A Valentine Wish

by Gina Wilkins

“I wouldn’t know how to begin. And, besides,” he added lamely, still trying to deal with his shaken beliefs, “I’m very busy now. I have my own life to live.”

  Anger kindled in her lovely eyes. “At least you have a life,” she snapped. “We ... oh, damnation.”

  One moment he was holding her arm. The next moment ... he wasn’t.

  She was a few feet away from him now. As he watched, she grew fainter. Translucent. She seemed to shimmer in the shadows, as though illuminated by a faint glow from within her. Her voice sounded far away. “Dean. You must help us. You’re the only one who can.”

  “Wait,” he said, instinctively moving toward her. “I—”

  But she was gone. “Hell,” Dean muttered, closing his eyes and rubbing them wearily. His heart was pounding, his skin damp and his mind a whirl of doubt and wonder.

  Maybe his ex-wife was right.

  Maybe he was losing his mind.

  THE OFFICES of the Destiny Daily were somewhat less than luxurious. In fact, Dean decided, looking around, they were downright shabby.

  The building itself looked at least fifty years old, and Dean wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that it had been that long since the lobby had been painted. Whatever color the walls had once been, they were now a grubby grayish-brown. So were the windows.

  A battered reception desk sat in the center of the room, with a row of metal filing cabinets leaning drunkenly behind it. A computer monitor and telephone were on the desk, almost buried beneath messy stacks of papers. The telephone was ringing and had been since Dean had entered. No one rushed to answer it.

  A chipped fake-wood credenza held a fax machine, computer printer, several overflowing wire baskets and stacks of photographs and newspapers. Other than the clutter, Dean saw no evidence of human habitation, though he heard noises coming from somewhere at the back.

  He’d just decided to go looking for someone, when Mark Winter strolled through a doorway. His sandy eyebrows lifted in surprise when he saw Dean. “Oh. Hi, Dean. What can I do for you?”

  Dean motioned toward the still patiently ringing phone. “Er, shouldn’t someone answer that?”

  “Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Hang on a minute.” Mark scooped up the receiver and held it to his ear. “Destiny Daily.”

  The call didn’t take long. Dean didn’t bother to eavesdrop. He used the time to try to decide how best to explain his purpose in being here. It wasn’t easy, considering he didn’t exactly know, himself, why he’d decided to look into the deaths of the Cameron twins. To satisfy his own curiosity, if for no other reason.

  Mark looked at Dean closely when he concluded the call. “Everything going okay out at the inn, Dean? Excuse me for saying so, but you look like hell.”

  Dean cleared his throat and shoved a hand through his hair, wishing the deceptively lazy-mannered journalist wasn’t quite so perceptive.

  “Yeah, everything’s fine,” he said with a casual shrug. “Just didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “The ghosts keeping you awake rattling chains or something?”

  Dean managed a smile. “Something like that. And speaking of the ghosts ...”

  Mark looked startled. “You haven’t really seen them, have you? I was only joking.”

  “Actually, I’m interested in doing some research on them,” Dean explained, neatly avoiding the question. “My sister has convinced me that I should know the full history of the inn, just in case any of my guests inquire. I thought you could lead me in the right direction to start my research. Old newspapers, perhaps?”

  Mark looked indecisive for a moment, as though there was something he wanted to say, but wasn’t sure he should. “I have a few things that might be helpful to you,” he said finally.

  “What?”

  “Actually, I’ve done some research, myself,” Mark confessed a bit sheepishly. “A couple of years ago, when I first moved here and heard the legend, I thought it might make an interesting book.”

  “You’re writing a book?” Dean asked, startled.

  Mark grimaced. “Nah. It’s just a bug I get every so often. The urge generally leaves me after I sweat blood over the first few pages.”

  “And you thought of writing a book about the Cameron Inn?”

  He nodded. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. And then ... well, things started happening when I looked into the twins’ deaths.” He finished the sentence in a mumble.

  Dean cocked his head, studying Mark closely. “What things?”

  Had Mark, perhaps, encountered a beautiful, ghostly woman who begged him to clear her brother’s name? Had he, too, become obsessed with that vision, losing sleep, losing interest in food, unable to concentrate on anything else? Had he wondered when he would see her again? Or what might have happened between them, if she’d been real?

  Had Mark thought he was losing his mind?

  “Nothing supernatural,” Mark said with a quick laugh, as though sensing the direction Dean’s thoughts had taken. “Just weird stuff I probably caused myself, maybe because I wasn’t committed enough to the idea of actually finishing a book. You know, notes disappeared, sources suddenly dried up, people stopped talking. Maybe if I’d pursued it more seriously, I’d have figured out what went wrong. But then the financial situation here at the paper turned critical and I was too busy saving my livelihood to think about legends.”

  Surreptitiously, Dean glanced around the shabby lobby. Was the newspaper still in desperate straits?

  Again, Mark seemed to read his thoughts. “Things are better now, though obviously I’m never going to get rich running a small-town daily. But it’s a good life. Helluva lot better than the rat race of political reporting.”

  “That’s your background?”

  “Yeah. Let’s just say I burned out. The Destiny Daily became a comfortable refuge at a time when I badly needed one.”

  “You said things got weird when you started looking into the twins’ deaths. Was there any evidence that someone was trying to keep you from finding out the truth?” Dean phrased the question carefully, since he didn’t want to go into too much detail about his own interest in the story.

  Mark frowned. “I was just beginning to wonder about that, myself, when everything started going to hell here at the paper. After that, there wasn’t time to think about it. And then, once I had the situation here under control, I guess I just forgot about it.”

  “You don’t suppose your problems at the paper were connected, do you? A way of getting your attention off the Cameron twins and back onto your own business?”

  Mark went still, his gaze sharpening. “Damn,” he muttered. “I must really be losing my edge. Covering elementary-school talent programs has dulled my once-suspicious, cynical nature.”

  “Then it is possible?”

  “It’s something I should have thought about,” Mark admitted. “But—”

  He went silent for a moment, thoughtfully stroking his chin, and then he shook his head. “It isn’t likely, Dean. For one thing, why would anyone care about a seventy-five-year-old scandal? It makes a nice, spooky little legend, but it hardly affects anyone’s life these days.”

  “What about the Peavy family? The twins’ stepfather inherited the inn when they died. I’m assuming the family’s current prominence in the community began then.”

  “Not exactly,” Mark corrected. “The stepfather, Gaylon Peavy, was never overly successful with the inn. After his death, his son, Charles—the mayor’s grand-father—took over and kept it running until he could find a buyer, but the family money came from shrewd investments Charles made after selling the inn.”

  “Investments in what?”

  Mark started to answer, then stopped and shrugged. “I’m not sure, exactly. Everyone just said Charles Peavy was a smart investor.”

  “We can still assume that his initial investment capital came from the sale of the inn. Which his father conveniently inherited when the twins died in the mysterious shoot-out.”

  Mark cocke
d his head. “You have reason to believe Gaylon Peavy was involved in the twins’ deaths? Have you found something at the inn? What—a journal? A diary?”

  Dean shook his head. “Nothing like that. It’s just that the story as it’s been told to me doesn’t quite ring true. Something’s off—or maybe I’ve just read too many murder mysteries,” he finished self-deprecatingly.

  Mark didn’t smile. “I’m a fan of the genre, myself.”

  “Maybe we’ve both read too many.”

  Mark seemed to come to a sudden decision. “Tell you what. I’ll let you look over my notes and I’ll make the old newspaper files available to you whenever you want to go through them. I’ll also give you some names that might be helpful to you. In return, I’d appreciate your telling me if you find out anything interesting. There could be a book in this, after all. At the very least, a newspaper article.”

  Dean wasn’t at all sure he wanted his inn used as the setting for a ghost book, but he felt he owed Mark something. “If I find anything conclusive, I’ll discuss it with you,” he said.

  Mark chuckled. “Very carefully phrased. I like you, Gates.”

  Dean smiled. “I’d better get back to the inn. God only knows what my aunt and the decorator will come up with if I don’t keep an eye on them.”

  “I’ll drop my notes by the inn as soon as I get a chance.”

  “Anytime. Thanks, Mark.”

  “Yeah, sure. This could get interesting.”

  Dean wondered what the other man would say if he knew just how interesting the situation had already become.

  DEAN WAS LEANING over a table in the inn lobby, trying to feign interest in the scraps of fabric and wallpaper littering the table’s surface. His aunt crowded dose to his left side, paying avid attention as the decorator droned on about options and possibilities.

  “Or we could go with the cabbage-rose print and the pastel plaid for accent pieces. Maybe a touch of saffron,” the painfully thin, dramatically coiffed woman suggested with smug appreciation for her own cleverness.

  “Oh, no, not saffron. Ian detests yellow.”

  The feminine voice came from very close to Dean’s right ear, so close that he jumped, scattering samples everywhere. He whirled, bumping the table and dislodging even more samples.

  Mary Anna Cameron was standing less than three feet away, looking at him with a mischievous smile.

  “This is getting much easier,” she commented. “Contacting you, I mean.”

  Dean couldn’t believe she had made her appearance this time in front of witnesses. “What are you—”

  “Dean?” His aunt rested a hand on his arm. “Dear, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  He didn’t take his eyes from Mary Anna, who waited politely for him to reply. “She’s—”

  “Mr. Gates, if you don’t care for the saffron, we could select an alternate color.” The decorator sounded annoyed.

  Dean was amazed that the women weren’t screaming in shock—gasping in surprise, at the very least. After all, a ghost had just materialized right in front of them.

  “Aunt Mae, surely you see ...” His voice faded.

  “I don’t think they can see me, Dean,” Mary Anna said.

  “I’m not very fond of the saffron, either. I’m sure Ms. Buchanan can come up with a color scheme we both like better,” his aunt assured him, patting his arm. “Let’s talk about it, shall we?”

  Mary Anna was looking at the table, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “Cabbage roses are so common. Isn’t there anything more original available?”

  “I can’t do this now,” he told her through clenched teeth. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “But, Dean, you’re the one who set up this meeting for today,” his aunt protested.

  The decorator lifted her pointed nose in apparent affront. “I, too, have a very busy schedule, Mr. Gates. If this wasn’t a convenient time for you, you should have let me know earlier.”

  “But—”

  “The workmen are all gone for the afternoon, Dean. What is it you have to do now?”

  He looked at his aunt. “I—”

  “I rather like the one with the birds and vines,” Mary Anna mused, reclaiming his attention. “Instead of yellow, you could use dark red as an accent, though your decorator will probably call it something fancier, like vermilion.”

  How could they not see her? Hear her? She looked so damned real. So ... alive.

  He was pretty sure he could touch her again if he tried. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “I’m, er, sorry,” he said to the decorator and his aunt, though he kept his gaze on Mary Anna. “I was thinking about something else.”

  “So you do want to continue?” Ms. Buchanan looked torn between walking out in a huff and staying to collect her sizable fee.

  “Uh, yeah, sure.” He stabbed a finger at the table, trying to look interested. “How about that paper there? The one with the birds and vines? And maybe we could use some red with it? I, uh, I like red.”

  Mary Anna smiled in satisfaction.

  Ms. Buchanan pursed her thin mouth. “That is a possibility, I suppose.”

  “No yellow,” Mary Anna said.

  “No yellow,” Dean repeated obediently.

  “No yellow,” Ms. Buchanan agreed with a sigh.

  Mary Anna looked quite pleased with herself.

  “As for the front sitting room,” Ms. Buchanan began, clearly trying to salvage her expert control of the meeting. “I was thinking perhaps hunter-green walls with bright white trim and paisley rugs. We’ll have to get rid of that dark wood paneling and heavy crown molding, of course.”

  Mary Anna gasped. “Over my dead...er...well, you know. Don’t let her touch my father’s walls or molding, Dean. My mother said he loved that wood!”

  “We’re not tearing out the paneling,” Dean said in resignation. “Or the crown molding.”

  Ms. Buchanan looked seriously irked at having her judgment questioned so often. “And just what is your preference, Mr. Gates?” she asked, her tone chilly enough to frost grapes.

  Dean looked ironically at Mary Anna. “I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”

  Mary Anna smiled. “Do you think this will take much longer? I’d like to speak to you, in private.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Must it be now?”

  “No, Dean, of course we don’t have to make any final decisions now,” Mae said before Mary Anna could answer. “But we should decide soon so Ms. Buchanan can place the order.”

  “I, uh, sorry, Aunt Mae, what did you say?”

  “You really are out of it,” she scolded, peering at him through her glittery red glasses. “Maybe we should call it a day and let you get some rest. I think you’ve given Ms. Buchanan a clearer idea of your taste now. Perhaps next time we meet, shell have some new drawings and samples to show us.”

  “Why do you need her, anyway?” Mary Anna asked curiously. “Anyone can choose paint and wallpaper. It’s not really all that difficult. And if you’re trying to put everything back the way it was, I can tell you exactly what it looked like when my mother last decorated it.”

  Dean attempted to ignore the helpful ghost as he ushered Ms. Buchanan out of the inn with more haste than grace.

  “Dean, whatever is the matter with you?” his aunt asked in exasperation, her hands on her ample hips. “You were quite rude to Ms. Buchanan. She may never come back now.”

  “I didn’t like her, anyway,” Mary Anna piped in. “She seemed awfully high in the instep to me. Who does she think she is, coming in here and trying to vandalize my inn?”

  Dean glared at her. “Might I remind you that it’s my inn?”

  Mae’s chin quivered. “I’m well aware of that, Dean. I was only trying to...”

  Now he really felt like a heel. He placed an arm around his aunt’s plump shoulders and gave the ghost a look of reproof.

  “Aunt Mae, I’m sorry,” he said. “Please don’t be upset. I’m afraid I’m not myself
today. I got very little sleep last night and it’s made me surly.”

  Mae’s attitude changed immediately from hurt to solicitous. “You aren’t coming down with anything, are you, dear?” she asked, placing a hand against his forehead, the way she had when he was just a boy. “You do feel warm. Maybe we should call a doctor.”

  Feeling even worse about his behavior, Dean hugged her. “I don’t need a doctor,” he assured her. “Maybe I’ll just go to my room and lie down for a while. I’m sure I’ll be fine after a couple of hours’ rest.”

  “That’s very good,” Mary Anna said approvingly. “I’ll meet you in your room.” As he watched, she vanished.

  Dean lingered a few minutes making sure his aunt was fully mollified, assuring her again that there was really no need to summon a doctor, agreeing that yes, chicken soup would probably be a good thing to have for dinner.

  And then he headed for his bedroom, grimly determined to have a long talk with a bothersome, muchtoo-beautiful ghost.

  ANNA WAS WAITING when Dean stormed into his bedroom. She was sitting on the bed, her skirts folded neatly around her, and noted in amusement that he looked furious.

  His anger didn’t bother her. She’d had enough experience with Ian not to be easily intimidated by a man’s temper. In fact, she was rather pleased that she’d managed to make Dean lose his.

  He would have a hard time denying her existence if she had the ability to infuriate him.

  “I thought that woman would never leave,” she commented.

  He narrowed his eyes. His voice was very quiet, but his tone was that of a man accustomed to having his orders obeyed. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

  Anna had never cared for being at the receiving end of orders—as those who’d once known her could have told him. She cocked her head and smiled, her expression faintly challenging. “And just how do you plan to stop me?” she asked a bit too politely.

  He hesitated. And then, since there wasn’t really anything he could say, he ignored the question. “What did you want to talk to me about?” he asked instead.

  Satisfied that she’d made her point, Anna smiled once more. “I wanted to ask if you’ve made any progress in finding out the truth about what happened to Ian and me.”