by Ani Gonzalez
The result was not reassuring.
"I'll take you," he said, taking charge. "Finish your ravioli while I go tell Sarah that she's in charge."
She rolled her eyes. "Since when are you the responsible one, Mr. Leather-Jacket-In-Sub-Zero-Weather? I don't need any..." Her voice trailed off and she stared at the wall, looking confused. "Are the birds flying?"
Elizabeth giggled. Holly groaned. Zach fought to hide his smile.
"They're painted on the wall," he replied. "Even the resident poltergeist can't move them."
Patricia frowned at the mural. "Maybe a ride would be a good idea," she conceded. "I think your Vincent Price mural just winked at me."
"It did. The artist did that painting trick where the portraits stare at you. Don't worry, he doesn't bite." Satisfied, he left the table, told Sarah about her temporary promotion, and, studiously ignoring his manager's disapproving frown, grabbed his motorcycle jacket.
He met Patricia, bundled up in her puffy coat, at the kitchen entrance and watched as she carefully maneuvered around the crowded restaurant, weaving through the chairs and almost tripping over someone's handbag. She finally made it to the door in one piece, paused and frowned at his jacket.
"That's not enough to keep you warm in this weather. You're going to freeze."
He glanced meaningfully at her full-length coat. "Not all of us enjoy looking like refugees from the Ghostbusters movie."
Patricia looked outraged.
"Don't say it," he warned, as he opened the door. "No way am I wearing a down duvet as a coat. I have a reputation to maintain."
"More like a death wish," she muttered following him out of the pizzeria. The cold enveloped him instantly. Patricia was right, the jacket was no help at all.
But he'd die rather than admit it.
"We'll take Bessie," he said, leading her toward the vintage truck. Bessie was his pride and joy. She was a 1967 Chevy and ran like a dream.
Patricia seemed skeptical though. "But my car--"
"Oh stop," he interjected. What was it with people nowadays? No respect for proper engineering at all. "Don't give me that newfangled technology crap. Bessie's a sweet ride."
"My car has a working heater. And heated front seats."
"Warmth," he stated, as he opened the heavy passenger door, "is overrated."
Patricia sighed and got in. He walked to the other side, opened the driver's side door and got inside, trying to ignore the frozen vinyl of the driver's seat. Patricia's new van, he had to admit, had its advantages. He turned on the truck and cranked up the heat. Not that that would help, of course, but, hey, hope springs eternal and so on.
A thin stream of not-freezing air emanated from the dash. He smiled. This was promising.
"I guess this means I'm forgiven," Patricia said, her eyes warming.
"Forgiven?" He shifted into reverse and pressed the accelerator. The engine growled grudgingly to life.
"For leaving you in the PRoVE house. You don't seem mad anymore."
He drove out of the parking lot, maneuvering carefully around the piled up snow. In spite of his best efforts, he hit an icy bump and the impact made the truck bounce. Patricia grabbed one of the straps on the roof and held on for dear life.
"Oh, I don't get mad, love," he said, steadying the vehicle. Bessie complied and he managed to reach the road without further incident.
He turned to Patricia, who looked a little pale, and smiled at her as he steered the truck down Main Street.
"I get even."
CHAPTER NINE
"I GET even."
The ominous words rang in Patricia's ears as she sat on the ice-cold vinyl seat. She wasn't fooled by Zach's friendly demeanor. She knew that his laid-back slacker façade hid a sharp business brain and a ruthlessly competitive spirit.
She stared at the metal dashboard with its shiny blue paint and old-fashioned gauges and levers and considered her situation. Zach was smart and driven and fought to win.
He'd opened the driver's side door and hopped into the truck, without stiffness or awkwardness. She remembered when Zach bought the truck, shortly after coming out of the hospital. Everyone in town had been concerned. The car had been beautifully restored by Rafe at Virginia Vintage Motors, but it was still old technology, with stiff gears that required strength and dexterity. No one thought Zach would be able to drive the truck, and Patricia knew that Zach's moneybags brother, Gabe, had asked Liam to purchase it.
But Zach didn't sell it.
He did his rehab, he completed his exercises, and, eventually, managed to drive his truck.
Zach Franco, she concluded glumly, was a force of nature.
The race for the Rosemoor was officially on.
The force of nature settled on the driver's seat and drove steadily down a snow-covered Main Street.
Or at least he tried to.
The truck jerked and stalled. He cursed and did something to the stick shift. Nothing happened so he stepped on the accelerator. Nothing. In spite of his best efforts, the engine sputtered and died.
"Aw," he groaned, turning the key again. "Not tonight, Bessie."
But his plea fell on deaf ears. The truck would not start. He mouthed a prayer and tried again.
"C'mon, sweetheart..."
She hid a smile as Zach tried to cajole his truck into compliance. He certainly didn't look ruthless now, as he whispered endearments to his eccentric vehicle. He looked, in fact, strangely adorable, like a little boy with a toy.
A very recalcitrant toy.
She dug into her pocket for her car keys, ready to suggest a more reliable, not to mention warm, mode of transportation, but Zach's cajoling ultimately worked and the engine finally wheezed to life.
Patricia giggled and put her car keys back in her pocket. She'd have to make do without heated seats and anti-lock brakes.
"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" he said, gently steering through Main Street.
"It did," Patricia admitted. "It's just weird to see you talk to the truck."
Although weird wasn't quite the right word. The truck's heater wasn't working, but she now felt warm and strange. Something about Zach's sweet talk, delivered in that trademark raspy voice made her feel distinctly uncomfortable. She couldn't help but think about her friend's comments about Zach. Maybe there was something...
Nah, it must be all of that sangría. She shifted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable spot.
But he didn't notice.
"It's a music thing, I guess," he said, continuing the conversation. He turned the heavy steering wheel and the truck lumbered slowly down Main Street. "Our drummer called his percussion set, 'the girls.'"
"I don't want to know," she said, trying to hide her surprise. Zach seldom talked about his musical past, and, to be honest, most of the town tried to avoid the subject.
But maybe Zach's termagant of a business manager was right. Maybe they should stop avoiding the subject.
He certainly seemed ready to talk about it. He smiled, looking relaxed.
"My guitar was called Claudia."
She laughed nervously. Still a little uncomfortable with the topic. "You named your guitar after a supermodel?"
It was better than Bessie to be sure, but it was still an odd choice, but, she supposed, appropriate for Zach, who was, after all, very popular with the female gender. A feeling that she knew was enthusiastically reciprocated.
"No," he clarified, sounded slightly offended. "I named it after my great-aunt, who was an English teacher." He paused, as if savoring the word. "Elegant and beautiful, but just a tad haughty."
"Oh." She didn't know what to say to that. In her sixties, Zach's mom was still an attractive woman with dark hair, bright blue eyes, and a killer sense of style. She looked a lot like Audrey Hepburn. Great-aunt Claudia must have been a knock-out.
"Kind of like you," he finished.
"Um, what?" she asked, not sure she'd heard him correctly. In her puffy coat and sensible boots she was the complete oppo
site of elegance. She dressed for practicality, not style.
But he didn't respond, he was staring out the car window, frowning.
"What's that light in the Hagen House?" he asked, pointing toward the other side of the street. "I thought it was empty."
She leaned over Zach's seat to look at the house in question, a large brick colonial with a stately columned portico and manicured evergreen shrubs. She tried to focus on the house, but she was painfully aware of Zach's strong, muscled body next to her. The nearness of him was unsettling.
She gave up, and moved back to her seat.
But he didn't seem to notice. He turned into the side street. "It looks like a flashlight." He squinted at the dark windows. "No, multiple flashlights."
She looked at the house. They were right in front of it now and she could see a couple of lights inside, moving around.
He stopped the car and opened the door. "I'm going to check it out. Call the police."
She frowned. Something didn't feel right and it wasn't the fact that Zack planned to go in and confront burglars on his own. "Um, I don't think--"
But the heavy steel door slammed, interrupting her. He'd already exited the truck.
She cursed Zach's impulsivity, unbuckled, and pulled on the door's metal handle. A blast of cold air hit her as she opened the door. The street was covered with snow. She looked for a safe landing site and jumped out of the truck. She wasn't nearly as graceful as Zach, but she got the job done.
The night was cold and clear and the sky looked like a monochrome George Seurat painting, all white dots and blowy orbs. A sudden breeze blew powdery snow over the blacktop and she shivered. The road itself was mostly clean, but a few patches of ice remained, and she commended herself on purchasing sturdy winter boots with extra traction. Sure, they weren't as stylish as Elizabeth's ritzy footwear, but they sure came in handy tonight.
Zach was standing in front of the truck, assessing the situation.
"There's more than one guy," he said. "And they brought a van."
"Two vans, actually," Patricia corrected, spying another vehicle parked down the road, a windowless van painted dark.
Zach glanced at the second van and his face hardened.
Patricia, however, wasn't so sure.
"I don't think these are burglars," she said, remembering the paranormal investigators who'd dropped by her bakery. There could be more around. She peered at the lettering on the side of the van. It was hard to read, especially in the dark, but, sure enough, it said "Tri-State Terror Team," and, yes, that was a picture of a ghost on the side of the van.
"Someone's walking through an empty house with a flashlight. I think that's pretty much the definition of a burglar. They're even dressed in black."
Yes, she thought, black leather, probably with goth makeup and ankh pendants.
"I think these are tenants," she said.
But Zach was still frowning at the house. "Are you serious? What kind of tenant brings a bunch of flashlights and a windowless van to his new home? "
"A Banshee Creek tenant," Patricia answered, smiling.
Zach did not find her joke amusing. "Really? Did Liam rent the house out to Hannibal Lecter?"
"No, it's a paranormal investigation team. They only take it for a couple of days and they film all the...actually, I don't know what they film. The ghost, I guess."
Zach looked at her doubtfully, then back at the house.
"Maybe we should check it out," he said, walking toward the house. Patricia stared at his retreating back. Did he really mean to confront Liam's clients?
Apparently he did. She walked after him, trying to figure out a way to stop him. These were, after all, potential bakery clients. The last thing she wanted to do was alienate them.
But an eerie scream rang out, stopping him mid-stride. He stared at the house.
It wasn't the screech that gave him pause. The natives were all used to the nighttime calls of the infamous Banshee Creek owls. The noise just faded into the background and most people paid no attention to it.
But the tourists were a different story.
Zach and Patricia stared as the door to the Hagen House opened and a group of black-clad men and women ran out of the house, wielding cameras and recording equipment. They raised microphones up to the sky, trying to record the fading scream.
The owl obliged them with another, louder screech. The group clapped and cheered after recording the sound. Zach and Patricia watched the merriment in disbelieving silence.
"Okay," Zach conceded. "Maybe they're not burglars."
"Told you so," Patricia replied, adding "come up with owl cookie recipe" to her to-do list. If the tourists wanted owls, they would get owls.
Zach took out his phone and dialed. The phone was set on speaker and Patricia could hear the call ring once, then twice, before someone answered.
"Liam?" Zach asked. "Do you know that--"
"Yes, I know." Liam's terse voice came through the speaker phone. "You're not the first person who's called. Look, it's a free country, isn't it?"
"But--"
Liam snorted. "But nothing. Have you ever managed a cursed property?"
"Well, no," Zach conceded.
"And neither has anyone else in town," Liam continued, growing angrier. "You have a wimpy poltergeist that throws things around, the library has a ghost that rearranges things, there's a bunch of apparitions and gremlins--"
"Liam," Zach interrupted.
"The bakery even has a freaking faery," Liam shouted. "You know what a faery is? A fluffy, cute little elf with a wand."
Patricia took exception to that. Her brùnaigh was annoying and sometimes destructive and she definitely didn't think of it as cute.
But she didn't get a chance to speak.
"I. Have. A. Curse," Liam hissed. "With business catastrophes, and dead people and translucent blood stains on the floor."
Zach's expression turned to sympathy, and Patricia reconsidered her anger. Liam was right. Their paranormal pests were irritating, but they weren't dangerous. Liam's curse was potentially deadly. Luckily it only affected people who owned the house, or actually lived in it. Unfortunately, that meant that the Hagen House had a resale value of zero.
"So, if people want to rent it for a couple of nights," Liam went on, "and put up cameras and heat detectors and whatnot, that's really no one else's business. I don't care what they do as long as they don't touch the stupid chandelier. This town needs to get off my back."
"It's okay, man," Zach said in a soothing voice. "I just wanted to make sure that you knew there were people in the house, that's all."
Liam paused.
"I'm glad you're renting it out," Zach continued. "That's great news."
"Thanks," Liam replied, sounding calmer. "Sorry, man. I've just been fielding calls all day. The Historical Preservation Committee complained about short-term leases. Then Caine and the PRoVE folks got on my back about renting it out to supposedly unproven paranormal groups. Like, what does he expect? I'm not going to go around checking people's paperwork. Hell, I didn't even know that ghost hunters could be credentialed."
Zach laughed.
"Me either," he said. "Well, I'll have a word with Caine and try to make him see reason, but you're on your own with the Hysterical Perspiration folks."
"Yeah, I know. I'm filling out a form for them now. It has fifteen pages. Fifteen."
Zach smiled. "Yeah, I remember those. Wait till you get to the waiver. Good luck."
"Thanks," Liam grumbled. "I'll need it."
Zach ended the call and looked back at the house. The lights were now turned on and the door was open. A bunch of black-clad figures were dragging in equipment, including a rather long ladder. Patricia watched as they carefully set up the ladder in the foyer.
Directly under the famous Hagen chandelier.
Zach grabbed her arm and dragged her back.
"Let's get out of here," he said. "If that thing crashes again, Liam will blow a gasket
and no one will be safe."
Patricia agreed. Liam had spent months painstakingly repairing the enormous chandelier after its last mishap, and he'd complained about it every single day. That thing was the bane of his existence, and if it fell again...
Well, it didn't bear thinking about. In this case, discretion was definitely the better part of valor. They scurried back to the truck, laughing. But as her foot hit an icy patch Patricia realized that this was a really bad idea. Her trusty snow boots failed her, and her foot slid out. She tried to catch her balance, but failed, and felt herself falling over.
She braced herself for impact with the cold ground. This was going to hurt.
But something held her aloft, a hard band, like a vise, around her waist.
It was Zach's arm.
He grabbed and steadied her, until she stood solidly on her own two feet.
But he didn't let go.
CHAPTER TEN
MAYBE IT was time to rethink his premium alcohol policy.
The thought flashed through Zach's mind as he held on to Patricia and tried to steady her. Maybe Sarah was right and his sangría really was a weapon of mass destruction.
But then Patricia wiggled against him. Something, either the fall or his abrupt rescue, had dislodged her ponytail and her dark hair now fell free, grazing his skin. He caught a trace of her scent, something light and floral which surprised him. Patricia didn't seem like the type of woman who bothered with perfume.
It smelled nice.
She straightened, looking alarmed.
"Are you okay?" he asked with concern. Her reaction seemed too dramatic. After all, she hadn't even hit the ground.
"I'm fine," she replied frowning. "But what about your arm?"
"Oh." He looked down and, sure enough, he was holding her with his bad arm. The sleeve of his jacket had hiked up, baring his flesh. The long jagged scar, which had turned an angry red color in the bitter cold, was clearly visible. He'd gotten used to the scar, and the sight of it no longer surprised him, but, judging by Patricia's expression, it must still look horrible.
"It's not the end of the world, Patricia," he said, slightly annoyed. His arm was going to hurt and probably for a long time. But he'd been hurt before, and gotten over it. It was, ultimately, no big deal.