Margaret gave them both a big hug and herded them to the living room. Pops’s armchair was still there, and Sara almost expected the old man to be sitting there, sunk into the frayed seat. The chair was empty, though—an empty husk, battered by use and age.
Margaret’s face fell. “I know. It’s not the same in the house without Pops. So quiet. I’m glad David’s been helping me go through Pops’s things. It’s hard—you know.” She leaned her head on Sara’s shoulder. “I miss him. He was a cranky old geezer, but he was my cranky old geezer. I even miss his grouching.”
She turned to David. “I went through a few more things. There are some bags with clothing that can be donated, if you want to make a trip to deliver them when the weather improves?”
David gave a short nod. “I don’t understand the rush, but sure, I can bring them.”
Sara could tell he was upset. Margaret wanted to get things done, but David wasn’t ready to let go. It was causing friction between them. As the evening progressed, Sara noticed a few more tense moments. She did her best to be an impartial negotiator, but that was easier said than done. In an attempt to lift the mood, she complimented Margaret on her lasagna, and the tiny woman beamed with pride.
“You like it? I’m glad. I love Italian food. At least, I love the food I can get here—I’ve never been to Italy…”
“Me neither. Would you like to go?” Sara asked.
“Oh, yes. A lifelong dream, as a matter a fact.” Margaret moved her knife back and forth over the tablecloth. Then she cleared her throat. “Which brings me to… Well, I’ve been invited to come to Rome. I’m leaving in five days.” She stood and started collecting the plates as if nothing had happened.
Sara waited for David to respond, but when he didn’t, she spoke up. “That’s great! Rome is supposed to be amazing! Are you going alone?”
David’s dark stare told her it wasn’t the response he had in mind. She pretended not to notice and focused on Margaret.
“No, I’m going to visit a friend. I’m sorry, David. That’s why I wanted to get all of Pops’s stuff taken care of now. I don’t want to come back from vacation and have to deal with it just before Christmas—I don’t think I could handle it.”
“You didn’t tell me you had plans,” he said. “And you’re leaving next week?” David’s shock was visible on his face. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I’m telling you now, am I not?” Margaret shrugged. “It started out as a fantasy, and then suddenly I found myself applying for a passport and booking a flight. I was planning on telling you earlier, but the right moment just never seemed to come.”
“Who’s the friend?”
Margaret pursed her lips. “An old friend from when I was younger, who now lives in Italy. We recently reconnected. I’ve always wanted to travel but haven’t had much opportunity. I need a change—I want to get away for a while.”
“How long are you going to be there?”
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks!”
“Well, Rome is a big city, dear. But we’ll travel around, go to some other places as well.”
“How exciting!” It popped out before Sara could push it back in. Another sharp look from David informed her she wasn’t helping.
“Thanks, Sara,” Margaret said. “I’m excited. Don’t worry, love.” She patted David’s arm. “I’ll be back before Christmas Day.”
“Isn’t it a bit of a rushed decision, Mom? I mean, we just lost Pops and now you’re going traveling with some friend I’ve never heard of? For two weeks?”
“Sweetheart, I’m sixty-five. At my age, I need to enjoy the days I have left. You may feel you can still wait around for things to happen, but I can’t. So, no, it’s not rushed to me. Quite the opposite, actually.”
David held his tongue after that. Margaret and Sara talked a little more about Margaret’s travel plans and Sara’s job, but after they had cleaned up the kitchen, it was getting late, and Sara had to return to the lodge.
In the car, David was very quiet.
“Are you mad?” Sara asked.
He shrugged. “I’m not sure mad is the right word. My mom’s doing something rash and irresponsible. I’d say worried is more like it.”
“I’m not sure it’s rash or irresponsible. She seems to have it all planned out. Besides, she’s going to Italy, not the Amazon.”
David frowned. “She’s never been to Europe before. And she never really told us who that friend was.”
Sara didn’t want to mention her sneaking suspicion that the friend was male—if David was having trouble with his mother taking off for Europe, her doing so with a new male friend might push him over the edge. Instead Sara focused on the road, the white snow turning yellow in the headlights. Snowflakes were coming down lightly again. The weather didn’t promise a quick resolution; she wondered if Preston would be back at all this weekend.
When they arrived at the lodge and David had turned off the engine, she said, “You know, every time my dad would go away on one of his assignments, when I was a little girl, he would hold me close and tell me the same thing. He’d say: Ta hand om din mama, älskling.” The Swedish rolled strangely off her tongue—she hadn’t heard it for so long. “It means ‘Take care of your mother, sweetheart.’” Her dad hadn’t taught her a lot of Swedish, but this was a phrase he had used frequently. “I now understand how he meant it, but as a girl, I always thought I had to protect her, shield her from anything bad that could happen. Silly, of course; my mom could handle herself just fine.” During Sara’s childhood, it had stressed her out—until she realized she could control her mother about as much as she could her father, which was not at all. “What I’m trying to say is, you can look out for someone, but in the end, they make their own choices in life. You could try to lock your mom up in a gilded cage, but I doubt she’d let you. Why don’t you ask her what she has planned? Maybe it’s all perfectly well arranged, and she’ll have the time of her life. And if something is lacking, you could help her figure it out. Why deny her fulfilling her dream?”
David took some time to digest her speech, but then, to her surprise, he reached out and pulled her close. “Thank you. I needed that. You’re right. I’m sorry if I was a jerk.”
She squeezed his arm. “I think you should tell your mom that, not me.”
“I will.”
Safely hidden in David’s warm embrace, Sara felt her eyes sting. Untangling the knot in her tongue, she managed to ask the question that had been preoccupying her. “David,” she murmured, “do you still find me attractive?”
“What?” He pushed her away a little, so he could see her face. “Yes, of course! Why do you ask?”
“You seem very disinterested. Like—physically.”
“Disinterested?” Confused, he shook his head. “How so?”
“Like you’re avoiding physical contact with me.”
“Seriously? No, it’s the opposite. I mean, I’m very interested. It’s just, I want to be all there, with you, and lately I haven’t felt that way. I’ve been distracted with everything that was going on. This is all so new. Us. And Pops passing away. It’s confusing. I find you very, very attractive, but I want my head to be screwed on right when—you know. I’m sorry you took it that way. I never meant to worry you.” He pulled her in again, holding her tight.
She breathed in his scent, her insecurity dissolving. All was well. She wanted to stay longer, not break away from his embrace, but it was late. The lodge was calling to her. She could sense it, the looming structure outside, beckoning her inside.
She kissed David, a long kiss, yet not long enough. “I have to go. See you soon.”
When she hurried through the hallway, she almost bumped into Nick, who was coming from the guest quarters. He gave her a curt nod in passing. She wondered why he had been in the guest wing; it wasn’t like they had guests. But maybe he was just checking over the house, which was more than she had seen him do until now. In fact, it was rare to see
him around the house at all. Nick seemed to keep to himself. Sara often wondered how on earth he was supposed to be a bodyguard when he was never around the family.
The next morning, after an uneventful night without any new dreams, Nick walked into the kitchen while she was having breakfast. Seeing him twice in twelve hours was like fate kicking her in the butt; she needed to take advantage of the opportunity. Sara mustered all of her courage.
“Good morning!” she blurted out. “I don’t get to see you much. I guess that’s a good sign, right? We don’t need all that much protection?”
Nick gave her his signature cold stare. “Do I ask you how you do your job?”
“I didn’t mean—I was just curious. Really.”
“I watch the cameras. Walk the perimeters. Keep an eye on Bailey when she goes out.”
“Oh, you can ski?”
“Of course. But she usually goes out with a group of kids. Calls me when she needs a pick-up from the lower lift.”
“I see. I was wondering, is Bailey in real danger, do you think?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think if anyone needs protection, it’s Mr. Sinclair. He received threats—letters—but it’s been a while.”
Nick seemed unusually talkative this morning. She coaxed him along. “Threats? Really? When was that?”
“A little over a year ago. They were nasty. Mrs. Sinclair was very worried. Kept Bailey close. They never found out who sent them. Mr. Sinclair thought it had to do with the company.”
“I thought the company did good work. Don’t they work on medical stuff? To help people?”
“When you’re in the business of selling cures, it’s easy to offend people. Maybe it was a disgruntled employee. Maybe a sick joke. In any case, the threats have stopped.”
“They must have done a lot for security then, right? I mean, they have you… and Peaches. An alarm system…”
Nick scratched his bald head. “If you ask me, Peaches is the best security system one could have. That dog is vicious toward strangers. An alarm system only works as well as the owner understands it. Between you and me, Mr. Sinclair isn’t very good with it. He always forgets. And when he’s home, he often doesn’t turn it on. I don’t think he ever took the threats seriously, though. He only hired me because of Mrs. Sinclair. But he likes me driving him.”
Sara didn’t want to ask more questions in case it made Nick suspicious. But there was still the matter of someone being in her bathroom—she wasn’t about to just let it go. A little prodding couldn’t hurt.
“Someone was in my room the other day, snooping around while I—” She was about to say, “while I was in the shower,” but decided there was no need to put that visual in Nick’s head. Instead, she said, “While I was doing my hair in the bathroom.” Her cheeks warmed a little. She had never been a good liar, and lying to Nick was especially difficult.
Her face burning, she looked away from his penetrating stare. “Bailey said it wasn’t her. I thought maybe there had been an intruder?”
“Not possible. Peaches would’ve shredded them to pieces. How do you know someone was in your room?”
“They left a—a note.”
“Really? What did it say?”
“Leave. That’s what it said. Leave.”
“Must’ve been Bailey. Teenagers. They lie when it suits them.”
“Really? That sounds a little jaded. She denied it vehemently.”
“It wasn’t me, it wasn’t you—that leaves her.” Nick looked spectacularly disinterested by the situation. “But I can double-check the cameras if you like, see if anyone came in?”
“No,” she stammered, “that won’t be necessary.” Cameras? She really hoped there weren’t any cameras upstairs—she’d walked around half naked in that hallway! Her face turned beet-red.
Nick shrugged. “Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.”
The conversation had done little to ease Sara’s suspicions. Nick seemed confident in his ability to keep them safe, and even though Sara wasn’t totally reassured, the Peaches argument was convincing. After the dog almost tore into Terrence the other day, it was clear Peaches had no fondness for strangers, or even acquaintances—presuming the Dobermann had met Terrence before. If it hadn’t been Bailey inside her bathroom, though, then it had to have been Nick. She shivered. Best to avoid him from now on. And those cameras. If she could figure out where they were.
Unsure of what to do with herself after she drank her coffee, Sara wandered into the living room with the idea that she could find something to read in the small library. Turning the lights fully on, she went in, walked to the little nook, and perused the shelves. With three books of interest in hand, she sank down in one of the comfortable chairs. She glanced at the grandfather clock. It was stuck at thirty-seven minutes past ten. Strange how it keeps stopping at the same time, she thought. It must be broken.
This room was her least favorite, but she couldn’t keep avoiding it. It had been fairly quiet at the lodge for the last few days, on both the dream and ghost fronts. She hadn’t had any other revealing dreams, although the old ones kept coming back. Lauren, or whoever it was, hadn’t bothered her either, but Sara suspected she was around somewhere. The ghost was just biding her time—it had plenty of that to spare, after all.
Lost in her reading, she noticed after a while that she was straining to see the words. She looked up. The room was dim again, like it had been the first time she had walked in here.
She called out. “Bailey? Can you turn the light on, please? I like the light.”
The room was quiet. Irritated, Sara closed the book with a snap. “Not funny, Bailey,” she mumbled, getting up. A cold draft made her stop in her tracks. She felt a pair of eyes resting on her back, poking her skin. She turned. In the scarce light she could see enough to know there was no one there—no one she could see, at least. Then a noise broke the silence. Tick… tock… tick… tock…
The clock! It was ticking again. The brass pendulum was swinging in an even motion. Sara’s breathing became shallow and rapid. Someone, or something, was here. It reminded her of what had happened in the bathroom—she was pretty certain now that hadn’t been Nick. The presence felt less hostile this time, but it also wasn’t friendly. It was appraising her, she realized. It was playing cat and mouse—only she was the mouse, and she didn’t know whether the cat was hungry. Her mouth went dry.
“What do you want?” she croaked. “How can I help you?”
A thud came from the far wall below the balustrade where she had seen Preston the other day. Then, within a matter of seconds, the eerie sensation lifted; she was alone. She breathed out. “So creepy…”
Instead of panicking and screaming for help—which was what her head urged her to do—she moved in the direction of the thud. Dazed, she found herself standing in front of a small bookcase filled with travel books and a few pictures. One of the pictures was lying facedown.
Hesitantly, she picked it up. With the picture in hand, she walked over to the light switch and turned the lights all the way on. In her hands was a simple wooden frame; in it was a faded picture of two girls on a beautiful summer day. One was blonde, the other brunette. They were standing arm in arm, heads together, smiling. There were mountains in the background. The brunette had her baseball cap turned backward. Both were wearing big sunglasses.
Slowly, Sara lowered the frame. “I was there, Lauren. Is that who you are? I saw this in my dream. Why are you showing me this picture? What does the blonde have to do with all this?” She sighed. “I’m sorry—I don’t understand. But I’m glad you don’t want me to leave anymore.”
Chapter 13
Dusk is setting in. It has rained recently—the air is damp, and the smell of wet soil drifts up. Sara stands on a balcony next to a well-lit house. The balcony overlooks the yard, but the disappearing daylight prevents her from getting a good view. It’s quiet, no traffic nearby; whenever the trees rustle, raindrops trickle on the leaves.
Lauren, reading glasses perched on her nose, is sitting behind the desk, peering over some documents. A deep frown betrays her concentration as she scribbles with a pencil on the paper, her movements decisive. Then she drops the pencil loudly, pushes her glasses on top of her head, and rubs her eyes. “God, what a mess,” she says.
Lauren pours herself a glass of white wine from an open bottle beside her. She sits quietly for a while, staring into space, before picking up the stack of papers in front of her. She places them in a pink file, and without getting up, reaches down to the side and puts them away. Sara can’t see where she’s put them—it could be a bag or a drawer. A new file appears, bright red this time; Lauren opens it and starts reading.
Minutes pass. Bored, Sara fidgets on her feet. How long has she been standing here? An hour? Longer? Wondering whether there’s more to see inside the room, she tries to open the door further, but it doesn’t move. She inspects the balcony to see if there’s a way down. With nothing to hold on to and barely able to see the ground, she quickly gives up; she’s stuck up here.
A sound comes from inside the room—Lauren is talking. Sara scrambles back to the door.
“What are you doing? Are you insane?” Lauren exclaims, standing up. Sara can’t see whom she’s talking to. The person must be coming her way, because Lauren turns toward Sara.
A black-gloved hand appears on the other side of the glass door, grabs the handle, and closes it. The curtain pulls closed. Sara places her hands on the door handle, pulling hard. A tiny ball of worry begins to grow inside her; this dream is not going to end well. Fear—Lauren’s fear—is seeping through the glass. Sara can smell it, taste it. With all her might, she pulls harder on the door handle. It doesn’t budge.
The Secrets of Sinclair Lodge Page 9