“Who is she?” Charlie asks.
His voice is quiet, not pressured or pushy, but I’m caught off guard. He wants to talk about Lacey now?
“He said her name is Lydia Chase. I found some stuff on the internet about her.”
After my crying jag, I went to the Historical Association website, as Martin had suggested.
“Like what?”
“A diary and some letters at the Historical Association Library. I’m gonna go read about her tomorrow after work.”
The exact items Martin described were listed when I searched the collections online. All I had to do was put in Lacey’s real name and the word “suicide,” and they popped up with call numbers.
“What time?”
“After lunch.”
“I’ll come. If you want.”
“Okay.”
He props up on his elbow, gazing down at me, and I get stuck staring into his eyes again. He brushes a strand of hair off my face. “Tell me if he tries to get you to go with him again.”
“Okay.”
“He might be a real weirdo. You never know about people.”
“All right.”
“Are you going to try to go back to sleep?”
“Maybe. What time is it?”
He glances over his shoulder at my night table clock. “Quarter after three.”
Crap. I have to get up for a six a.m. shift at the coffee shop. I might try to stay up. Being awake is the best way to avoid another dream.
“I could stay. Maybe she won’t come if I’m here.”
My face heats up. Should I let him stay? I want him to, but being together all night also makes me terribly nervous. Will we get caught? Will I go too far with him? “I have to get up early for work.”
“I’ll set an alarm. Be right back.”
He leaves and returns a few minutes later, tapping on his iPhone. Even though I already have mine set, I don’t stop him. Double alarms will ensure he’s out of here before our parents wake up.
“What time?” he asks.
“Five fifteen.”
“Ugh.” He shakes his head, a small smile curling his lips.
I grin back. “I know. Trust me, I know.”
He puts the phone on my nightstand and climbs back into bed. Once settled on his side, he reaches out and touches one of my curls, twisting the lock of hair gently around his finger.
“It’s a mess,” I mumble, raising my hand to smooth the rest of it down.
“No. I like it.” He flits his eyes to mine. “I kind of have a thing about hair, and yours is really great.”
“It is?”
“Yeah.” He smiles. “Do you have something like that?” he asks, his hand now traveling down to my bare shoulder, his thumb caressing the skin there.
“A thing, you mean?” My voice is sort of low and cracking.
“Yeah.”
Everything about you. Your eyes. Your hair. Your shoulders. Your smile. I can’t say any of those, so I stutter out a weak “Yeah…”
“What is it?” He leans in and plants an excruciatingly soft kiss on my lips.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Too shy.”
“You? Shy?”
“Yeah.”
We laugh because we both know that I’m really not shy at all. Then, we lay there with just the faint sound of our breathing between us, our hands still connected.
In the darkness, I feel as if maybe I can ask him more questions. “Have you always lived here?”
“No. We moved in when I was eight. Before my mom got sick. She really wanted this house. It needed a ton of work, but she loved making all the changes.”
“And you’ve never heard or seen anything? Not a single weird noise? No bumps in the night?”
“I’ve been trying to think about that. There was this one time. I was home alone, and my mom had just died. It was a few days after her funeral, and this weird sensation came over me, as though I wasn’t alone. I was down in the family room, watching TV, and I heard a sound coming from the mudroom. Zeke ran in there, wagging his tail. I checked, but no one was there. I thought my mind was just playing tricks on me. That happens after someone dies. You see a lot of things as being signs of them. So I ended up dismissing what happened as nothing.”
I prop up on my elbow to look down at him. “Maybe that was Lacey. Or maybe your mom. Before she moved on.”
“Maybe. I did feel very calm about it, a sense of peace like everything would be all right. And my mother’s perfume. I remember the scent of her coming over me. But like I said, I thought my mind just created something I wanted to happen.”
“Wow. I bet it was her.” This is fascinating to me—that someone else had an experience like this with a ghost, someone who is otherwise a normal person. I wish more people talked about their encounters without thinking they’ll be called weird.
“Maybe. That’s why I got so freaked when you first told me because I don’t want her to be a ghost. I want her to be in heaven or wherever the good place is.”
“Of course. I’m sure she is.” I rest my hand on his bicep, wanting to comfort him. On top of losing his mother, he shouldn’t have to worry that she’s still suffering.
“I’m sure there were other times, too, that I don’t remember, like subtle stuff that I thought was Zeke moving around or whatever. One time, he barked at the linen closet, so who knows?”
“Maybe.”
“You should get some sleep. Five fifteen is going to come way too soon.”
“Okay.” I smile at him in the darkness and lie down, facing away, glad when his hand touches my side.
“Good night,” he murmurs. He’s so close, I can feel his breath on my neck.
“Good night, Charlie.”
And I love that he’s here. I am so grateful for him in this moment, I don’t even remember falling asleep.
Chapter 18
When the alarm goes off, my brain takes a few minutes to register what’s happening. First of all, Charlie’s here. In my bed. He’s rolling over next to me, removing his hand from my side and shutting off the bluesy riff jangling out of his phone. Second, I realize I slept, and I didn’t have another dream. Two awesome occurrences in one short night.
Charlie collapses back down beside me and snuggles into my back, his breath hot on my neck. Are we spooning? I think we are. We lie like this for a few minutes. Peaceful and quiet. His chest presses into my back, his arm wrapped around me, hand resting on my forearm. I almost fall back asleep until Charlie pecks a kiss on my cheek and moves to get up.
“See you at lunch,” he says, and he’s gone, as if he was never here. The only traces left are the warm spot next to me and the lingering sensation of his lips on my cheekbone.
I haul my butt to the bathroom, relieved that maybe I’ll get some answers today. Hopefully, we’ll find out something at the library that will help with Lacey.
Work is a million iced lattes, hazelnut cappuccinos, and double espressos. My coworkers are cool. Island Coffee is sort of cool, too, with bright yellow walls and giant posters of vintage people doing vintage things like riding super-tall bikes and sitting under red-and-white-striped tents at the beach. Plus, the early shift always flies by. Eleven comes quickly, and my replacement is here.
I trudge up the hill, back to Fair-Ever, grateful my mother won’t be home. She works days now, but when she worked nights, she was always around. I often had to be quiet so she could sleep. I wonder if she’ll keep working after she marries Mike. She probably won’t have to, but I can’t picture her staying home either, tending only to the house and doing charity work. That is so not her, but maybe she’ll give that lifestyle a try.
I arrive home first and change my cloth
es. I’m excited to see Charlie and glad that he’s coming around to my paranormal issues. But having him know is a whole new experience for me that takes some adjustment.
While I wait, I make gooey grilled cheese sandwiches in the panini press. The Dowler’s kitchen, which I suppose I should be calling my kitchen now, has every modern appliance and convenience—a Keurig brewer, a deluxe juicer, and even a make-your-own-soda machine.
I’m just removing the second sandwich when Charlie comes through the slider. I hear him throwing his cleats in the bin and stowing his baseball glove in the closet.
“Something smells good!” he calls.
“Lunch,” I answer.
Seeing him walk in, all sweaty and in sporting apparel, stirs my crush into a frenzy. Yikes! How exactly did I fall for a jock? Good thing he’s not a dumb jock. Charlie’s the smart version of his kind.
Charlie sits at the counter, and I put his plate in front of him. He devours his sandwich in less than three minutes, along with a glass of milk and a pile of chips. I think he may have a hollow leg because I know from experience that he’ll be hungry again in an hour.
“That was so good. Thanks for making it.”
“You’re welcome.”
I’m still working on my first half and look up to find him staring, chin in hand. “Stop.”
“What?” He grins. “I’m trying to figure out how you can eat so slow.”
“Staring is rude. Didn’t you ever learn that?” I take one last bite and decide I’m done. Charlie makes my stomach twist in knots.
“Not this kind of staring.”
“Charlie…” I feel my cheeks heating up, and when I glance at him, he raises his eyebrows.
“Are you ready to go?” I ask, giggling at his funny face. I stand up to take my plate to the sink.
“Yes. So ready.”
The Historical Association Library sits tucked behind the old Quaker meeting house just down Fair Street from the Dowlers. When I pull open the glass door, the sound is like a suction cup being separated from a surface. The building is new and filled with stale, dehumidified air. Two woman behind the desk glance up with vague expressions of displeasure, as if they are thinking, “How dare we come and disturb their perfect little library?”
I smile, hoping maybe they’ll smile back. “Hi.”
“How can I help you?” one of them asks. Her limp brown hair cut in a bowl style makes me think of Velma from the Scooby-Doo cartoons. A pair of reading glasses perch on top of her head, and she keeps her brown eyes fixed on me. No smile. Not even a hint of one.
I pull out my scrap of paper with the call numbers and lay it on the glossy wood counter. “We need to see these.”
Her glasses drop into place. When she’s done examining the entries, she peers back at me. “You need all three?”
“Yes. Please.” I meet her skepticism as confidently as I can.
“Fill this out.” She hands me a clipboard with a form on it.
I scribble my information in the blanks as quickly as possible. Charlie paces beside me, and the ladies keep glancing at him. I’m sure they don’t get many teenagers in here—probably exactly zero in fact. I hand her the clipboard when I’m finished.
She studies it, then with a sigh, she goes through a vault-like door behind the desk. Charlie and I settle in a couple of chairs at one of the antique tables. He clicks on the green desk light. I fold my hands in my lap so I won’t fidget too much.
“This place is weird,” Charlie whispers, tilting toward me.
“I know.”
“How long will she take?”
“I don’t know.”
The library lady seems to take forever, but she finally emerges carrying a tray that holds an assortment of items, including the old diary, ragged and leather bound, along with a pair of white gloves.
“The diary is in bad shape, so you’ll need to use the gloves,” she instructs.
“All right.” I slip on the gloves and pick up the diary. I took notes during my research the night before, so I know the exact entry I want to read. Charlie leans in to read over my shoulder. The words on the page are scrawled in loopy, old-fashioned cursive.
June 15, 1856
What has befallen my dearest Lydia is wholly unbelievable to me. That her life took such a tragic path and a terribly sinful one is still a shock to me. I never would have imagined when we were girls what would become of my sweet friend. The devil himself must have come up from hell to poison her body and heart with such lust for her to fall prey to whatever man fathered her poor bastard daughter. And then to be so foolish and hopeful that Mr. Chase could accept the child as his own and keep one as unfaithful as her. To think he would trust her again, knowing what she did while he was at sea those many months? She was truly naïve. We should have known then that she wasn’t of sound mind. How she must have anguished over her precious one’s treatment at the hands of those who so despised her. No, we should have known Lydia would be unable to bear such a burden. I wish I could have visited her in those last days at her father’s home, but I could ill afford to be dragged into such a scandal, having to put my own husband and children above childhood friendships. Poor, wretched Lydia. I fear she twists and suffers the torments of Hell for all eternity because of her sinful ways.
Charlie and I stare at each other when we’re done.
“Wow,” he says quietly.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
We read the entry again, and I have to sit back to process the information when I’m done. I have that strange feeling of knowing too much, of peeking into a window and seeing a person’s most personal moments and secrets then feeling guilty for having invaded her privacy. This is Lacey’s secret, and the facts are more than I want to know about her. I’m trying to connect all the details into a story in my head and decide I need a copy of this. The ladies keep glancing at us, making sure we’re not trashing their treasures, but I manage to take off the gloves and snap a picture of the entry with my iPhone.
I put the gloves back on and reach for one of the letters. The opening describes the sale of a house on Orange Street. Boring. Then, I come to something more interesting.
The story of dear Uncle John is a tragic one indeed, as you mentioned last. The trials he suffered with the loss of one wife and then the terrible betrayal of the second. How could he forgive such a thing? He surely could not be expected to, and the girls, my cousins Josephine and Isabelle, had grown so fond of the child such as to think of her as a true sister, despite her lack of blood relation, that it seemed fitting to keep her in the Chase household. Truly, they love the child, as does Victoria, who was childless with her first husband and finds great solace now in her marriage to Uncle John and in the captivating child Miss Eliza has become.
I go over this letter several times, Charlie still hovering over my shoulder to read along with me. This is the story? This is the truth? What happened is too disturbing even to ponder, a scandal with all the makings of a Hollywood historical drama. I put that one down and pick up the other letter.
Mrs. Folger is shamed and I dare say taken down several notches as a result of her daughter’s actions. The untimely death of the former Mrs. Chase by her own hand is a tragedy and a burden Mrs. Folger must bear.
The true paternity of the child has been hotly debated behind closed doors. Some say the father, her first love and schoolmate, Thomas Macy, has been at sea these long many months and may be unaware of what has passed here at home. What a shock it will be for the young man to learn what happened to the one he left behind in such a way. But now it seems the child will officially be called a Chase and raised as such. Thanks be to God for the generosity of the family.
Anger and sadness well up inside me like a tide. If the accounts are correct, I think I have the full picture of what happened to her, and that she’s st
ill wandering the halls and rooms of Fair-Ever looking for her lost Eliza makes perfect sense. She’s been in a permanent state of sadness for so many years, unable to go wherever the dead are supposed to go. I sigh, the weight of my thoughts making me slump in the chair. Will my journal end up on someone’s tray a hundred years from now? Maybe. That thought is sort of horrifying.
Velma comes over to the table. “Are you all set?”
“Yes. Thank you. We’re going.” I get to my feet, and Charlie snatches my paper and pen off the table, shoving them into the front pocket of his shorts.
We step outside. I eagerly inhale the damp air as we start to climb the hill back up to Fair-Ever. My mind races with what we’ve learned. Charlie looks around before grabbing my hand and pulling me into a narrow alley beside the Ships Inn.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” But I’m really not. I’m freaked out. Who wouldn’t be?
“That was some pretty crazy stuff. Especially for back then…” Charlie frowns and runs his hand through his hair. “Did you understand it all?”
“I think so. I think she was married to one guy who was older. She had stepdaughters who were like teenagers. She had a baby with another guy while her husband was at sea. Then her husband and her stepdaughters kept the baby and kicked her out. He remarried, and Lacey killed herself. In our house.”
“So you’re sure it’s her?” Charlie shifts his weight and puts his hands on my waist.
Sensation emanates from where he’s made contact, and I glance down before looking up to meet his stormy blue eyes.
“I’m positive. The question is, are you?” My voice is soft, and I have to look down again when I’m done. I don’t want to see the doubt in his eyes.
“Hey,” Charlie says. He ducks his head, trying to get me to look at him.
Ever Near (Secret Affinity Book 1) Page 9