He found her in the foyer — Margaret called it the grand hall — staring at an ancestral portrait. His heart chose a jittery tempo, the sight of her flowing, sun-reddened hair sending jolts of awareness throughout bits of him that had long stagnated without her.
She pivoted as if she sensed his presence. "I feel like a stranger here," she said, her gaze following a trail from his feet to his face, where they seemed to linger on his mouth. "I know I'm in my own house, but it's just been so long."
Thoroughly warmed under her appraisal, Noah joined her under the painting of her grandfather, Doyle. Photographs may have largely replaced oil for recording the faces of familial history in most homes, but the modern generations of Hawthorne ancestors sat for paintings nonetheless. Only Emma Grace was missing from the wall; she was to have her portrait added for her eighteenth birthday, but she'd left before the day arrived.
"You've been gone a while," he said, only half replying to her feelings of being misplaced in the mansion. The rest was his own observation, an umbrella of loss he'd lived under for far too long. "It's so good to see you again. I never thought… are you actually here?"
She smiled, her face lighting with the kind of glow born of sunshine and playful chases across the sweeping lawns. "I've missed you, Noah. I don't know what took me so long."
His heart leapt. Maybe it wasn't too late after all. If Emma Grace actually found a way to return to Hawthorne Manor after everything they experienced that night, then anything was possible.
Under those odds, even they had a chance.
Chapter Three
Margaret Gray Hawthorne had left nearly two hundred years of family history in the hands of the caretaker's son. The news was the sort to send scandal pervading to every corner of the parish, but just knowing of the gossip made Emma feel oddly closer to her grandmother. If she'd left Noah the plantation, then she must’ve — in her own way — loved him, too. And even if she hadn't, there had to have been a reason the rumor hit the mill. Margaret was not known for her warmth. She ran the rambling manor home like a general at war, demanding formality and barking orders even when the list of staff dwindled to three: Abigail, the cook and housekeeper; Henry, the gardener; and Wade, the caretaker and Noah's father.
"How's your dad? And Henry and Abigail?" Emma asked, breaking a long silence brought on by the sinking of a fiery sun. It splashed orange on the horizon as it drew a shade over the scorching afternoon, suctioning the thick air into humid night. "I just realized I never saw any of them this afternoon."
Noah tilted his head in her direction and the sky cast pink over his profile. They were sprawled on the lawn in a throwback to the old days, only this time there was no tumbling through the grass, no stolen kisses or breathless moments teetering on surrender. Just the two of them and a slight — albeit intimate — distance, but still almost as sweet as the memories brushing far too close to her surface.
"We buried Henry a few years back and Margaret hired Gil on to take his place. Abigail had about a year’s worth of vacation your grandmother frowned her out of, so she's taking some time off. Dad retired last year, and I just sort of took up in his place. Now he spends most of the week in the city and weekends in the cottage on the grounds." His tone grew coarse, tainted with bittersweet. "I moved into the main house after you left. Abigail is getting up there in age, and the demands of keeping up with everything seemed to be greater every year. Your grandmother put me on the payroll, probably to keep me here." He tossed a sideways grin her way. "Reckon she didn't see why I'd stay without you."
Emma smiled through the pain of his last sentiment. "You had your dad."
He laughed and lifted his arm, delivering a useless swat to a swarm of buzzing insects. "Yeah, and how many seventeen-year-old guys want to hang around a stale old mansion known for its ghosts and its… oh, how can I describe your grandmother? Tyrants? And in the name of hanging around with their father, no less?"
She tried to frown, but the mock insult fell flat when she saw the mischief dancing in his eyes. She settled for mild indignity. "Stale? What would Abigail think to hear you speak of her housekeeping in such a way?"
"She'd probably agree," he said, sobering a bit. "The house… it has a petulant streak."
"Oh?"
Through the deepening dusk, a flash of uncertainty somersaulted across his face. "Most of the old standbys," he said. "Cold spots. Musty odors we can't get rid of."
"It's an old house."
Noah appraised her, eyes full of questions he didn't ask. "Yeah, that's it."
He tucked his hands behind his head and stretched a leg across the grass. The simple movements spurred memories within her, each one resurfacing in delicate coils of heat. Although there was no mistaking the man he'd grown into, there was a boyish quality in his expression which persisted, making her feel the kind of wild freedom that went along with the days they spent together. It awakened the part of her that needed him — a piece of her soul fed by the endless possibilities and boundless joys of a new love.
Emma sighed, a quiet sadness she kept to herself. If only the world hadn't stolen her innocence before Noah had the chance, how different her life would have been.
As for ghosts, there was no need to mention them. They both knew all too well Hawthorne harbored a few uninvited guests. And there was one in particular she'd like to know about. Emma had been dying all afternoon to learn the identity of the woman she'd seen on the widow's walk, but time and time again she stopped short of asking. A big part of her didn't want to know, and further worrying her was why Noah hadn't told her the identity of the ghost after confiding he knew who she was. The latter consideration served only to make Emma more fearful of the truth. But whatever compelled her to come home that day demanded she learn those secrets. It wasn't anything from which she could hide, even if she wanted.
Fearful of the truth, Emma focused on his face — her place of solace. The warmth and acceptance therein momentarily jolted the question from her lips. She stopped short of reaching for him, but the impulse control didn't deter her from thinking of how his skin would feel under her fingertips, of all the places her hands could go. In some ways, she wished their love hadn't been so pure, so full of innocence, because with him on her heart, nothing else would ever measure up.
The idea was yet another truth she'd have to accept or bury.
She swallowed, searching anew for the courage to broach the subject with Noah. "You said you knew who the woman was?"
The dark wasn't enough to disguise the shadows taking over his horizon when she said the words out loud. Storm clouds gathered, showcasing the hurt in his eyes.
"Noah, I'm sorry—"
"No, don't be." He smiled, a gentle, sorrowful quirk of his lips. "I'm the one who brought it up earlier. Then I walked out the door, and I stopped believing you were even here and I worried if I told you the truth, you'd be gone again. I'm afraid once you find out… well, it's selfish, but I don't want to let you go. That night ten years ago is probably the only memory of ours I don't treasure," he added with a small laugh. "But you have a right to know who you saw up there."
Emma swallowed a decade's worth of regret. Why had she left him? Her family? If only she had a choice back then… "Who is it?" The words came in a reverent whisper, as if they knew the importance of their mission, the impact of what they'd bring her.
"Not here," he said, the refusal surprising her. He sat, brushing bits of the lawn from the t-shirt stretched taut across his back. Then he tipped his head toward the hulking form of Hawthorne Manor and offered a grin that didn't meet his eyes. "I'll show you."
Emma eyed the dark structure, finding little comfort at the thought of going inside where the aforementioned ghost lurked.
"I won't let you get hurt again," he said, threads of laughter finding his words.
She glanced at him in utter bemusement. "Fair enough," she said. "Your turn to fall off the roof."
He didn't look particularly amused with her words, but he didn't
say anything as she rose to walk with him to the house.
Inside, the shadows were deep and thick, and the cold sweeping through Emma left her rethinking the value — or at least, the wisdom — of learning the truth. And the feeling intensified with every flight of stairs until they were standing at the entrance to the attic.
"Isn't this a bit cliché?" she asked, keeping her distance from the closed door. "Ghosts? The attic at midnight?"
"Maybe," he said, devilish inflection coloring his voice. "But this is where the secrets are. Besides, it's not midnight."
"Forgot my watch," she countered, her tone wry. His pseudo-dark timbre sparked chills through her limbs, but she forced them aside and allowed him to usher her through the door.
"Ladies first," he said, exaggerating his scant Southern drawl.
"I bet," she told him over her shoulder. "Keeps you from having to go first."
"Hey, I never said gallantry didn't have its perks."
"Yeah, I hear you," she said, wincing as he pulled the chain on the overhead light. The bare bulb was the only fixture, and the scant output threw coarse shadows around the space.
With the meager help of the light, he picked his way through a few wooden crates, each one piled so thick with dust it appeared as if it had been there every one of Hawthorne's nearly two hundred years.
"What are you looking for?"
"Journals," he said, disappearing behind a support beam, lost to the shadows. "Although 'looking' might not be the right word. I know where they are." He emerged after a bout of shuffling and a handful of seconds, a thick packet in hand.
"Anyone I know?" she asked, curiosity charging past the unease filling her heart.
"Depends," he said, settling on the dusty floor. "Did you know Doyle had a first wife?"
Emma's mouth dropped open. "My grandfather was married before?"
Noah flashed a conspiratorial grin. "Yep. Margaret was the second Mrs. Doyle Hawthorne."
The room spun, an unwelcome sensation in the maze of spider webs and darkness. "Who…?" Emma fought against the shock for her voice. "What happened to the first? Who was she?" And why did the news fill her with such an awkward sense of herself? For a man to remarry after the death of a spouse wasn't unusual, especially a young man. Her grandparents were both in their early twenties when they were wed, assuming there weren't more pieces of her family history on the verge of being upended.
He unwound a faded purple ribbon from an aged book, the paper yellowed with time. With a gentle hand, he turned the pages. "We need to be careful with these," he said. "The paper is brittle. It tends to crumble, especially at the edges." Several pages into the book he stopped and held it so Emma could see the scrawling penmanship. "Her name was Alma. Seems she was a friend of Margaret's, at least in the beginning."
"Friends before or after Alma married Grandfather?"
"Before," he said, nose in his reading. "Margaret was Alma's matron of honor."
Emma relaxed a notch. "That doesn't necessarily mean they were pals. Some sort of social protocol may have dictated the wedding party."
Noah glanced up. "Fair enough. But Alma speaks highly of Margaret. Or writes highly of her, as the case may be. But a month or two after the wedding, Alma's tone changes. Here" — he gestured with the book — "they sound like best friends. Alma praises Margaret's new gown — apparently your grandmother made it herself — her piano playing, even her charm with a couple of young suitors, as Alma calls them. She also wrote in great length how Margaret is pursued by Alma's two brothers and wonders which is most deserving of the prize." He shrugged, a boyish grin playing over his mouth. "Seems Margaret was quite the catch. Anyway, within a thirty day period," he said, skipping ahead in the journal, "things took a turn for the worse. Here, Alma refers to Margaret as a harlot."
"Ouch." Emma tried — none too hard — to imagine her grandmother doing anything that might quantify her as a harlot, but the closest Emma could muster was evidence of tyranny. That she could believe. "Alma, huh? The woman scorned."
"That's what I'm thinking." Noah folded his legs and propped his elbows on his knees. The sight prompted a long-buried memory of the two of them at a Fourth of July fireworks celebration. She'd wound up settled between his legs, her back nestled against his chest with his arms draped loose over her shoulders. The bayou summer had nothing on the heat generated between them that night. A casual observer would have never guessed the emotions cartwheeling through her core, but it was precisely the kind of warmth that defined her relationship with Noah.
He had a way of stirring butterflies inside her, whether they were skipping rocks on the Mississippi or disheveling one another in the depth of the gardens. Even though their relationship never ventured beyond the timid, early explorations of two shy teenagers, they'd belonged to one another in the ways which mattered. In the purest, most innocent sense, there was always love.
"Alma's opinion of your grandmother went downhill from 'harlot' but the rest, for the most part, isn't repeatable in mixed company."
She still battled unease and a general air of foreboding in the stifling attic, but Emma couldn't help but laugh. "Right. So what happened?"
"Alma's journal entries continued to get nastier, until they stop."
They stopped? "Why did she stop? Does it say?"
Noah culled a newspaper clipping from the small stack in front of him. Without a word, he held the yellowed paper so Emma could see the newsprint.
TRAGIC DEATH AT HAWTHORNE ESTATE
Alma Louisa Hawthorne, twenty-three years of age, fell to her death on Thursday at her home. The wife of Doyle Hawthorne of Hawthorne Manor, Alma was expecting the couple's first child at the time of her spill. Evidence of foul play is currently under investigation.
Emma tore her eyes from the paper and stared at Noah. "Foul play?" she whispered. "As in murder?"
Noah nodded, his face somber. "Looks like that's what they were getting at. Can't find what came of the investigation, though. Your grandparents were married six months later, almost exactly a year after he tied the knot with Alma. I'm sure the timing set a few tongues to wagging." He opened another journal. "This is Margaret's. It's kind of creepy how they're all kept together in one place if you ask me."
The humid attic took on a sickly chill. "Can you imagine losing your wife and your unborn baby in such a horrible accident, both at once?" And why was it kept a secret? In the seventeen years she lived in Hawthorne Manor, not once had she heard of Alma or her grandfather's unborn baby. Or, stranger yet, the accident. Even if the family chose not to discuss the incident, it was quite odd for the servants not to talk — especially about a death with suspected foul play. "Anything on how she died?"
He shook his head. "Not in the papers." Fishing through newsprint, he added, "Mostly just the standard announcement stuff. Your grandparents' marriage. Your mother's birth." He paused and glanced at Emma, then returned his attention to the paper in his hand. "Her death. Did you know your grandparents had a little boy? Your mom’s baby brother."
"Yes." Even on the lone syllable, Emma's voice shook. The deaths — aside of Alma's — weren't news to her. The Hawthorne family had more than their share of tragic endings of late. With both of her grandparents gone and no surviving children, Emma truly was the last of the family line — a fact which no doubt made her absence over the last few years especially difficult for her grandmother. Without Emma, Margaret Gray Hawthorne had been quite literally alone in the world, save for the company of her servants. What Emma wouldn't give to go back and change everything — to have a second chance to be with her grandmother and with Noah.
He caught her eye. "Well, brace yourself." Longing filled his expression — as if he wanted to hold her, to gather her close and keep the words from coming to his lips — but instead of reaching for her, he simply stacked the books into a neat pile and wound the purple ribbon into place. "Somehow, Emma Grace, I don't think you'll expect to hear this next part."
Emma's temperature rose
a degree or two hearing her name roll off his lips, but his tone did little to settle the unease threading the room. The cold spot in the attic dissipated into the oppression of humidity, then the heat of fire. The pressure in the room nearly killed her, but Noah sat calmly — studying her — his face traipsing with mild concern, if not indifference. The heat… didn't he feel it?
His mouth moved, but a distant buzzing kept the words at bay. A movement in the corner of her eye had Emma's attention darting to the shadows.
In a single horrifying second, she was certain they held the face of the old woman. Noah's words came back to her: I think I know who she is.
He was still talking. Emma tried to hear him, but the translucent figure in the corner — there, but lurking just out of focus — swept the sound from the space.
Then, as suddenly as she appeared, she was gone. As if someone flipped a switch, through muffled, muted airwaves, finally Noah's words broke through.
"Rumors… reported… your grandmother killed Alma."
Chapter Four
For the most part Noah had corralled his disbelief over seeing Emma Grace again, figuring he'd tuck it away for now and maybe examine it when she left, for he knew she would. In the meantime, he'd just enjoy the moment. He'd revel in the way those soft waves of reddish-brown hair caressed her back, leading his mind back to the days when his fingertips made the same trails over her bare skin. He'd let his heart lounge in the nearness of her and let the warmth of what they once had — and what still lived within him — linger inside, strengthening his soul for whatever would come of this whole situation.
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