the dressing table, the necklace embracing a set of matching studs.
Ethan thought back. Yes, they would look lustrous against her thick, dark hair and fair skin.
Abruptly, he stilled. Dude, what the hell are you doing?
He left the house after that, ashamed that he’d been tempted to snoop. Despite his chagrin, however, he hadn’t forgotten the six-pack. And even now, as he relaxed in his leather armchair with a cold one in hand, Ethan felt an unpleasant tightening in his middle. Whatever had possessed him to be so nosy?
He took another swig of beer, mollifying himself with the thought that everything had been out in plain view, and he had been checking to make sure no one was in there.
It wasn’t as if he’d gone digging through her underwear drawer.
Ethan smirked in spite of himself, wondering whether the straight-laced lady lawyer wore black lace thongs to court … or no-nonsense hip huggers and plain white bras from the Sears catalog.
He didn’t have a problem picturing her in either one.
CHAPTER THREE
Diana had another debilitating migraine that evening and went to bed at seven o’clock, snuggling under the quilt in Aunt Belinda’s bed.
Some time later, she woke, sweating and shaking, trying to throw off the heavy blackness of another nightmare. Bedraggled and drained, she stumbled down the hall into the den and crashed onto the sofa, where she was able to find a more peaceful rest.
When she finally peeled her eyes open to bright sunlight, it was nearly ten o’clock—but today, she wasn’t surprised that she’d overslept. Time and place seemed different up here in Damariscotta. And aside from that, Diana realized with clinical detachment that she was surely suffering from a bit of depression, thanks to Jonathan’s betrayal and Aunt Belinda’s death.
When Diana came back to the bedroom after her shower, wrapped in a scratchy, threadbare towel from Aunt Belinda’s aged collection, trepidation skittered up her spine.
There was something about this room that made her feel as if the nightmares lingered, heavy and dark and hot.
Yes, Aunt Bee had died here, but there was nothing more natural than an elderly lady easing into death while in repose. Practical Diana had no qualms about that. Still, she hesitated before stepping into the room, as if afraid the nightmares might come back even in broad morning light—but upon seeing the white cat, Motto, sprawled in the middle of the bed, she forgot her disquiet.
“Hi kitty,” she crooned, moving carefully toward the beady-green-eyed feline. The cat had burrowed right into the center of the maelstrom of sheets and was busily licking the inside of her back leg until the interruption of a mere human.
Diana was surprised but pleased when she was able to get close enough to scoop Motto into her arms. She nuzzled the thick white fur of the feline’s head. “I’m so glad you decided to come out of hiding, sweet-thing,” she said in a silly voice. “Now if only Arty would be as brave.”
The annoyance plain on her face—most likely at Diana’s undignified tone—Motto struggled out of her captor’s arms and plopped lightly to the floor. Tail swishing in a last gesture of disdain, the cat ducked her head and disappeared under the bed.
“Well, fine, then. See if I bring you anymore catnip toys,” Diana told her. But, she realized, the cat’s presence and warm, furry body had done much to alleviate her discomfort with the bedroom.
After dressing in a pair of khaki capris and a red button-down shirt, she went to the kitchen. She eyed the mahogany box by the phone, but was absolutely not going to give in to the urge to open it.
She wasn’t going to take the chance of pulling out The High Priestess again. The four instances of it showing up were random, of course, but still it was creepy.
Today, she had to go down to the post office, which had a FedEx drop box and send some signed documents back to Mickey. She had to get them out before the early truck came at eleven.
The locksmith had come the day before, and now that all the locks were changed, Diana felt much more secure about leaving the house … not that there was much of value here. All of Belinda’s considerable wealth was in securities and a few real estate investments—and was not at all evident in her manner of living, Diana thought with a wry smile at the memory of the threadbare bath towels and off-brand shampoo.
There’s not much here of any value except a few antiques—unless someone wants a deck of old Tarot cards. At the thought, queasiness started in her stomach and she swallowed hard, forcing herself to take another sip of tea.
Diana grimaced, adding another stop at the market to her list of things to do. She’d forgotten to buy coffee yesterday, and the only brew available in Aunt Belinda’s house was her choice of herbal tea: peppermint, chamomile, and blends of rose hips, lemon verbena, all of the mints, and comfrey. Curiously, she’d also found a box of dog biscuits when foraging for coffee, and wondered if the cats liked canine treats. But when she offered, neither of them bothered to even show and turn up their pink noses at the cookies, and so Diana left to go on her errands.
Damariscotta had one main street lined with tourist shops, bed-and-breakfasts, small cafes and restaurants. The practical buildings—post office, library, hardware store, supermarket—were at one end of the street, and that was where Diana chose to park. It didn’t look much different from how she remembered it as a child, but the details were wavy in her mind until she actually got out of the car and stood on the sidewalk, looking down the street.
As she swung her purse over her shoulder, she heard a masculine voice hailing her. Turning, Diana saw the neat figure of Dr. Marc Reardon standing at the edge of the parking lot. “Good morning,” she called, waving briefly to her aunt’s physician.
She had met him along with several other townspeople at Aunt Belinda’s funeral, and he had been a model of sympathy and conscientiousness. Now, he strode across the street to meet her.
“How odd,” he said, with a smile that squinted into the sun, “I had just been wondering how you were doing up in that big old house by yourself and then I saw you pull into the parking lot.” He gestured to a quaint cottage-like house across the side street. “My office is right there.”
The house was robin’s egg blue with white shutters and a white picket fence that kept a border of wildflowers from spilling onto the sidewalk. “How charming,” she said, noting the sign in its front yard that stated Marc Reardon, M.D. ~ General Practice.
Diana turned back to him, looking up at his tall, handsome figure. His hair was sandy brown, and would have been perfectly combed if a swift breeze from the lake hadn’t been ruffling it. His choice of attire included a tie, and was a bit formal for the small town of Damariscotta. But Diana couldn’t fault him for his taste in a starched shirt with monogrammed cuffs and well-creased trousers above buffed leather shoes. He wore a lab coat over his crisp shirt, and Dr. Reardon was monogrammed on the pocket.
He shifted so the sun wasn’t glaring in his eyes and tried futilely to smooth his hair. “How are you managing in that big old house by yourself?” he asked with a warm smile that showed perfect teeth.
Diana closed the door of her car and looked up at him through the filter of dark sunglasses. “There’s a lot to do, but I’m taking it bit by bit. The hardest part is going through Aunt Belinda’s personal things, of course.”
“If you think of anything I can do to help, please let me know.” He smiled, hesitating, and slid his hands into the lab coat pockets. “I’m glad I ran into you, as I wanted to invite you to a barbeque I’m having on Tuesday.”
Diana raised her eyebrows, about to refuse—there really was no reason to get social; she’d be leaving the area s
oon—but before she could reply, he added, “The ladies from Belinda’s quilting group will be there, and I know they’d love to see you. And there will be several other people from Damariscotta that I’m sure you’d enjoy meeting.”
Belinda had talked quite a bit about the quilters, and with a pang of conscience Diana changed her mind. “It sounds like fun—I’ll plan to make it,” she replied, aware that it was another excuse not to return to Boston right away.
The physician smiled in return. “We’ll all be looking forward to it.”
She took her leave then, citing her errands, and began to walk up a slight incline to Main Street. It was early on Thursday morning, and although it was still early June, summer tourists were already filling the town.
After turning in her parcels at the post office, she made a beeline for a small cafe, whose painted sign proclaimed the availability of lattés and cappuccinos and espressos. Real coffee! Maybe this was a more civilized little town than she realized. Diana ordered a double cap to go and continued down the street, sipping the heavenly drink with relief.
It felt odd not to have to go anywhere or be on a schedule. And although there was work waiting for her back at Aunt Bee’s—both professional and personal—the quaint town lulled her into allowing herself a reprieve, and Diana strolled beyond the post office and past a small camera shop. Next, there was a small structure set back from the sidewalk with a tiny yard and an open, narrow doorway. Used Books, its sign read. Before Diana knew it, her feet had propelled her down the cracked and shifting sidewalk, up the single step, and into a musty bookshop.
An oscillating fan blew in the direction of the shop’s proprietor, who sat at a table laden with books and was surrounded by even more stacks and shelves of tomes upon tomes. The woman looked up, frowning slightly at Diana’s large paper cup, and said, “Hello. Let me know if I can help you find anything. The shelves go all the way into the back and up those stairs there.” Then, with a smile, she returned to her work.
“Thank you.” Diana walked past her, careful not to jostle a particularly tall stack of books, not exactly sure what she was looking for. She didn’t want to be rude and turn around before at least skimming through some of the shelves, so she pressed on to the back of the shop, noting the faded, curling handwritten labels on the shelves: Fiction, Mystery, Science Fiction, Romance, History, Business, Biography, Religion, and, finally, a newer tag that read New Age.
Catching a glimpse of some of the books, which had titles like Find the Angels in Your Life, and Out of Body Experiences for Everyone, Diana rolled her eyes. Aunt Belinda would have a field day in this section. Runes, read another one, Palmistry Made Easy, and The Tarot Explained were lined up along with them.
Before she knew what she was doing, Diana reached for the last title. Setting her cup down on a half-empty shelf, she flipped through the yellowed pages of the book. They were brittle and stained with what looked like coffee, and several of the corners were torn off. She paused at a chapter entitled “The Major (or Greater) Arcana.”
She ignored the fact that her heart thumped wildly as she turned the fragile pages, and refused to consider why her fingers trembled. The Fool, Number Zero. The Magician, Number One. The High Priestess, Number Two.
“I never pegged you for a New-Ager,” drawled a voice from behind her.
Diana stifled a shriek and whirled, dropping the book. “You—you startled me,” she said to the man standing there. Despite her shock, she noted his height (tall), his brown eyes (twinkling with humor), and his face (chiseled and incredibly handsome). The moisture evaporated from her mouth and sprang to her palms.
“I can see that.” He had bent down to retrieve the book. “Hmm … The Tarot Explained.” He straightened and offered it back to her. “Your aunt would be astonished.”
Diana didn’t take the book. Instead, she stared at him. Had they met? At the funeral, maybe? But then suddenly his voice and easy smile connected with her memory. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, at once recognizing Ethan Tannock. She couldn’t help that her tone was unenthusiastic.
And what else would he expect, having walked into her house uninvited twice?
He had shaved and cut his hair, and although it added years to her estimate of his age—he was definitely mid-thirties—it did wonders for his looks. His shorn face was very attractive, with high cheekbones and a firm, square jaw. It made his eyes look bigger and darker, and his lips, which had settled into a sort of smirk, were no longer hidden by mustache overgrowth.
She swallowed hard, feeling suddenly at a loss in the presence of this tall, attractive stranger—who’d been in her house twice. Somehow now, especially in this small, crowded space, he seemed more intense, with more presence and confidence. Irritated with herself, she turned to pick up the cup of cappuccino.
A hand smoothed over that clean jaw line, then dropped to sling loosely on his hip. “I forgot you haven’t seen me shorn.” He continued to lean against the shelf, holding the book, and grinning down at her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Forget it,” she told him coolly. “I was just—deep in thought.”
He glanced down at the book. “From everything your aunt has told me, I’m sure you aren’t really interested in the Tarot.”
The certainty and hint of accusation in his voice caused her to bristle and she pulled an invisible cloak of haughtiness around her for protection. “Although I can’t imagine why my aunt should be discussing me with you, I admit you’re right. I don’t believe in this foolishness.” Just how well had he known her aunt?
“Okay,” he shrugged. “Would you like me to put this back, or were you going to buy it?”
“No,” she said sharply, too quickly. “No.” She softened her tone, ignoring the throb that was just beginning to tom-tom at the back of her temples. Not again. Not here. Not in front of him—again. “I wasn’t going to buy it. As I told you, I haven’t any use for it.”
“I’ll just put it away, then.” Ethan turned, sliding the book onto the shelf in an approximation of where it had been. “Hmm. Palmistry. My sister might like this,” he mused, pulling out the book next to it. Not that Fiona needed a book to tell her how to read palms—she was quite gifted in that regard, just like their mother. He, Ethan, was the one who didn’t possess any real sensitivity. Maybe it was a gender thing.
Holding the book, he glanced up at the woman in front of him and noticed that her face had seemed to tighten with pain. Clearly physical pain. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked, shoving the book back onto the shelf.
“Yes,” she told him, obviously lying. Then, she looked up at him for the first time with honest eyes. Misery and pain showed in them. “No, actually, I’m not. I get these debilitating migraines, and—”
“What can I do for you?” he asked, taking her slim arm and urging her to sink into a well-worn armchair. She looked as if she were going to keel over, or else be violently ill. Or both.
“A glass of water,” she said in a thready voice. “I have medication in my bag.” Her brows furrowed and her mouth tightened with pain.
Ethan hurried to the front of the shop where Maggie sat going through her books. “Hey, Mag, I need a glass of water for Belinda’s niece—she’s got to take some medicine.” He slipped past her nod, into the private bathroom, and filled a small cup with water.
When he returned to Diana, she was reclining in the armchair, eyes closed. Her features were ashen and sharp. He pressed the water into her hand and she half sat up, drinking greedily. “Thanks. I’ll be better in a few minutes.” She sank back into the chair and closed her eyes.
He wondered what she had been doing, perusing a book on the Tarot when she professed non-belief, and he reflected on the combatant look in her eyes when she denied her interest in the cards. Had she come to recognize her Gift, or was she just interested in the cards because of her aunt? Or—the thought made him shudder—could she be considering selling Belinda’s cards or books?
He stood next t
o her, looking down at her lidded eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. The hardness had melted from her face, leaving only the starkness of pain over her classic, Grace Kelly features, and he was surprised by sudden raw attraction.
It wasn’t mere objective, appreciation of her beauty. The sizzle of attraction was strong enough to supersede the anger and irritation he felt toward someone who would ignore an old lady for years. Most of all, however, the surprise and inappropriateness of his reaction to her pissed him off.
Her eyelids fluttered and she opened them fully. “I’m sorry,” she said in a soft sort of groan that didn’t help his surge of awareness, “that one came on fast.” She looked a bit sleepy and bewildered, but as he offered her his hand, the glaze cleared from her eyes.
The Cards of Life and Death (Modern Gothic Romance 2) Page 4