A Valentine Wish

by Gina Wilkins

  Dean scowled again. She wished he would smile back at her. She’d seen him smile at his aunt, and had been struck by how it had transformed his face from ordinarily pleasant to heart-flutteringly attractive. She had a sudden, foolish urge to have him smile at her that way.

  “It was only yesterday that you asked me to look into it,” he said, still frowning. “I haven’t had time to find out anything yet, even if there’s anything for me to discover.”

  “Was it only yesterday?” She winced. “Sorry. I tend to lose track of time. It seems like longer to me.”

  “Just, uh, where do you go when I can’t see you?” Dean asked curiously, taking a cautious step closer to the bed. “I mean, do you just sort of hang around, watching us?”

  She wrinkled her nose. The new direction the conversation had taken made her uncomfortable. She didn’t like to think of herself as a ghost, when she felt so little different from the way she’d been before.

  “Of course not. Oh, sometimes we can ‘hang around,’ as you call it, watching. But most of the time, we’re... somewhere else. A place that’s gray and cold and strange, where there’s no one but each other to talk to. Ian says it feels like a waiting room, in a way. We’ve always known it was only temporary. I think we’ll leave there—and here—once you’ve cleared our names, and proven once and for all that we were not criminals.”

  “Is Ian here now?” Dean asked, looking suspiciously around his bedroom, ignoring—deliberately, she suspected—her confidence in his eventual success at solving the mystery.

  She shook her head. “He’s there. Waiting for me.”

  At first, Anna had been surprised to learn that it was becoming easier for her to return to the inn at will. And then she’d discovered that she could do so even without Ian’s company.

  She’d persuaded him to stay behind this time, telling him that his presence distracted her when she was concentrating on talking to Dean. After all, she’d added with a laugh, it wasn’t as though her brother had to protect her virtue. What could happen between a living innkeeper and a ghost?

  Ian hadn’t shared her amusement.

  “How long can you stay?” Dean asked.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s different every time.”

  Dean sat warily on the edge of the bed beside her, close enough to touch her if he reached out, which he didn’t.

  “Mary Anna,” he began.

  “Anna,” she corrected with a smile. “My friends call me Anna.”

  “Anna,” he repeated huskily, his gaze locked with hers. “You really are beautiful.” The words seemed to startle him, as though he hadn’t intended to say them aloud.

  Anna felt something warm blossom inside her, the first real warmth she’d felt in longer than she could remember. Her smile trembled, then deepened. “Thank you. It’s been...a very long time since I’ve heard that.”

  She was suddenly struck by the oddity of their situation. She was having a conversation with a goodlooking man who’d been born years after her. A living man.

  It was pointless for her to flirt with him, or to be so senselessly flattered by his compliment. And there was nothing to be gained by wasting time imagining what it would be like to be held in those strong arms, clasped against his broad, solid-looking chest.

  She needed him, but only because there was a chance that he could help her and Ian escape the gray loneliness of the prison that had held them for the past seventy-five years. There could be no other bond between her and Dean Gates.

  “You didn’t have a chance to find out anything about us today?” she asked, deliberately returning her thoughts to the favor she’d asked of him.

  “No.”

  She knew he must see the disappointment on her face. He quickly added, “But I did ask some questions at the newspaper office. The editor said he would help me with my research.”

  She was delighted, as pleased that he’d bothered to ask as by the results. He was going to help her! “Dean, that’s wonderful! When can you start?”

  He held up a hand. “Hey, don’t rush me, all right? I’ve got a lot going on right now with these renovations. And I never really agreed to do this in the first place, if you’ll remember.”

  Her smile faded. “I know. You have a life to lead.”

  He winced at the quote. “Look, I’m sorry about that, okay?”

  She brushed the apology off with a wave of the hand. “Never mind. I am pleased that you’re renovating the inn. Ian and I have hated watching it being so shamefully neglected. Just don’t allow that woman to paint over our beautiful wood!”

  Dean smiled wryly. “So you’ve said.”

  Anna looked seriously at him, searching his face with intense eyes, looking for signs that he was the man he appeared to be. “Promise me...”

  She heard her own voice fading, felt the odd tugging sensation that signaled her return to the grayness.

  “What?” Dean asked, frowning again.

  “I have to go now,” she said, already sounding farther away, even to herself.

  “What did you want me to promise?”

  At the moment, one concern overrode all her other worries. “Take care of our home.”

  He looked surprised. He must have expected her request to have something to do with the other favor she’d asked of him. “I will,” he said. There was no mistaking his sincerity. “It’s my home, too, now,” he reminded her.

  She liked the sound of that. It had grieved her that no one had truly loved the inn the way her mother had, the way she and Ian had been raised to love it. Maybe Dean would learn to love it in the same way.

  She hadn’t understood why Dean was the one who could see her, why she’d never been able to communicate with anyone before him. Maybe the answer lay in their mutual respect for this beautiful place that had been built by her feather’s own hands.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “You’re—”

  The grayness suddenly engulfed her.

  STANDING IN THE MIDDLE of nowhere, surrounded by nothing, Ian turned to her, obviously relieved that she’d returned. She knew how empty it must seem to him here alone.

  “Well?” he asked.

  She took his hand and began to tell him everything that had been said. She left out only that odd, intense moment when Dean Gates had looked into her eyes and told her that she was beautiful.

  That was a memory to be savored in private.

  THERE WAS no indentation on the bed where she’d sat. Dean spread his fingers on the comforter. It was cold.

  There was no sign that Anna had ever been here.

  Dean sat for a long time with his hand on that empty space beside him, thinking of a young woman with vibrant dark eyes and a smile that made him wish things were different.

  5

  Life is eternal; and love is immortal; and death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.

  —Rossiter Worthington Raymond

  IT WAS Aunt Mae who’d convinced Dean to attend the library dedication the following Sunday afternoon. She’d heard that almost everyone in town would be there, she said. It would be good for them to mingle with the locals in their new hometown. Though it wasn’t exactly Dean’s type of affair, he’d agreed because his aunt had seemed to want to attend. She’d worked so hard helping him with the inn. How could he deny her an afternoon of relaxation?

  Mae hadn’t been exaggerating about the attendance. Whether it was because there was nothing better to do, or because the locals didn’t want to risk offending the Peavys, people had turned out in droves. Dean saw quite a few people there he’d already met, and many more he hadn’t. The small but nice new library was packed with Peavys, as well as several other prominent citizens.

  Margaret Peavy Vandover, the mayor’s mother, was as condescendingly gracious as Dean had been led to expect. She’d arrived dramatically late, and Dean had noticed that the cheerful chaos had seemed to subside somewhat upon her entrance. Were the townsp
eople really as intimidated by the woman as they seemed to be? And, if so, why?

  The mayor brought his mother over for introductions. To her credit, she greeted them without visibly reacting to Mae’s flowing, bright purple caftan-style dress, worn with the usual profusion of jangling jewelry, and clashing so cheerfully with her copper-tinted hair. Margaret was more conservatively attired in black moiré silk and pearls. Though she was probably five to ten years older than Mae, she certainly didn’t look it. Dean couldn’t help wondering about the efficacy of face-lifts and wrinkle creams.

  The painfully thin mayor and his short, plump wife made an amusing couple. She seemed as warm and friendly as he was distant and somber. Dean guessed the mayor owed his office as much to his wife’s popularity as to his family’s social position.

  Roy Peavy, the chief of police, was there, inappropriately attired in uniform. He was a faded, mousy man in his mid-fifties, and Dean suspected he thought the uniform gave him an air of authority he lacked without it. It wasn’t hard to guess that his appointment had been the result of blatant nepotism—a small-town tradition.

  The most visible Peavy seemed to be Roy’s brother, Gaylon, the state representative, named after his great-grandfather. He was surrounded by constituents, many of whom couldn’t seem to resist giving him political suggestions to take back to Little Rock. Gaylon had perfected the flashing-smile-hearty-handshake-and-quickly-move-on manner of a career politician, and he worked the room like an expert.

  “Interesting group, isn’t it?”

  Dean turned in response to the drawl, recognizing Mark Winter’s voice. He smiled. “Covering the big event?”

  “Of course. This is front-page news. The opening of the ‘Saint Charles’ Library.”

  Dean chuckled. He’d heard Margaret’s dedication speech, and he understood Mark’s irony. Dean had almost been nauseated by Margaret’s effusive praise of her late father. Talk about obsession!

  He took a sip of the too-weak coffee he’d been served in a foam cup. He’d had a choice of the coffee or something green with big chunks of fruit floating in it. The coffee had seemed the safer option.

  “I found those notes I promised you,” Mark commented. “I’ll bring them by tomorrow, okay?”

  “Sure. Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

  “Hey, thanks. If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble, I’d like that. I get tired of eating take-out.”

  “No trouble. Aunt Mae loves to entertain. Just remember, the place is a mess, with all the construction going on.”

  “I’m curious to see how the renovations are coming along.”

  “We should be ready to open late in July.”

  “Fast work. No wonder you wanted to get started on your research. When your guests ask about the ghosts—and they will—you’ll want to have an answer prepared for them.”

  “Ghosts?” A portly, pleasant-looking man in a brown suit stepped closer, a curious gleam in his squinty brown eyes. “Have you seen the ghosts?” he asked Dean.

  Dean forced a smile. “I’m just curious about the legend,” he prevaricated. “I’m Dean Gates, new owner of the Cameron Inn.”

  The shorter man, who looked to be in his early fifties, pumped Dean’s hand enthusiastically.

  “R. J. Cooley,” he said. “How are you set up for insurance on the place? I’d be happy to look over your policies for ya, and I can probably beat whatever rates you’re currently paying. My office is over on Main Street.”

  Dean smiled, instinctively liking the guy, despite his much-maligned profession. “Let me make a wild guess. You’re in insurance.”

  Mark laughed.

  Cooley chuckled. “Yeah. Sorry. Automatic response whenever I meet a new prospect. Got five kids to support and the youngest wants to be an Olympic gymnast. You know how much those lessons cost? Not to mention leotards and tights and competition fees and all that. You...”

  Mark cleared his throat. “Er, R.J.,” he broke in gently. “Why don’t you tell Dean about your connection to the local ghosts?”

  Apparently unperturbed by the interruption, R.J. promptly changed the subject. “My maternal grandfather, Jeffrey Parker, was engaged to Mary Anna Cameron when she died.”

  Dean felt something heavy settle in the pit of his stomach. The coffee, most likely. “Engaged?” he repeated.

  R.J. nodded. “They announced it the night of the shoot-out, at the twins’ twenty-fifth birthday party. Granddad married Gramma Wanda a couple years later and their marriage lasted nearly fifty years, but to tell ya the truth, I don’t think he ever really got over his Mary Anna. He didn’t talk about her much, but when he did, there was something in his eyes... He called her Anna,” R.J added inconsequentially.

  The heaviness in Dean’s stomach intensified. “Did your grandfather ever tell you about that night?” he asked, trying to sound only casually interested.

  “Just once. He and I went fishing up on Lake Ouachita one afternoon, a couple of months before he died. I was about fifteen, and had just been dumped by the head cheerleader. Like to broke my heart. Granddad tried to cheer me up, told me other girls would come along, like Gramma did for him . But he said you never forget that first love.”

  R.J. lowered his voice. “I got the impression that Granddad and his Anna had had a couple of rowdy nights together...anticipatin’ the wedding night, you know. Granddad always seemed fond enough of my grandmother, but I don’t think she ever quite measured up in that department. Tell ya the truth, I think Mary Anna was the only really excitin’ thing that ever happened in poor old Granddad’s long, dull life.”

  Dean found himself scowling. He forced himself to smile, instead. “It must have been difficult for your grandmother to compete with the memory of a ghost.”

  “No kidding. Gramma never allowed Mary Anna Cameron’s name to be spoken in her presence. They were girlhood chums, I think. Only thing I ever heard her say about it was that she had been greatly deceived about her friend’s character.”

  “So your grandmother believed all the stories about the Cameron twins being bootleggers and murderers.”

  “Well, sure, most everyone believed it. Stan Tagert caught ‘em red-handed, ya know, and he was a respected lawman ‘round here’til he died in a hunting accident about a year after the twins died. Dropped his gun and it discharged, shooting him right in the face. Gaylon and Charles Peavy were hunting with him. They didn’t see the accident, but they found the body. Granddad said ol’ Gaylon never got over all the trag edies.”

  “Didn’t you once tell me that your grandfather never really believed Mary Anna was involved in anything illegal?” Mark prodded R.j.

  “He believed his Mary Anna was an innocent bystander. That she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. ‘Course, he said she’d have done about anything for her brother. She idolized him. Granddad admitted that he was always a little wary of Ian Cameron. Said he had a dangerous look in his eyes.”

  “So he believed Ian Cameron was a criminal,” Dean said thoughtfully.

  R.J. shrugged. “Said it wouldn’t have surprised him. But not his Anna. He thought she was near-perfect.”

  Dean was getting tired of hearing R.J. refer to Anna as the property of someone else. “His Anna.” Dean had gotten the impression that Mary Anna Cameron had never belonged to anyone but herself.

  “I don’t suppose your grandmother is still living,” he said, knowing it was probably a futile suggestion.

  R.j. shook his head. “Died a few years back, not long after Granddad passed on.”

  “Is there anyone still living who actually knew the Cameron twins?”

  “Not that I know of.” R.J. was distracted when someone across the room motioned for him. He made an excuse and left with a final reminder to Dean to bring his insurance policies by for comparison shopping.

  Bobbie Vandover, the mayor cheery wife, approached then, Sharyn Burton in tow. “What are you two boys doing huddled up over here looking so serious when there’s a party going o
n?” she demanded of Dean and Mark. “You both know Sharyn, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Dean said, nodding politely at the real-estate agent. “How are you, Sharyn?”

  Smiling broadly, Sharyn inched close to Dean’s side and began to answer his courteous question in more detail than he would have liked. With a grin, Mark left Dean to his fate, making a show of escorting the mayor’s wife to the punch bowl for a refill.

  Dean tried to put the Cameron twins—one, in particular—out of his mind for the rest of the afternoon, since there was a good chance he’d gotten all the information he was going to get for now.

  More than he’d wanted to know, if he were honest with himself.

  DEAN TOOK his aunt out for dinner and a movie after the library dedication, still determined to repay her for her hard work. She seemed to enjoy the evening immensely.

  By the time Dean kissed her good-night and closed himself into his own bedroom, it was after midnight. He half expected company that evening; he wasn’t particularly surprised when Anna arrived.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded without preamble as she appeared in the corner of his bedroom.

  “That,” Dean told her as he finished unbuttoning his shirt, “is none of your business.”

  He took his shirt off and tossed it over the chair. From what he’d heard earlier, it wouldn’t be the first time Mary Anna Cameron had seen a man without a shirt on.

  Anna looked a bit taken aback by his bluntness. “Its something wrong?”

  “No.” He sat on the edge of the bed to kick off his shoes.

  “Would you like me to leave?”

  “Yes. No.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he knew what he wanted, where Mary Anna Cameron was concerned. He only knew that his feelings toward her were becoming more confused by the day. And that every time he saw her, he was more aware of how beautiful she was. There were parts of him that didn’t seem to understand how completely inaccessible she was to him.