“Is he gone?” Casey whispered. She’d opened the door a crack.
Mike nodded.
“I’ve got it all figured out,” she said, opening the door wider.
A sopping-wet Gus came out, looking very pleased with himself. Mike was. less pleased—Casey had traded her towel in for a robe.
“It must be Simon.”
“What must be Simon?” Mike asked. He was feeling weary all of sudden, like he really did have the flu and should be off in quarantine.
“Who pops open the door,” Casey said. “What was Simon like? Did he have a habit of peeking in at naked ladies?”
“Simon died years ago,” Mike said carefully. He was too close to her; he should move back a few steps, if he could only find the strength. He tried. He tried hard, but couldn’t get his feet to move. “I have no idea whether he liked surprising ladies in their bath or not, but he’s not opening the door for Gus.”
“He could be.”
Mike had had enough. He was strong. He was up for State Policeman of the Year, for heaven’s sake. Some little slip of a woman wasn’t going to weaken him like this. He took a step—a giant step—away. “Why would a ghost who can walk through walls need a dog to get into the bathroom to look at naked women?” he snapped. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it?”
She was purposefully misunderstanding him. She was trying to drive him crazy with her nearness and to tease him with her word games. “I have to go dry Gus off,” he said, and dragged his dog into his bedroom. He shut the door firmly.
The walls were massive, plaster on each side at least an inch thick. The door was solid oak; the hinges and clasp were old and sturdy. Yet he could feel her presence in the next room as if they were all tissue paper. He sank onto the bed and let his head drop into his hands.
“It’s the flu,” he told Gus. “I’ve just got a doozy of a flu bug and I’ll be fine in a day or two.”
Gus put his head on the bed next to Mike and whimpered in sympathy.
Casey got dressed, then leaned against the edge of the window looking out over the street. Mike’s house was just a few blocks from downtown Berrien Springs, but it was quiet and peaceful. Nothing like downtown Ann Arbor or downtown Fort Wayne.
All the houses around here were big, old Victorian ones. Probably built around the turn of the century. The lots were large, with massive trees, and Casey could imagine wonderful gardens beneath the thin coating of snow that had fallen last night. What kind of stories had been played out over the years in these houses? How many tears had been shed in this room alone? She could suddenly see herself raising a family here, filling the large rooms with kids and cats and dogs, all waiting for when Mike—
She pushed herself away from the window. Where had that daydream come from? She glanced around, almost expecting to see a spirit fleeing the scene.
“Well, it certainly didn’t come from me,” she said aloud.
It was definitely time she moved into the garage apartment. Things were getting a little out of hand here. Not that she couldn’t handle them, but there was no reason to push things. Mike was obviously hurting over this thing with Darcy, and Casey knew she was a sucker for anything hurting. Snowflake and Midnight were proof of that, but so were the two dogs that lived with her father and her stepmother, Val, and the cat that her brothers had taken in. No, better to be safe than sorry.
Casey found Mike in the kitchen, going over what she assumed was the mail that had accumulated white he’d been gone. “Have you got a key to that garage apartment? I want to get started cleaning it.”
“You aren’t still thinking about moving up there, are you?” he asked, frowning at her. “There’s plenty of room here.”
And a guy more needy than Snowflake. “I think it would be best if we had our own space.”
“You’re thinking about that bathroom thing,” he said. “All I have to do is put a hook on the inside. Gus can’t pop the hook out of the eye.”
“It’s not that at all,” she insisted. “Mrs. Jamison said I could use that apartment, and that’s what I want to do.”
“It’s not safe,” he snapped.
“From what?”
“From anything.”
“Come on, we’re in Berrien Springs.”
“No place is safe anymore.”
“That’s for sure,” she said, getting a bit irritated herself. “Including right here. Not if you like closed doors, that is.”
Mike glared at her for a long moment, trying to get her to back down, but she refused. She thought with her heart all too much, but this time she would be strong.
He looked away. “Fine,” he said, and got to his feet. “I’ll show you the place and then you can admit I’m right.”
“When hell freezes over,” Casey vowed.
“It does that a lot up here in the winter,” he stated.
Not saying another word, she followed him out to the garage. The stairs to the apartment were inside, and she saw that her worst fears could soon be realized. Boxes, broken tools and other junk littered the stairway.
“I don’t think upstairs is going to be any better,” Mike warned.
“Don’t worry.” She waved her hands, shooing him upstairs. “I have time. I can clean up.”
But her heart was rapidly sinking into her shoes as she climbed over the junk on the stairs. Mike was all too likely to have been right; this place was unlivable. She was going to have to stay in the house, right alongside Mr. March. She wasn’t going to have a choice.
“Hnnh.” Mike grunted. He’d fiddled with the lock and pushed against the door, but had to slam his shoulder into it several times before it popped open.
Casey hurried into the room, anxious for it to prove her fears wrong. She came to a quick halt. The room was piled high with boxes and old furniture, several of the windows were cracked and there were two huge spiderwebs in the far corner. But the absolute worst was the smell.
“Something died in here,” she said.
“Probably more than one something.”
She wanted to respond with something positive, but no matter how her brain scrambled, nothing came.
“This doesn’t look good,” Mike said.
“I wonder if Mr. Slocum has some free days this week,” Casey said.
“He’ll need some free weeks to fix all this up properly.”
Mike flipped the electric switch by the door, but nothing came on. Shaking his head, he clumped back down the stairs. Casey went into the bathroom.
It was as bad as the main room. Everything was coated with dirt, and turning the spigots in the sink produced no water. Cobwebs hung from every imaginable surface, while a dark water stain added distinction to the far wall. Things didn’t look good. Not at all.
Mike came back upstairs. “Wires are all shorted out.”
She nodded. “The water’s either turned off or the pipes are broken.”
He leaned against the doorway, arms across his chest. “I believe I feel hell freezing over,” he said.
Casey would have kicked him if she hadn’t thought it was a bad way to start their landlord-tenant relationship. “I thought you were supposed to be taking care of things for your aunt,” she said. “You aren’t doing a very good job of it.”
“I’m taking care of the house,” he said. “And that was in terrible shape before I started.”
“The bathroom door doesn’t close tightly,” she retorted.
“It will once I put a hook on it.”
“Unless you kick it down.”
He stared at her, his blue eyes seeming to measure her. “Lady, you are one beautiful woman,” he finally said. “But I am not so desperate for female companionship that I have to kick in bathroom doors.”
His words should have relieved her, but they left traces of irritation instead. He didn’t have to be quite so positive about it all.
“Can I have your promise on that?”
He straightened up from the door
. “You’ve got my sacred vow,” he snapped.
“Until hell freezes over?”
“I told you, that happens almost every winter here. You’re safe until your cats explain the meaning of life to me.”
“My cats don’t explain anything.”
“So you’re really really safe then, aren’t you?”
Somehow, she wasn’t too sure.
Chapter Three
“Come on, Aunt Myrna.” Mike glanced over his shoulder as he spoke into the phone, but Casey was still upstairs. “How I am supposed to protect her if I have no idea what she’s in danger from?”
“I’m not sure I ought to be talking about it,” his great-aunt said. “She has a right to privacy, you know.”
Mike tried not to scream in frustration. The last thing he wanted was for Casey to come down now, and she surely would if she heard his primeval scream echoing through the house. Though he probably could claim it was the ghost and she’d buy it.
“I need an idea, Aunt Myrna. A hint. Is she on the run from the mob? Did she blow the whistle on some government scandal?”
His great-aunt just laughed. “Oh, Michael. What a sense of humor.”
“I gather that means it’s none of the above,” he said. “So that leaves a boyfriend. Her current or an ex?”
“Maybe you should be asking her these things.”
“I thought she wasn’t supposed to know that I knew she was in danger.”
“But maybe you could get her to talk about things. You know, over dinner one evening.”
Suspicions were rapidly building. “Aunt Myrna,” he said. “She’s not in any danger, is she? This is all some matchmaking scheme. I am not—repeat not—looking for a new girlfriend.”
“Matchmaking? Me?” The woman was sputtering with anger on the other end of the phone line. “You’ve put your brain next to the radar detector one too many times, dear nephew. I am truly concerned about poor Casey. She could be married and I would still be concerned about her.”
That was a new fear. An irrational one. “Is she?”
“No, of course not. But if she was, I’d worry about her.”
“If you’re so worried, why did you say she could live in that garage apartment?” he asked. “How was I supposed to protect her there?”
“I knew she wouldn’t end up there,” his great-aunt said. “That apartment’s got to be in terrible shape and you wouldn’t let her.”
Mike just closed his eyes. “Is there anything else I’m supposed to be doing or not doing?”
“Just take care of her, Michael. Is that too much to ask?”
He heard Casey on the stairs and stepped farther into the kitchen. “I’ll do my best,” he said quickly. “Though I’m not fond of guessing games.”
He was hanging up the phone when Casey came into the kitchen. The room seemed brighter all of a sudden, and warmer, like spring was just around the corner. A crazy idea, since it was the beginning of December and winter was looming ahead. Was he going to have to erect massive barriers every time she came into the room? He went back over to the mail he’d been sorting ages ago.
“So you settled in?” he asked, as he ripped open an envelope. An ad. He tossed it aside and picked up another.
“Pretty much.” She sat down at the table, too, leaning on her elbows and resting her head in her hands. “I found the sheets okay and got my bed made. There was plenty of room in that dresser without moving anything.”
He looked up. “I can get those boxes out of there.”
She was wearing a plaid flannel shirt, open at the neck, and his gaze somehow got stuck on the soft expanse of skin peeking out. He remembered that water droplet that had rolled down there this morning and felt his mouth go dry.
“No, it’s okay. I don’t want to bother you in any way.”
He started, wondering if she could read his mind—or his body—then realized she was talking about the room. He went back to his mail. “Whatever you want.”
“No, I really mean it,” Casey continued. “I had thought when I took this job that I’d be in my own place and not imposing at all on you, but it hasn’t turned out like that. I just want you to know that I’ll stay out of your way as much as possible.”
“I’m not around all that much normally, anyway,” he said. He put the envelope down and sat back in his chair. Her green eyes were troubled; they looked darker and more serious, and he thought he knew the reason. “Not that you’ll be alone. Gus is a great watchdog. Anybody tries to get in the house and he’ll tear them apart.”
He was sure he saw skepticism in her face.
“No, really,” Mike continued. “He only let you and your cats live because Dubber let you all in.”
Casey shook her head, and the sunlight streaming through the window behind her set flecks of gold dancing in her hair. Mike had the urge to touch it, to see if it was as fiery as it looked. What was happening to him? Darcy’d never had this effect on him.
“I’m more worried about getting in your way,” Casey was saying. “I’ll fix my meals when you’re done and stay up in my room if you have guests over. I’ll be working up there on my laptop most of the time, anyway.”
That would be fine, best even. The less he saw of her, the less power she had over him. “I never have guests,” he said. “Remember? I have no girlfriend.”
“But you might get one,” she said. “Or have the guys over to watch football. I just want you to know that—”
“You’ll stay out of my way.” He nodded. On the other hand, maybe the opposite would be better—see a lot of her and truly build up an immunity. “And I just want you to know that that isn’t necessary. Make yourself at home. Feel free to spread out your stuff on the dining-room table. I never use it.”
She looked less worried, less serious. “Well, if you’re sure.”
“Positive.”
“I’ll be quiet as a mouse, though.”
“Aren’t you afraid your cats will eat you?” he asked.
She looked surprised by his joke, then her lips slowly curved into a smile and it was like the sun coming out after a rainstorm. The world, the kitchen, lit up. She reached out and put her hand over his.
“This may work out, after all,” she said, and squeezed his hand slightly before releasing it. Then, humming lightly, she went back into the living room.
Mike stayed still. He couldn’t have moved if he tried. If he believed in ghosts and spirits and things like that, he’d vow that someone was still holding his hand. That the fire that had traveled up his arm, rendering him helpless, was not his reaction to Casey’s touch, not something of his doing. He just wanted to be left alone, by everybody. Was that too much to ask?
He pushed aside the mail, having gotten nowhere with it. He’d do it later. Right now, he needed to be active. Pound nails, chop wood. Seal up those dormers in the attic—that would be just the thing. He got his tools and his jacket and hurried up to the second floor, where he let a staircase down from the ceiling.
“Oh, is that how you get up into the attic?” Casey asked. “Cool. Now I can look for all those diaries and letters Mrs. Jamison said were there.”
“Great,” Mike echoed weakly.
Casey looked around the attic with wonder and excitement. It was a real old-fashioned attic, like something out of a 1940s horror flick. Dark and dusty, with cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. With bat and mouse droppings decorating the far edges of the dirty plank floor. Light came from a single bare bulb hanging from the rafters above, as well as a louvered dormer window, which Mike was presently cleaning.
“Where do you suppose the letters and stuff are?” she asked.
He shrugged, not bothering to pause in his work. “Beats me. Just poke through the boxes all you want. No secrets up here.”
No? Didn’t all families have secrets? Casey went over to a pile of boxes in the far corner. Had she been a secret? Was that why her birth mother had abandoned her that way?
“I think someone’s trying to t
ell you there’s a family of ghosts under those boxes.”
Casey started at Mike’s words and looked down to find Snowflake and Midnight staring at the bottom of the pile. They were alert but not paranormal hyper.
“I think they’re really telling me a family of mice is living under all these boxes,” Casey replied.
“Don’t worry about it,” Mike said. “I’ll protect you.”
“My hero,” Casey murmured, putting a hand to her heart.
Mike made a face at her before turning back to the dormer window he was covering for the winter. Casey just stared at his back for a long moment. Two jokes in less than an hour. Must be some kind of record. But then her attention wandered slightly farther afield—to his tall, broad shoulders and slender hips. To his craggy, outdoor kind of face and his blond hair, cut short. He was dressed in jeans, boots and a leather jacket. Macho chic with an outdoorsy accent. A lot of women would probably vote for him as a hero.
But not her. He was stiff and overbearing. Although she could see him in a gothic novel, standing side by side with Heathcliff, staring out over the moors.
Casey shook her head and tore her eyes away. She didn’t know him well enough to decide if he was stiff and overbearing, or gentle and considerate. For all she knew, Darcy had destroyed all sorts of gentleness in him. Destroyed or caused it to be hidden?
Stop it, she ordered herself. She could feel the symptoms—sympathy, curiosity, finding excuses for his curtness. If he was a cat, she’d be taking him home and thinking up reasons why she just had to keep him.
She opened a box and found old clothes. Just old clothes, a quick rifling through the contents assured her. She moved the box over to look in the next one. More of the same. She moved the bottom box slightly, but not enough to see if anything was underneath.
“Cats are sensitive to a lot of things,” she said. “So you can’t really tell what might be under the boxes.”
“If you want to know, you look.” Mike paused to clean some of the debris around the louvers. “That’s what a guy like me, who’s not sensitive to anything, would do. Hey, leave those alone.”
Christmas Magic Page 4