by Jacquie Gee
"Yeah, very cool.” I touch my arm. “I designed them in her honor—"
"So you're an artist then."
"Sort of, yes," I mumble. Truth is, I currently can worms, grubs, and minnows for a living. But he doesn't need to know that, right. Like, ever…
“Wait a minute.” Jayden paces the floorboards. "The name is Bates, right?“
"Yeah."
"As in, Hillary Bates.”
“How did you know that?" I scowl.
“You're gonna think me a loon, but, I think I know your mother’s book!"
He's right, I think he’s a loon.
He snaps his fingers. “It’s The Beveled Edge of Far and Nigh, right?" A flash goes off in his eyes.
Okay, so maybe a psychic.
"I must confess I've never read it,” he rambles on, “but I should like to. It was one of my mother's favorites! Or so I’m told." He mutters under his breath. “Perhaps you have a copy you wouldn't mind to lend me, just whilst I'm here.”
My lips part, astonished.
"Whilst?"
He frowns. “You don’t know ‘whilst’?"
Of course I know, whilst. That’s not the problem.
I stare at him long and hard and completely unresponsive. At this Adonis-looking male, who uses the word ‘whilst.’ Who’s aware of literature. And my mother. And appreciates tattoos. Who is this man? This this totally hipster-looking dude standing before me in a pair of tan chinos, Socrates sandals, and sun-kissed hair, channeling old-world Mr. Darcy charm like he’s a natural. I swear he can't be more than thirty years old. Maybe thirty one. Where is Anna when you need her. I’ll never be able to prove this.
“I promise to give it back,” he adds, still fixated on the book. Which I find utterly shocking. My mother's book has been out of print for over nine years now, despite its triumphant launch as a New York Times Bestseller. It fell from grace shortly after her death, then slowly began disappearing from bookseller's shelves. No one had asked after it, or ever spoken of it, in a number of years now, let alone request to read it.
All trace of my mother's literary contribution to the world—forgotten. My heart aches just to think of it.
"Unless of course, you haven't one to loan, which I’d totally understand.” I think of the copy under my bed, then dismiss the thought. Jayden cheeks flush red like he’s embarassed for having asked.
"I—ah…" I stutter, I'm sure we can find one,” I at last say, my arms falling at my sides, in a weird, gleeful-swing.
“If it’s too much trouble…”
“No, no. No trouble.” I shoot toward the corner nook in the store where Dad keeps all his copies of Mom’s books. I turn over a few things. There has to be a copy here, somewhere. I search again. My mother's books have always been in the store. I madly peruse the shelves again, but come up with nothing. That's weird. None of them are here. I pause. Perhaps Dad tucked them away somewhere else, unable to bear seeing them on a daily basis. Why haven’t I noticed this until now? I check in a third place they might be, then pop my head back around the corner of my father’s office in back. “I can’t seem to put my hands on one right now,” I lie, thinking again about my personal copy up in my bedroom. I could lend him that one, but for some reason, I can’t bear the thought of parting with it. “I’ll see to it you get one, how’s that?” I say.
"Brilliant.” Jayden grins, rocking back on his heels like a pleased child. "Well, then," he glances over his shoulder at the door, and back again. "We should probably—" He jerks a thumb toward the door.
"Oh, yeah. We should probably." I let out a tethered breath and losen my apron, casting it aside as I travel back across the floors. “Don’t want you to be too late for that appointment.” I grab my keys and purse and head for the entrance.
Jayden stops me, half way, clutching me softly by the arm. I look down where his fingers meet skin, my flesh tingling beneath his manly grasp, then gaze up at his face. It’s like I know him. Like I’ve gazed into those eyes before.
“Your jacket,” he whispers, caught in the same daze as I. “You wanted to grab a jacket,” he adds.
“Oh, yeah.” Breath heaves hopelessly from my chest. “That.”
Chapter 6
Jayden
Okay, so this is incredibly crazy. I'm travelling in a car with a girl I barely know, on the way to buy a house I shouldn't. What's wrong with me? I run a hand through my hair. Do I need to do this, this badly?
And what about my equipment?
Shite!
I left it in my car. I look back.
I run another quick hand through my hair, wondering if she notices how often I do that. It’s a nervous tic. Ever since I was a kid. I can't seem to shake it. Whenever I get antsy, there goes the hair.
Just like I can't seem to shake my incurable obsession with finding out who I am. To the point, I am now about to buy, and live in, a haunted house, just because some ghost told me to.
I mean, it's one thing to track down and exorcise wicked spirits from people's homes, and quite another to crave an encounter for yourself. And for what? To prove I'm the horror writer everyone back home thinks I’m not?
That’s the lamest M.O. yet.
I can’t admit why I’m really here.
At least not until I know for myself.
All I know is, something about me is wrapped up in this old house, and I need to see what it is.
If I just conquer this one. Just come to some kind of a conclusion, this whole crazy journey I’m on can end. And I can finally go home, knowing what I know, and I can put this orphan thing behind me.
The thing that has seen me travel from Europe to Mississippi, and now to small-town Heartland, New Brunswick. The last stop for the crazy train.
"So, why the interest in the Caldwell Manor?" Jules’ gaze slides toward me as we drive.
I twitch in my seat. “Oh, I, dunno,” I answer, stupidly. “Seemed like a fun thing.”
“Fun?” She arches a brow.
Is she reading my thoughts? I squirm a little.
For some ridiculous reason, I feel immediately uneasy—like, horny uneasy, as well as, you know… suspicious.
“Yeah, you know. Adventurous?”
She cocks her head and stares weirdly at me through kohl-rimmed eyes. Man, she’s gorgeous. In a radical kind of way. I thought it the second I walked in—with that sassy haircut and those cool tats of hers—just exactly the way I like my women.
Honestly dude, you need to get your shite together here. The girl's just giving you a ride.
“Adventurous?” she parrots again.
"Yeah. I dunno, the place looked good on the internet, what can I say?"
"You're joking, right?" Her brows jerk up over gorgeous deep brown sparkling eyes, and it suddenly dons on me: I never really looked. I just sort of took the ghost’s word for it. The ghost said I needed to be here, so I’m here. Specifically, Caldwell Manor, here.
"I suppose I wouldn't know." She swallows.
“What do you mean?”
"I haven't been up there in years. I can’t actually say I’ve ever been in the place."
“You haven’t?” I’m shocked.
“Nope. Wouldn’t go near the place myself.”
“Really?” I wince. “Why not?”
She falls silent. Her face turns white. Then she starts talking about the beach and its surroundings, and I can tell by her tone and the speed of her delivery that she's avoiding telling me something—what, I don’t know.
It must be about the house. I wasn't expecting much, but I did expect the place to be standing. I hope her reaction doesn't mean it isn’t. I hope the place is at least habitable. I don’t fancy sleeping on the beach.
It’s not like I was a total fool. I did my research. Caldwell Manor-slash-Inn has gone through eight owners since falling out of the hands of its original owner, Edgar Locklear, back in 1873.
The last owner ran screaming from the building, as did numbers two, three, four, five, and seven. Owners
six and two were the only ones not to leave. Two was found inside, dead.
The story was covered nationally, so if the real estate agent thinks she's keeping something under wraps, she's the one who’s the fool.
We round the corner and a seaside view bursts open in front of us. Heavy waves beat rocky shores. Fat, gray clouds loom over the angry, white-capped water. Tiny fishing boats toss in its wake.
"Looking rather gloomy out there all of a sudden, isn’t it?" I glance over at Jules, feeling the ominousness of the scene closing in.
"Yeah, looks like a storm." She squints, looking out over the horizon.
“Is that normal? For it to just, whip up like that?”
“Sometimes.”
“Wow.” She doesn't seem the least bit fazed by the Tim Burton-esque backdrop settling in on us. I, on the other hand, have grave concerns. I look around and notice that it seems to be hovering only over a certain stretch of road, where she's indicated the old Caldwell place is. Around the next corner, the sun shines brightly through the clouds, in direct opposition to this shore.
“Do storms normally move in in sections like that?” I point.
“It’s the Maritimes.” She shrugs and shakes her head.
We roll up the road, along the edge of the sea until the rocky shore turns to sandy beach and the barren landscape turns into shanties, and then the majestic manor appears perched high atop a rugged slope—a turn-of-the-century Georgian manor, as promised, overlooking the water at the very heart of the Cove. "Jesus, she's gorgeous." My breath escapes me.
"Yeah, I'm sure she was in her day." Jules chuckles.
“No, I mean it.” I scoot forward. “She’s amazing. Totally majestic.”
Jules’ fingers do this weird flirty thing. "I suppose," she says. "It's like they say when you live next to the monument, you never notice it." She flashes me a tight smile then grips the steering wheel harder. She has the most beautiful, delicate, yet fierce set of hands.
"Is there something wrong?" she asks, catching me staring.
“Oh. No!” I shake her inquiry off.
The light in her eyes makes them shine like chocolate syrup and I’m mesmerized by their depth. I have to stop looking at her like this. It’s crazy. I’ve only just met her. But for some reason, I feel like I’ve known her forever.
Perhaps it’s just the overcast condition of the day, but she’s looking more darkly alluring than she did to me back there in that dimly lit bait shop. There’s just something about her I just can’t resist. I don’t want to resist. In fact, I want to explore it further as soon I get the answers I came for. The sole reason I was thrilled when she offered me a ride.
It’s an added bonus. I hadn’t expected this. I haven’t found a girl this attractive in years.
"You’re sure?" She tilts her head in the most provocative way, and the urge comes over me to kiss her. Her lips are the softest shade of pink, in direct opposition to her white, white skin, and her eyes are as big and bright as light bulbs, and take up half of her cherub face. Her nose is peppered with soft caramel freckles. She has freckles everywhere, which I find irresistibly cool. Especially the way they seem to float translucently below the first layer of her china-like skin like if you blinked they wouldn't be there, then blink again and they'd reappear. I particularly like the mole precariously perched on the edge of her jaw, as if about to drop from her cheek at any moment—the way the angled cut of her hair brushes back and forth over it and curls underneath it, accentuating its existence. "Should there be?" I continue the conversation, and she bursts into a short, wicked laugh.
"I'm gonna take the fifth on that one if you don't mind."
She turns on the blinker and swings into the drive. What’s left of it, anyway. We bump along the old two-wheeled, gravel drive, overgrown now by weeds, up the steep hillside toward the house.
“Drive could use a little work,” she laughs, nervously. She wheels the car up next to the porch, overlooking the water on the backside, and pulls to a hesitant stop.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” she gasps and shifts it into park. It has started to rain and small flecks of moisture smack the windshield. A breeze off the water yanks at the car, rocking us back and forth. In seconds, the moisture becomes a steady drum of rain. "That's strange," she says, but not to me, more like she’s addressing the surroundings.
“I thought you said it often flash-stormed around here.”
“No, not that.”
"What, then?" The wind roars and the car flutters. Rain competes with our conversation.
"Anna should be here by now!" she shouts over the pounding.
"Anna?"
"Your realtor." She turns her cherub face my way. Her eyes are bigger than before and they look frightened. "She's sort of a friend," she says.
"So, you knew I was coming?"
"Not exactly." She’s lying. I can tell by the flush of her cheeks.
"But you knew I was in town."
"I knew you were coming to town," she corrects. “Of course, I didn’t know it was you, just that someone was coming.”
"Aaah, I see—”
“And that you were shopping for a house.”
“Mm-hmm.” I look away, drumming the door panel.
"I mean," Jules stammers on, "I knew someone was in town to view the manor. I didn't know that someone was going to be you." She grins. “If it’s any consolation, I’m glad it is.”
I glance at her, warily.
"Okay, full disclosure." She throws up her hands. "Anna may or may not have shared with me that some hunky guy was on his way into town, to view the old manor. But I in no way expected you to show up in my bait shop first."
"Hunky, eh?" I grin, bubbling up with the thought.
"Her words. Not mine." Jules flips up her chin.
"Oh. I see." I nod.
"Okay, okay, so that's not completely true either." She grips the steering wheel again. "I thought hunky; she said hot." She tips her head this way and that.
"Well." I sink back and puff out my chest. "Either way, I can't go wrong, can I?"
She swats me like we’re kids and she’s known me forever. Which is weird.
"And rich. She mentioned you were rich."
"Ha! She got that wrong." I laugh.
"So you're not?"
"What? Rich?" I frown. "Would I be house shopping here if I was?" I gesture toward the once-beautiful, now dilapidated Georgian manor on the other side of the windshield.
"I suppose not," she laughs. Her laugh is like music. Like soulful jazz. Her long, lovely throat lengthens when she does it.
"So, now that you're here, you gonna come inside?" I offer, trying to sound as inviting as I possibly can, trying to entice her into viewing the house with me, in the pummeling rain.
“I… I dunno.” She shakes her head. “I’ve got a lot of stuff going on back there.” She points behind us.
I pull at her with my gaze, donning my best Puss-in-Boots sad-eye imitation. I’m not ready to give up her company just yet.
She looks around, her eyes taking on that distraught quality again. "Though I suppose, if nothing more I should help you look for Anna." She peers out over the steering wheel, scanning the premises.
"Perhaps she's gone inside to wait. You know, due to the rain," I offer.
"Yeah, maybe that’s it.” Jules still looks worried. She stares out at the storm, sheets of rain pelting the windshield now. “Where's her jeep, though?" she adds, concerned.
"Jeep? The woman drives a jeep?"
"Of course." Jules cools me with a sideways glance.
A Jeep. I like these women already. I smile. "Come on.” I jerk my head toward the house. “Let's go investigate."
“In this?”
“What’s the matter? Gonna melt?” Jules smirks.
I reach for the door handle. Rain slams louder against the windshield. The wind rocks the car. We’re gonna have to be fast if we’re planning on staying the least bit dry.
; "Maybe she's parked out back, or over by that barn." I hesitate, pointing.
"I seriously doubt she's brave enough to park in there." Jules' gaze slides toward the building.
"What’s that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." She gulps. Her eyes flash like she's accidentally hinted at a secret. "You're right, we’d better hurry." She dives out into the rain.
Maybe there is more truth to the legend of this old house than I care to know. I swallow. Perhaps that explains the hairs standing on the back of my neck all of a sudden.
“Are you coming?” she shouts back over her shoulder to me as she runs, throwing her jacket up over her head.
I throw open the creaky car door and step out.
The rain is coming down now at a furious clip, even more furious than before, cross-wise, striking the left side of my face and shoulder with brutal force. Jules races ahead of me, gasping for breath.
We’re both completely drenched half way to the porch. Jules' snappy, blunt haircut pulls down tight around her head like a helmet. Her flattened bangs fringe her soulful eyes.
She glances back at me, then up at the sky before taking that last jump step to the porch. "It’s coming down in buckets!”
I follow, traveling at a clip through the muck like an amateur compared to her. The ground is soft and my shoes sink in deep. How could the gentle rain that fell on the windshield have turned into this raging storm so quickly? Maritime weather, my arse! This beats all. Maybe I don't wanna live here. Then I look at Jules and see a reason why I might.
She reaches the porch first, taking one last jump step onto it, shaking out her jacket as she waits for me to arrive. I bound up onto the rotting boards, and my muddy shoes slide when they meet the wood. “You all right?” She extends a slim hand, steadying me at the waist, as I fight to regain my balance.
“Yeah,” I say, breathless from her touch.”
“Anna?” She whirls around. "Anna, are you here?" She reaches for the handle on the door, bolting through. It just opens at her command like her hands are the key. Anna must have left it open.