Sinister Stage: A Ghost Story Romance and Mystery (Wicks Hollow Book 5)

by Colleen Gleason

  The towels matched and were folded neatly in place over the racks, and there was an expensive terry robe hanging on a hook. A subtle, pleasing herbal scent lingered in the air, and she suspected it was some sort of natural or organic cleaning product.

  “Wow. Is that a steam shower?”

  He grinned. “My biggest indulgence—so far, anyway. I hope you enjoy.” His voice dipped a little low at the end, and he caught her eyes with his. For a moment, Vivien couldn’t seem to pull her gaze away, dammit, and her breath snagged in her throat. Her mouth went dry and she was still trapped.

  They were standing far too close in the spacious master bath, and she was extremely aware that she was in the inner sanctum of his world, the most intimate area of his home…

  And that they had been so intimate, so close, so attuned when they were together.

  “Thanks,” she said, literally spinning away so as to break the connection and sever the moment of intimacy. Damn, damn, damn. She should never have come here.

  “Uh, so there’s probably everything you need in there,” he said in an unsteady, rumbly way that indicated he was probably just as unsettled as she was.

  This was so not a good idea.

  Vivien decided she would just take a quick shower and then make some excuse to leave.

  “Uh, I mean, if you don’t mind guy sort of shampoo—”

  “It’s okay, I’ve got all my stuff in my bag,” she said, making her voice brisk.

  “Oh, good, all right.” He started for the door, then paused. “Um…I think I have some bourbon. Would you rather that or the Pinot gris?”

  “Oh…I don’t really think… I mean, I’ve got to get back to my place… Well, I guess a glass of the Pinot would be nice,” she said weakly when he lifted his eyebrow. She’d have the one glass and then make her escape.

  Although how she was going to do that without a car, she wasn’t exactly sure. Not that she thought he’d balk at taking her home if she asked, but…

  Ugh. It was so incredibly awkward.

  She should never have come here.

  “All right, then. A glass of Pinot gris on the patio,” he said with a quick smile that reminded her of the Jake she’d known. And loved.

  “Thanks,” she said, and turned away to busy herself digging through the duffel in hopes that he’d go away.

  He did, and she was finally left alone with a bundle of emotions.

  The steam shower was heavenly—as well as great cover for unpacking said emotions. She had a good cry to let out the frustration and anxiety, but she didn’t wallow too long. The last thing she needed was Jake the Doctor coming in to make sure she was all right.

  Then she went on to singing (but not too loudly) while she scrubbed her head with scented shampoo and, yeah, she used exfoliating body wash. But not because of Jake.

  When she exited into the bedroom, this time she had the leisure to notice more than the massive, inviting bed. On the table next to it was an e-reader device on top of a stack of books, each sporting a bookmark. One was the latest TJ Mack thriller, one was a biography of Alexandre Lacassagne (whoever that was), and one was a cookbook, of all strange things. Vivien simply couldn’t imagine reading about cooking for pleasure—she didn’t even like to think about it when she had to eat.

  Two large windows, one on each exterior wall, faced the woods that surrounded the house. Apparently all of the lake-view windows had been positioned in the living space area, a tactic Vivien wholly approved. But the forest view was just as interesting—or would be when and if Jake cut back on the wild trees and—were those grapevines?—growing enthusiastically around the house.

  The bedroom also boasted a small gas fireplace and sleek, low furnishings that somehow still maintained a warm, inviting mood. Far, far too inviting.

  At least there wasn’t a freaking fur rug in front of the fireplace.

  She slung up her duffel, determined to have a single glass of wine, to keep the conversation very superficial, and to leave as soon as her glass was empty.

  Then she had an idea, and dug out her phone. Hey, she texted Helga. Did you hear about my car? I need a girls’ night ASAP.

  Helga—who surely would have heard about Vivien’s car from her colleagues in Wicks Hollow’s three-person police department—would give her not only a good excuse to leave but also a ride home.

  Problem solved.

  Chapter Ten

  The last thing Jake wanted was for Vivien to slam her wine and bolt.

  He realized this as he was pulling the cork from the bottle and scoffed a little at himself. Dumbass. Foolish, weak dumbass.

  No, he wasn’t over her, and to be honest, it hugely pissed him off that he wasn’t.

  More than a decade later, he wasn’t freaking over her. Close to half his lifetime ago, and he still carried a torch for the singing-all-the-time, smart-assed, honey-blond woman who’d captured his heart, body, and mind during med school.

  But it was clear as day that she was not into renewing their old spark. Even though there was definitely still a spark—he felt it.

  Hell, it was more than a spark. More like a blowtorch whenever she laughed or even smiled a real smile.

  And there’d been that moment by the shower when their gazes caught and held and he felt his whole body go hot and expectant… He was pretty sure she’d stopped breathing, too.

  After all, their breakup hadn’t been from growing apart or their feelings for each other winding down or devolving. No, their relationship had ended abruptly one night, like a widow-maker heart attack or a fatal head-on collision. One minute they were together, happy, connected, enmeshed…and the next, it was over.

  So, he supposed, it wasn’t like he should be surprised that there hadn’t been any closure. They both—he in particular—had their own steamer-trunk-sized baggage they were toting around.

  He wondered if that was part of the reason she was so adamant about him not hanging at the theater. Because she had baggage—and not just from him—and she just didn’t want to deal with it.

  Unfinished business.

  But here she was—at his house, showering in his shower (he didn’t even want to think about that…but then, of course he did)—and now, after the weird-as-fuck events at the theater, they had something inescapable in common besides their shared history. He wasn’t going to let her leave until they at least talked about that: who and why someone was trying to scare her away from the theater.

  But Jake wasn’t so confident that he didn’t hedge his bets. So he wasn’t going to rely on just two wine glasses and a simple bottle of Pinot gris.

  Since she was still busy in the shower, that gave him time to put some other stuff together. His sister Irene had given him a fancy wooden serving tray for a housewarming gift, and as Pop didn’t care about visual aesthetics—and neither did Declan, Baxter, or Drew—Jake hadn’t had any reason to break it out yet. Being new in town, he didn’t get many visitors except for the guys working on his house.

  He pulled out some Pointe Reyes marbled blue cheese that was soft enough to spread like butter and set it on a small plate on the tray. Then he dumped olives—briny Kalamata, buttery Castelvetrano, and some pinkie-nail-sized black ones that he didn’t know the name of—along with a small scoop of almonds into four tiny dishes that were meant for soy sauce with sushi. Then he arranged them in a semicircle around the cheese.

  It might not be Martha Stewart or Queer Eye, he thought, surveying the presentation, but at least it wasn’t College Boy Beer Nuts. His tastes—and budget—had improved in the last decade.

  The last addition to the tray was one he actually agonized over for a few minutes. Crackers—he had some really nice artisan ones—or bread that he’d made himself?

  Crackers were fancier, and putting out his own bread might be self-serving…but it was really good bread and fresh just this morning, and the crackers would keep…but there were fewer carbs with crackers (did she care about carbs? Maybe. Probably.)…

  Hell.r />
  He could still hear the shower running, and was pretty sure she was singing in it. He wondered what song was on her mind and in her heart today.

  Jake smiled to himself. Vivien always sang in the shower, and whatever ballad or tune she was belting gave a good indication of her mood. She had a stunning voice—clear, strong, and vibrant—and more often than not, hearing her sing something like “Defying Gravity” or “Blue Skies” had put him in a good mood too.

  There were a few times he’d slip into the shower with her and join her in a duet—often something from Phantom, although another of her favorites, which she had taught him, was from Annie Get Your Gun. Those duets had ended up far differently in the shower than they did onstage…to their mutual satisfaction.

  With such a pleasant memory fresh in his mind, he started humming “Anything You Can Do (I Can Do Better)” as he debated between crackers and bread.

  When he heard the sound of a blow dryer (he didn’t own a blow dryer) from the bathroom, he knew he couldn’t waffle any longer.

  So he took the round loaf of bread he’d made early that morning in between calls during his shift and sliced a few pieces. Then he cut them in half so they were the shape of flattish semicircles and fanned them out on one side of the tray. A small dish of olive oil followed—he was half Italian; it was a requirement—and by then he realized he needed napkins and butter and cheese knives, a spoon for the almonds, toothpicks for the olives…maybe small cocktail plates, too (which he didn’t have, so he had to skip).

  He’d just come back in from carrying the tray out to the patio when he heard the sound of Vivien’s footsteps. Perfect timing.

  He poured two glasses of wine and stuck the bottle into a wine cooler (another housewarming gift—this one from his other sister Mathilda—for apparently his siblings thought he was far more of an entertainer than he was. Maybe he should hint that he needed cocktail plates).

  “Feel better?” he asked as Vivien came into the room.

  Her tousled, slightly damp hair hung in whisky-colored waves around her shoulders, making her appear as if she’d just rolled out of bed…which was an image he’d never forgotten and now was sharply reminded of.

  She’d changed from loose cargo pants, work boots, and snug tee into a soft yellow sundress that ended just above her knees. Her feet and pretty legs were bare and blindingly white except for bright pink nail polish on her toes.

  “Much better, thank you,” she said, and took the glass he offered. “And this’ll help even more.” She smiled, and his heart gave a little shimmy because that smile seemed genuine and relaxed.

  “Let’s sit on the patio,” he said, opening the slider. “It’s hours until sunset, but there’s shade.”

  “You got really lucky to get this place,” she said, wandering to the edge of the patio. “Wow…there’s not much here between you and down there.”

  It wasn’t a straight drop-off down the bluff, but you didn’t want to take a leap off the patio either, because you’d be rolling down a bumpy incline studded with rocks, trees, and other barriers. At the bottom was a well-traveled, curvy road that hugged the lakeshore.

  Jake noticed she didn’t take a step back from the drop-off and smiled to himself. No, the woman he’d known hadn’t changed much. He could even hear her humming something under her breath. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  “I’m getting some huge boulders brought in to shore up the edge there,” he said, coming to stand next to her and wondering why she hadn’t said anything about the tray he’d so painstakingly put together. “Before any of my nieces and nephew come over. And I’ll have some low bushes—I don’t know what kind—planted there along the top, and a small barrier put in behind them to make it even safer without obstructing the view.”

  “It’s going to be absolutely lovely— Oh, wow, yum!”

  Ah. She’d seen the tray.

  “How did you know I love Castelvetrano olives?” she said, spearing two of them with a toothpick in one quick movement. “And I didn’t realize how hungry I am. It all looks so good. You didn’t have to go through all that trouble, Jake,” she said, even as she speared two more olives with unbridled enthusiasm. “But thank you.”

  “It wasn’t any trouble at all,” he replied as she drew the olives off the toothpick with her mouth. His knees went a little weak at the sight of her lush pink lips puckering like that, accompanied by her low moan of appreciation—and he distracted himself by taking a sip of his wine. He gave his own hum of approval over the vintage. “It’s just as good as I hoped. Do you like it?”

  “It’s very good. I’m a sucker for unusual whites, and this one fits the bill. It’s got a little bit of pear, don’t you think?”

  “Sure,” he said, not exactly certain he tasted pear, but enjoying the crispness of it nonetheless. He sat down in one of the two Adirondack chairs he’d arranged in front of a tile-topped metal table that had a well in the center for a fire pit (another housewarming gift, one he’d bought for himself and had only used once), hoping she’d follow suit. This sort of pacing and walking around the patio that she was doing made him feel like she was planning to bolt at any minute.

  To his relief, she took a seat in the other chair, stretched her legs out in front of her, and crossed them at the ankles. She tipped her head against the back and heaved a sigh. “Thank you, Jake. I really needed this.”

  “Not as much as I did,” he joked. “I didn’t eat lunch.”

  Vivien gave a short laugh and rolled her head along the chair back to look at him. Her amber-brown eyes were fringed by thick lashes the same honey color of her hair, softly dark against her creamy skin, and for a moment he was a little breathless, caught by her gaze. He thought she looked so soft and lovely with all the shades of honey, bourbon, cream, and amber that were Vivien next to the fresh lemon-yellow dress. She was close enough that he could smell whatever it was she’d used in her shower, and it went right to his nose and straight on into his hormones. They were very interested.

  But best of all, he was happy she was here on his patio with him…and relaxed. He knew they had things to talk about—difficult things—but he was loath to broach them and risk the tension returning.

  She was spreading the soft blue cheese onto her piece of bread when she paused and looked at him suddenly. “Bread.”

  He grimaced. “Yeah, I know—carbs—”

  “No, no…did you make this bread?”

  Maybe she was just as eager as he was to keep unpleasant things stowed away—at least for a while.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “It’s amazing. I love the sun-dried tomatoes in it. It goes so well with this cheese.” She was practically moaning again, which did not help the situation in his suddenly tight board shorts. “I wouldn’t have guessed if Orbra hadn’t mentioned that you’d made her some sun-dried tomato sourdough. It’s so good I would’ve assumed you got it from the bakery in town.”

  He was ridiculously pleased. “Thanks. I’m still perfecting the recipe. I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my favorites too.”

  “So, uh…when do you actually work? You are a doctor, aren’t you? Don’t you have an office or go into the hospital? I don’t even know what your specialty is,” she added with a frown. “Weren’t you going to be a surgeon?”

  There it was…that subtle reminder of the past. The last time they’d known each other, he had indeed been thinking about general surgery.

  And it also indicated that she hadn’t been asking around about him. Which was a disappointment.

  “Radiology. And I work from home most of the time. A lot of us do.” He went on to explain how that worked. “So that means I have a lot of time to let dough rise in between checking my messages and doing assessments and evaluations,” he added with a smirk. “And I can toss a couple loaves in the oven and still be available to review any X-rays or ultrasounds that come through.”

  “And,” she said, pointing at him with an olive-studded too
thpick, “you can work in your boxers or here on the patio—or even in bed. Can’t beat that.”

  “Nope.” He sipped the wine again, then refilled both of their glasses.

  She took a taste, then suddenly whipped her attention to him. “Oh my gosh, Jake, I’m so sorry…I never told you. I’m so sorry about your mom. Really sorry.” She looked stricken. “I should have said something sooner. You always seemed very close to her.”

  “I was.” He would not let his throat close up. “I’m sorry you never met her. You— I think you would have liked her.”

  She nodded, and he wondered to himself why she’d never met either of his parents. Why he’d never introduced her to them. He’d met her mother once—that had been interesting—and her grandmother twice, both in New York.

  He guessed she’d never met his parents because they never traveled to New York. Besides working all the time, his pop was pretty old school and refused to set foot on a plane, and had no patience or desire for any traveling that was greater than fifty miles away. And Jake and Vivien had dated for a little under nine months, missing the year-end holidays that might have included family visits.

  He supposed part of it was that he’d always thought they’d have time for that—family holidays and such—later, and that he wanted to just enjoy Vivien and their life at NYU without the complications of family. His sisters would have had their collective noses all up in his stuff if he’d brought a woman home to meet the parents. Even now, he shuddered a little at the thought.

  “It was so nice of you to move here to be close to your father,” she said. “Who, by the way, is absolutely adorable.”

  He lifted a brow. “Adorable? Pop? How much wine have you had, Vivien Leigh?”

  She gave a dusky little laugh. “Not nearly enough to forget that someone—or something—is trying to chase me away from the theater.” She sobered. “Jake.” Her eyes—wide and anxious—fastened on him. “I don’t know what the hell is going on. And why.”

  “I know—”

  “But I sure as hell am going to find out. And whoever they are, I’m going to ruin them.”