Excerpt

Tyran recalled sitting at home one Friday night, watching old episodes of Girlfriends on BET. Julian knocked on her door and from the moment he entered, his persona was different. Ty was a very observant person, she had to be with her profession, and had immediately noticed something was wrong. She paused her DVR, “Hey bay,” (Ty would often take the second “b” out of baby when using this term of endearment), “What’s wrong?” she’d asked, concerned.

Julian cautiously glanced up from the beige carpet he’d been staring at since he’d entered her condo. “We need to talk,” he stated hesitantly. Not knowing whether Tyran would start tossing frying pans and glass picture frames in his direction after he finished his explanation, Julian decided he’d remain standing for this conversation. Though he’d never known Ty to be violent, he was cautious with all women, because he knew when provoked, they had a way of flipping the script.

Ty sat the remote control down and gave Julian her undivided attention. “Ok…” she said, still sensing something was wrong. “What’s up?”

Julian stalled, looking at everything except Ty’s eyes. In this moment, as random as it seemed, he noticed how well decorated his lady’s condo was. Everything appeared to be in its proper place. Artwork and huge picture frames covered with family and friends decorated the walls. To someone who didn’t know Tyran, they’d think she’d hired a professional decorator; but Julian knew all too well this was Tyran’s work, because she’d decorated his single family Stucco home in Missouri City, with his permission of course.

Knowing he couldn’t delay this conversation any longer and that Tyran would eventually run out of patience, he looked her in her eyes.

“Ty, what we have is really nice. It’s real cool,” he began. “You’ve been the best girlfriend a man could ever have, but…I can’t see this relationship going any further than this.”

Copyright 2010 Tierra Allen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

North Yorkshire, England, 1775

Michael ‘Nathaniel’ Clairmont, the Fourth Duke of North Yorkshire, crumpled the missive he’d received from his fiance’s parents as he raked his fingers through his shoulder length hair. Fear tightened his chest as he stepped to the door and called to his squire. “Prepare Caesar, now!”

Stepping back into the room, he addressed his longtime friend, Anthony Faulkner. “I’m going to see Lady Stockholm’s parents. Clarissa is missing. Are you with me?”

Faulkner jammed his tricorn hat atop his head. “Bloody right I am!”

Moments later, after meeting with the Stockholm’s, Michael urged his bay Barb to greater speed along side Anthony’s. An unnatural scattering of branches and leaves strewn about the road ahead caught his attention. He reined Caesar and dismounted for a closer look. Footprints of horses and men marred the dirt and led deeper into the woods where the underbrush lay trampled and broken.

After tethering Caesar to a branch, he motioned for Faulkner to follow him along the path. A piece of green silk shimmered atop a briar bush, and Michael grabbed up the soft material. It was the color he’d last seen on Clarissa. The fragrance of jasmine assailed his senses. His eyes widened in recognition of the scent…the same one Clarissa wore!

He gripped the material in his fist. Bile rose in his throat as fear knotted his gut. Though afraid of what he’d find ahead, he pushed forward; low-hanging branches slapped at his face and caught at his shoulder-length hair. He pushed the foliage out of his way and tromped the underbrush in his desperate search.

When he reached out to block another branch, a silk stocking skimmed his face and he grabbed the stocking for inspection. Michael looked at Faulkner’s worried face, swore under his breath and moved on but a foreboding feeling ate at his senses, almost like being watched.

He couldn’t miss a gown strewn atop the bushes. The shock that tore throughout his system stopped Michael dead in his tracks, his muscles recoiling in reaction. Meticulously arranged over the waist-high bushes, as if in preparation for wear, lay a dark green silk gown, a vicious tear low in the neckline. His gaze moved slowly over the material. Tightness gripped his chest, feeling as though someone had reached in and squeezed his heart, the pain so intense it burned. He touched Faulkner’s arm, and gritted his teeth. “It’s the gown Clarissa wore at the ball last night,” he said in a gut-wrenching rasp. His gaze searched the area until the very thing he wanted to avoid seeing lay before him. His body froze.

A bare, delicate ankle peeked from beneath the underbrush.

Lunging forward like a wild beast, ravaging the area, throwing branches and uprooting ferns, he uncovered her body…clad only in her white satin chemise, splattered with her own blood.

His tortured scream echoed throughout the surrounding forest as he fell to his knees beside her battered body. Praying she might hear, he whispered her name. Touching her bruised cheek–he found it still warm. A flicker of hope ignited within his heart as he pressed his fingertips against the slim column of her throat. Moments later, finding no trace of a pulse, that slight flicker of hope extinguished itself. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts at who could be her killer.

Read more about No Turning Back and Deanna Jewel HERE.

Copyright 2010 Deanna Jewel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

“Your struggle will only bring you closer to me…but then, perhaps that’s your intention, White Woman. I’m not accustomed to fighting females, but with you, I might make an exception.”

Kate thrashed her head back and forth. Her hands escaped his to claw at his arms as he struggled to confine her. She screamed, but he finally secured her wrists within his grasp.

Taima pulled her wrists and twisted her around to face him, bringing her against his chest, their noses mere inches apart as he looked down at her. Her eyes glistened with rage even in the dark. Her breasts rose against the back of his hand as she still tried to pull away.

He tugged her against his chest again. “I will tame you, White Woman.”

Kate’s lips parted slightly as he held her tight. Such tender lips. Quick, warm breaths caressed his cheek; inter-twining with his own ragged breathing. She would be easy to love had she not felt such a hatred toward the Indian, but he knew those thoughts were as dangerous as her escape.

She continued to pull against his hold. “I will never surrender to your savage touch!”

“You will have little choice in the end.”

“I will always have a choice.”

“Not with me,” Taima replied in a slow, precise tone, the warm glow of her skin reminding him of another woman. He pressed his fingers into her soft upper arms, still holding her against him. “Not another word. Since you detest my touch, consider that your punishment should you decide to disobey me again. And should you attempt another escape, you will regret it when I bare your white flesh for my pleasure, having only yourself to blame.”

Her eyes rounded, her lips parted, but she said nothing.

“I’m beginning to think you enjoy being humiliated. Next, I’ll gag you, should you continue to anger me.” He scrutinized the defiance in her delicate features. “I should strip you naked and march you before my people to show them I have truly mastered you.” Taima knew he could never do such a thing to her, but she need never know that.

Kate only glared at him.

“You may be learning after all.” Taima couldn’t keep the smile from forming on his lips, or resist the temptation to taunt her. She was beautiful when she was angry. “Perhaps I’ll begin taming you tonight, right here.” He weighed the opportunity. “There is no one around to hear your objections.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

He tightened his grasp on her wrists again. “I thrive on dares, so don’t tempt me. We will sleep in my lean-to tonight.”

“We”

Her cold stare covered him like an icy breeze.

Taima slowly exhaled in a sarcastic chuckle. “Do you think after this little escapade of yours that I would allow you to sleep apart from me? Perhaps this high altitude is affecting your mind…or are you always so naive?”

Though darkness shrouded them, he allowed his gaze to travel the length of her doe-skin-covered body. Her nearness heated his blood. He knew this wasn’t a good idea, but proceeded anyway. “Though it would be easier to kill you, I will receive more pleasure by keeping you alive, knowing you will hate every day of your life from this point on whenever I decide to touch you.”

Read more about Never Surrender and Deanna Jewel HERE.

Copyright 2010 Deanna Jewel. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

PROLOGUE

“You’re hiding from me, Margaret.”

Megan clutched the phone and slid to her knees, the tremors in her limbs rendering them useless.

“It’s only a matter of time.” His voice had the sinister resonance of an executioner uttering the words, any last requests?

Cradled in Megan’s lap, the Glock felt heavy against her thigh as uncooperative fingers gripped the handle.

“You can’t live, Margaret.”

Those raspy words incited a very obliging finger to loop through the trigger.

“I know this cell phone is being forwarded, Maggie. That poses only a slight inconvenience.”

A low hum of static filled Megan’s ear, similar to the sound of an electrical tower. She tried to place the sound. Did it divulge his location in any way? Was he close? Panic wormed into her throat, preventing her from responding, although being mute was the best option. Any response would have been verbal confirmation that he had located her, and she wouldn’t give him that one triumph.

“It took some doing to even locate this number.” He paused. “Don’t worry, though, your mother was not hurt.”

Megan’s teeth bit down on her lower lip to contain her scream. She tasted blood.

“Sleep tight, Maggie. I will see you soon.”

There was no audible click, but the humming had ceased. All that was left was the ragged sound of Megan’s breath, and the pounding of the boxer scoring a victory knockout inside her chest.

Megan dropped the phone on the floor and picked up the weapon. So many nights she had clutched it tight enough that her palm was permanently indented from the pattern of the handle.

But, this night was different. For one year the phone had remained silent, and at no point in the last three hundred-some days did she let up. Never once was she lulled into security by his silence, knowing that this night would come.

Megan took a deep breath. She had a lot of work to do.

CHAPTER I

Victory Cove, ME

Dear Jake,

Illness and the need for you to understand your heritage have finally given me the courage to write to you. I know you went to good parents. I have my mother to thank for that. I want you to find her, Jake. I want you to find my Mother. Her name is Estelle Wakefield.

I wish I had an admirable reason for not contacting you sooner, something valiant like I didn’t want to disturb your life. But, the truth is simply guilt.

I loved you, son. In my dreams, I still see the gold in your eyes, eyes that looked so much like your father’s. If only you had known him.

It’s hard for me to write now. I have to end this letter. Find Estelle, Jake. Find Estelle, and find your heritage.

That was how it started.

A mysterious letter from a woman who after thirty-five years of silence, finally decided to make contact with her alleged son.

Now eight hours from home, Jake Grogan was following futile Internet directions to a town that didn’t even register on Travelquest.

Was he insane?

Also adopted, Jake’s sister, Sara, was mostly to blame for this crazy endeavor. Hell, she practically pushed him out the door with the useless map in hand. But her enthusiasm spurred on Jake’s curiosity.

Something in the woman’s words, the woman in the letter, the woman who claimed to be his mother. Something sounded so poignant. So mysterious. It was worth investigating.

Or maybe he was just looking for an excuse to leave Boston for awhile. The Harbor Tower Project which he had slaved over for more than a year was finally complete. To that very same project he had sacrificed a relationship, like offering up a virgin to the voracious manufacturing Gods.

Well, she was no virgin.

Perhaps this trip was just self-amnesty for a lifestyle that kept him too busy to pay attention to those around him.

Or he was just damn curious.

It must have been Jake’s fifth pass down the same road. Victory Cove had one main thoroughfare, an elevated street scarred with potholes big enough to swallow a small child. Antique shops and restaurants lined one side, and a craggy shoreline tapered off the other as successive gray waves sprayed against the shore. Lobster boats cosseted together, bobbed in the swells waiting for spring and their grand release from the jetty.

Grayson Path.

The gas station attendant said that Wakefield House was on Grayson Path.

Rain plastered the windshield, the wipers ineffective against the deluge. Jake leaned forward and squinted until the profile of a lighthouse was visible atop a rocky sea cliff. Tall, with a white masonry surface, its lantern and gallery painted black, Jake waited a breath for the beacon to flash, dismayed when it remained dark.

Past the lighthouse. You can’t miss it.

Jake rubbed a hand through his hair, which was still damp from his last stop. He went nearly seven miles before he saw the rutted trail in the grass.

Grayson Path.

Nature’s potholes jostled the vehicle as Jake pressed forward, twisting down into a deep ravine. He pulled up to a narrow wooden bridge and idled with his foot on the brake. A plank was missing in the middle, and he swore the whole structure listed to the right. It was the sorriest assembly he had ever seen and he wouldn’t dare walk across it, let alone drive his Jeep. Yet, it marked just one of many quirky obstacles in this challenge.

Hands fisted around the steering wheel, Jake cautiously tapped the gas. Amazingly, the structure held up, and for one brief moment he caught a glimpse of the bloodthirsty mouth of the Atlantic to his left. Maybe the water was only a thin strip beneath this narrow bridge, but not too far away lie an entire ocean just ready to lash out with her sodden tendrils.

Another few miles and there was not even a tree to be found on this barren vista of craggy rocks and dead grass. Just as Jake contemplated turning around, the path began to widen. One more incline and he reached a clearing, a plateau that overlooked the Atlantic.

And there sat Wakefield House.

Through the swish of wiper blades it was hard to see, but the Victorian mansion was large, guarded in front by the remnants of a wrought iron gate, the ornamental pattern of metal closely resembling a spider web. The remainder of the fence was long gone, making the crooked gateway a droll deterrent. The house itself stood two stories, with a steeply pitched roof for an apparent third floor, atop which sat a cylindrical turret offering a panoramic view from its ring of portholes. Gable windows with black louvered shutters looked like hooded eyes, and the dark-planked stairs to the front door, a yawning mouth, ready to swallow.

As he walked up the path and felt the tug of the coastal wind, Jake thought the railing most likely had been yanked from its moorings by nature’s vacuum, that yawning chasm off the cliff that churned with froth, begging to be fed.

Jake shook off a chill.

Opening the screen panel, he knocked on the front door and had the sense that he was being watched. A glance at a nearby window confirmed it as he caught the disarranged curtain sway back into neat pleats.

He rapped on the door again.

It was a big house, and Estelle must be an elderly woman, possibly hard of hearing, but someone was in there. He would damn well knock until his knuckles bled.

The woman that yanked open the front door was neither deaf nor old. She was young, gorgeous, and apparently quite ticked off.

“Hi.” Jake made an attempt at amiable.

“Who are you?” She demanded.

Jake saw the white turtle neck, worn jeans and socked toes, but his glance hefted back up to collide with crystal blue eyes that were vibrant around the edges, yet dark and soulful at their core.

“I’m looking for Estelle Wakefield.”

She caught his brief perusal and returned the assessment, meeting his stare head on, her lips thinning in disapproval””or was it apprehension?

“She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Oh.”

Pain pulsed in Jake’s head. The beginning stages of a migraine. To his surprise, the woman was pushing the door closed. His hand shot out in reflex to stop her.

“Wait.”

“What?” Her cheeks paled.

“Do you know where she is? I’ve come a long way.”

Her sharp glance flicked past Jake to his Jeep which was scarred by splashes of mud and grime. She met his eyes again and Jake nearly felt moved to touch her. She was actually trembling. He could see it in the white hand that clutched the front door, and the soft bottom lip that lost circulation under her unnerved bite.

Jake was intrigued by the woman, but he was here for one reason. That reason sure as hell didn’t involve lusting after a jittery female in faded jeans with a chip on her shoulder that could keep Hershey’s in business for a year.

“Please. Do you have any information?” He persisted more gruff than intended.

Her grip didn’t relax, but she released her bottom lip and Jake had to force himself not to stare as the blood flowed back into it.

“Why are you looking for Estelle?” The question was presented more like an accusation.

Jake didn’t really want to spill the whole crazy story that delivered him to this moment, but with this suspicious creature, he didn’t think he’d get away with anything short of the truth.

“She’s my grandmother.”

The woman started to shut the door again.

“Wait!”

She hesitated at his outburst, and finally drew in a deep breath. The gesture pushed her breasts against a sweater that was much too big for her thin body.

“Estelle has no grandchildren.” She said. “I don’t know who you are, but you better leave now.”

Or else what? Was she going to call the cops?

Jake took a quick survey of the desolate property. Yeah, they’d be here in what, three hours?

“Are you sure?” he asked. “How can you be certain she had no grandchildren? Are you a relative?”

The woman sighed. Her knuckles were still white from her death grip on the frame. Jake made note that there was no gold ring on her finger.

“Estelle had one daughter who was barren.” She declared.

That tripped him up for a second, but he pressed on. “Okay, where can I find her daughter then?”

An odd look passed through those crystalline eyes. “You can’t.” She measured him, and then added softly, “she passed away last week.”

For a moment Jake felt a flash of pain. Or was it disappointment? Maybe it was just the doused flame of hope? Whatever it was, he was overwhelmingly saddened.

“She’s dead?”

He had no idea what the look was on his face, but it must have had an effect on the stranger gripping the door. Her hand dropped like a fallen leaf. She did not step back. She still used her body as a barricade, forbidding admission.

“But” Jake cleared his throat, “she wrote to me, claiming to be my Mother. She told me to come here and find Estelle Wakefield, my” futility dropped the word, “-my Grandmother.”

Whether the woman bought any of this or not, he simply didn’t care. He was too tired and preoccupied to acknowledge her reaction.

“Look,” she explained with less of an edge to her tone. “Estelle is in town. At the Candlelight Center.”

“Candlelight Center?”

“It’s a home for the elderly.” The woman hesitated. She cocked her head to the side; the gesture sweeping the silky hair away from a porcelain cheek blushed by the wind. “She has Alzheimer’s. She’s been there for over a year now.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Jake’s head snapped up. For a moment he thought he heard regret in her voice, but when he met that implacable gaze he realized he must have imagined it.

“Yeah, so am I.”

Jake dawdled, searching for something to add. “Well, thank you for your time, Miss”

“You’re welcome.” She cut him off.

Then, with husky finality she added, “Good bye.” as the door closed in Jake’s face.

He had been driving for eight hours, nine if you counted that last effort to locate Wakefield House, and for what, to have some sexy woman with a short fuse slam the door in his face? Jake was tempted to head back to Boston, but his sister would accuse him of “˜wimping’ out.

Okay, he would put the effort in. Tomorrow he would go to this Candlelight Center, but as for tonight, it was getting late. Now, more than anything, he needed a drink and aspirin.

The rain stopped and the sun was just about to set, with rose bands of twilight blanketing the Atlantic as Jake was able to glimpse a little more of the landscape than he had on the trek in. He passed the giant lighthouse, an eerie exclamation point above the cliffs. It stood as a solitary sentry, channeling the ghosts of ships that had passed by centuries ago into the cove.

Jake realized his foot came off the gas pedal as he stared at the statuesque silhouette, entranced by this image that transcended time. Snapping out of his exhausted stupor, he tapped the gas and wound down the next knoll. The road veered to the right and disappeared around a bend, and if not for his headlights he might have just plodded forward, diving nose first into the ocean. Jarred by his lack of focus, Jake braked and noticed the bright, hand-painted sign.

O’Flanagans Inn ¼ mile.

Maybe it was the vibrant colors, or more likely the sketch of a beer mug (yeah, definitely the beer mug) regardless, Jake’s curiosity was piqued enough to check it out. He wasn’t disappointed when he found the pub and Inn. It was exactly what he needed, drink and sleep.

The white-stucco fasade and its wooden framework gave the Inn a Tudor flair making it feel like he had been transported to a Scottish village. A hand-painted sign dangled from chains atop the black door reading, O’FLANAGANS in dark green letters with gold stenciling. This Inn looked like it catered to the ghostly sailors that the lighthouse had just guided in over the sandbars, but Jake was not as unsettled by it as he had been by Wakefield House. He was exhausted. And he was hungry.

To hell with the Tower Project. To hell with Jessica and her addiction to his income. Damn, he was still trying to decipher credit card statements and figure out what the heck ‘eyelash transplant’ surgery was. And yes, to hell with this juvenile search for a Mother that never wanted him.

To hell with them all.

Jake yanked open the front door and was immediately blasted by an aromatic wave of lobster bisque and yeast followed by a surge of heat from an overhead heater. There were not many people in the dimly lit interior, but the few who were there swung in their seats to gape at him.

Definitely not like the city.

Jake tucked his head down and sidled up to the long oak bar, craving anonymity. His shoe rested on the brass rung at its base as he stared at the ornate beer taps.

“What’ll it be?”

Jake’s head jerked up. A cute, very pregnant woman gave him a congenial smile. She looked to be as far along as his sister, Sara.

Heck, what was going on eight months ago? A power outage? A big snowstorm?

What was he doing eight months ago? The Harbor Tower project was in full swing. Jake had been contracted as its chief electrical engineer. Eight months ago, he was immersed knee deep in blueprints, wiring schematics, and political headaches. There was no chance of him getting anyone pregnant. Not only was there the time constraint, but he had just come off the year-long relationship with Jessica and couldn’t even conceive of the fact that he should jump right back into the saddle, so to speak.

Selfish had been one of the least profane terms his ex had used to describe him. Of course, she used the adjective as she systematically emptied their shared townhouse of anything her glue-tipped fingers could latch onto. In her defense, he was too consumed with work to spend enough quality time cultivating their relationship, but one could argue that she preferred his money to his company any day.

“A Sam Adams.” Jake answered, distracted.

The bartender reached for the tap and plopped down a frosted mug before him.

“Rena?” A voice boomed to Jake’s right.

“Hi, Harriet.” The bartender grinned.

“Where’s that gorgeous husband of yours? He was supposed to be ovah an hour ago to fix my sink.”

Jake watched the bartender flick her wrist to look at her watch. “The stock market only closed a half hour ago. He’ll be downstairs shortly,” she assured.

Harriet Morgan dropped onto the stool next to Jake, her yellow slicker pouring a puddle on the floor around her. She flipped back the hood and cast a long, curious stare at him.

Jake felt himself dissected by the rotund woman. Her gray-blonde hair was tousled into a mild state of chaos, and her puffy cheeks nearly obscured the intense eyes that watched him unblinkingly. She looked like a fat owl.

“Who are you?”

Ah yes, another one of Victory Cove’s congenial citizens.

Jake took a sip of his beer. “Just passing through, ma’am.”

Harriet snorted and looked across the bar. “Serena, quit dawdling, where’s my beer?”

The bartender, Serena, smiled and reached for a mug.

Harriet’s probing gaze jabbed at Jake again. He tried to avoid it. He looked behind the bar at the wide mirror with photographs taped to it. Climbing above that collage, Jake searched the rows of bottles, the ones on the uppermost shelf coated with dust. The pleasant ding of the antique cash register caught his attention as the bartender rang up a sale. She turned just before a plop of water from a freshly cleaned mug landed on the tarnished machine.

“So just taking in the sights, huh?” Harriet persisted.

“Yeah, something like that.” He took another swig of beer.

Jake felt the old woman’s eyes on his attire. His jeans were splattered with mud from the knees down, and the pullover sweater was still moist on the shoulders. Another unladylike snort shot out of Harriet’s nose.

“Mistah, no one comes to Victory Cove this time of year to see the sights.”

“Harriet.” Serena admonished.

“No.” She held up a puffy hand, red and chapped. “This man looks like he’s got a story to tell.”

The bartender chuckled. “And you’re just the person to draw it out of him.”

Jake sighed and looked around, hoping for someone to come in and rescue him from this female inquisition. The bar was empty now, and only a newscaster chatted away on the TV up in the corner.

“I have no story to tell.” Jake tried for a menacing inflection, hoping to dissuade them, but, to his dismay the big woman in the slicker turned in her stool and gave him her full attention. She set her meaty paws down on her knees and leaned forward.

“When did you get into town?”

“This afternoon.”

“It is this afternoon. Did you come right to O’Flanagans?”

“No. One stop.” Why the hell did he say that?

“Where?”

Stubborn, Jake remained mute, although no one beat Harriet in the mulish department.

“Where?” She repeated, and looked him over again as if she could sum up his trek by the shade of mud on his jeans.

“Wakefield House,” he blurted.

Why the hell not? Maybe this intrusive female could give him some answers.

“Ahhh.” Her gray eyebrow shot up and she sat back. “Visiting the Summers girl, where ya?”

“The Summers girl?”

“Megan.” Harriet lifted the frosted mug to her mouth, and in the matter of three long gulps, half the liquid disappeared.

Megan Summers. So the mysterious woman with an attitude had a pretty name to go along with her pretty face.

Jake leaned an elbow on the bar and considered Harriet with renewed interest. “I don’t know any Megan. I was looking for Estelle Wakefield.”

Harriet slammed down her beer. “What the hell would you want to do that for?”

Jake was startled by her outburst. Startled and curious. Curious enough to divulge, “She may be my Grandmother.”

“Whoa-hoah.” Harriet polished off the rest of her beer and shoved the mug forward. “Rena, get me anothah, and get Mr.”

“Grogan.” Jake obliged. “Jake Grogan.”

“Get Mr. Grogan anothah too.”

“Thanks,” he said, “but I have to drive yet. I’ve got to find some place to sleep.”

Harriet snorted again. “You ain’t goin nowhere, Mistah. Right, Rena?”

Another Sam Adams plopped down before Jake as Serena grinned. “Mr. Grogan, the entire second floor of the Inn could be yours for a very reasonable price. I don’t get many tourists this time of year.” She pushed Harriet’s mug across the bar. “Why, if you can help Brett fix Harriet’s sink, the price will be even lower.”

Jake felt he had taken a turn into the surreal. Perhaps that last sharp turn on the road took him to a parallel universe. He glanced from the pregnant bartender’s smiling face, to the puffed up bird of a woman sitting next to him. Outside, the Atlantic’s gusty wail assaulted the pub, the high-pitched screech enough to dissuade anyone from venturing into the night.

What the hell?

He lifted his mug. “How can I turn down a deal like that?”

Copyright 2010 Maureen A. Miller. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

At the station lot, they quickly spotted the Mustang and got themselves organized to begin their trip Down East. They’d already put a change of clothes in an overnight bag and stowed it in the trunk. Before anything else happened, Cam loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt at the collar, and put his jacket on the back seat. He was all set. “Ready to travel, ma’am?”
“Ready, driver.”
Considering that they were in the midst of Friday rush-hour traffic, and that sunset was at a little after eight o’clock, they might run out of daylight before they got to Sturbridge. Didn’t matter. The evening and tomorrow were theirs to spend any way they liked.
When they were on a stretch of I-86 that had been completed, Cam let his ‘horse’ run. “Handles eighty, eighty-five pretty well,” he said.
“That is, until a state trooper spots you. Guess you like driving fast. It’s a part of your persona that I haven’t met.”
“I’m kinda short, so it makes me feel taller. No? Then let me try something else. I’m in a big hurry to get you into bed. Hmmm. Guess not. Seriously, do you want me to slow down?”
“Please? I’m not used to riding with Mario Andretti. If we’re fortunate enough to get there in one piece, we’ll be able to enjoy the treats that’ll be available later on.”
Cam pulled into the Drover’s Inn at a little after eight o’clock. They’d made exceptionally good time. After they checked in and had changed into something casual, they went off to find the Tricorn Tavern, a place recommended in an area guide supplied by the motel. It turned out to be a pretty good choice. The decor was colonial, the drinks tasty, the food appetizing, and the prices reasonable. It wasn’t quite high season yet.
“Back at the motel, Vicki asked, “We still have tomorrow ahead of us, but can you guess how I feel about our trip so far?”
“Let me try. You’re miserable and want to go home. Tonight.”
“You silly, lovable man. I already have such good memories to take back with me, but I’m really anticipating a wonderful day tomorrow. Everything is so different in the spring. It’s such pretty country and there’s so much history. I could easily live here.”
“It’s an option then, after your project is finished?”
“Certainly is, but it’d only work if the man in my life, the anchor I need, is here to teach me how to be a New Englander.”
“How would I know much about that? I was born in the Hawkeye State and lived in California for years. But we might turn out the lights and try studying some lessons together.”
“Wonderful idea, professor. Maybe there’d be time for another one before we leave in the morning.”
And there was. The complete privacy they had in this distant setting seemed to enhance what they shared.
After breakfast, Cam asked, “Ready to do The Village again?”
“I’m ready for whatever involves you, my love. But, yes, you know I am. We promised that to each other six months ago.”
They parked in the lot at Old Sturbridge Village, bought their tickets, and spent hours wandering the two hundred or so acres that took them back in time to the early 1800s. When their breakfast wore off, they ate at the tavern on the Village grounds. An enjoyable outing, but Cam could see that they’d get back to Sudbury later than planned. “So what,” he thought.
After they’d worn themselves out walking what seemed to be miles, they drove to the lots that Cam showed Vicki last fall. At the big granite outcrop they’d climbed over the last time, the laurel was in bloom. Vicki remembered it, and said, “The waxy leaves and the white and pink flowers are just beautiful. I’d love to somehow take one of the little plants back with me.”
“Not sure it’s true, but somebody once told me they’re protected and you can’t disturb them. I said in November that they’d be in bloom-just for you. But, if you want to see them again, you’ll have to come back. They bloom every spring. ”
“Will we be then what we are today?”
“Let it go, Vicki. We’re here to enjoy the day, not predict the future.”

After they’d walked the lots again, they went down to the cottage where they’d parked. It was just beginning to sprinkle, so it was time to get inside. To his surprise, there was a single bed of sorts in the living room. Cam assumed that the previous owner had left it behind. Vicki saw it and said, “Make love to me here. I want it to be among my memories of your place in the woods.”
And they did. Then it wasn’t but minutes after they were dressed that there was a knock at the door. They glanced at each other. Neither of them had the faintest idea who it could be. Cam looked out and saw that it was his broker, Owen Thorpe.
“Hi, Cam. Didn’t recognize the new car, but I remembered your vanity plate and thought I’d say hello.”
“Hello, Owen. It’s been a while. Just checking the place over to see if there’s anything I left behind. I was about to come over to your office to give you some money and sign the contract on the lots.” Cam didn’t especially want him to see what had been going on. The little bed was a mess, and he might assume that it was their doing.
Then it started to rain. “Could I come in?” Thorpe asked. “I’m getting wet.”
“Sure. It’s drier in here.”
Owen saw Vicki and said hello. It was obvious to him that since Natalie was gone from the scene Cam had wasted no time finding a romantic interest. It was easy to see that Owen was taken with her. Few if any young women in the area matched her beauty, and Owen’s lust was on display. Cam finally introduced them.
“I won’t keep you,” Owen said. “I’m on my way back to the office, and I’ll get your file out so we can finish up our business. See you in, what, about half an hour?”
“Less than that, I should think. We’ll be pretty much right behind you. I’ve gone through the place once and only found a couple of things that were mine. Just give us a few minutes.”
After Owen was gone, Vicki said, “Did you see how he looked at me? He practically undressed me on the spot. The guy’s a lecher.”
“Not to worry, love. I’ll be that knight in shining armor you’ve referred to in the past.”
Before they left, Cam made one more pass around both levels to make doubly sure that he’d gotten everything. When he came back to the upper floor, he couldn’t find Vicki. The rain had stopped, so he assumed she’d gone outside. He found her on a landing about halfway down the long set of steps that led to the pond below. She was staring intently at the stream that was cascading downward alongside the stairway. But there was more to it than that.
“Vicki? What are you doing?”
She didn’t answer. When he went down to see if she was OK, he found that she wasn’t. Tears were streaming down her face.
“Talk to me, Vicki.”
“This is so beautiful, so serene. I just love it here. But I’ll never be a part of it, never share your retreat on that snowy night that I’ve always dreamed about. I’m certain of it.”
“What you’re saying is you’ve decided that in time you’ll cut me, and this, out of your life. That means you’re choosing the path we’ll follow. I’m not ready to give up on us. If you have, then you should be honest with me, and yourself, and tell me if I’m right.”
“No. I don’t know what it is, but I’m sure this is the last time I’ll be here. The thought of that makes me sad, so terribly sad.”
“Didn’t we deal with this same premonition last fall? I thought we decided then that we couldn’t predict the future. If you want answers now to questions about our tomorrows, I don’t have them.”
“Oh, Cam. Just hold me.” He did, and Vicki sobbed. There were no words. Vicki couldn’t talk, and Cam had none. He didn’t quite know what to make of what was happening. But his instincts led him to suppose that Vicki was posturing herself to look elsewhere for a husband. Cam let her anguish run its course. Later, when she’d gotten herself under control, and her eyes were about back to normal, they left to keep their date at Thorpe Realty.
At the beautiful 1800s colonial house that served as his real estate office, Thorpe greeted Cam and Vicki at the door and then asked them to join him at a conference table. Vicki sat quietly while Owen and Cam made the contractual exchange of the cottage for lots 146 and 147 on Hemlock Drive. Cam wrote out a check and signed the land contract that bound him to the buy. After Owen was finished staring at Vicki, he asked Cam if he’d consider coming to work for him. “You’re the kind of man I need to run my companies out here at the lake. Not many capable people around town. Oh, sure, there are lots of plumbers, electricians, carpenters, and the like, but very few men, or women, with a good business head. You’d need a broker’s license. Wouldn’t be a problem. I could help you get it. Think it over.”
“I’m pretty well set down on New York Plaza, so I can’t see much reason to uproot and make the change. If things go to hell, and that’s always possible, I might just come back and talk with you further about what it is you have in mind. I like it up here. But more about that some other day. We’re out of time and have to be on our way back to Sudbury. The boys will be home before long, and there’s no one there to look after them. I try to avoid letting that happen. Thanks for the offer. It’s good to know that you feel I might be able to fit into your operations here.”
“Keep me in mind. We’d work together well. And let me know when you want to put up a building over on your lots.”
“I’ll be in touch when the time comes.”
Ready to start back, Cam asked Vicki if she’d like to drive. “No, you’ve worn me out, or I wore myself out over on the stairs. Maybe it’s today’s excitement or that my cycle has done me in. All related, I suppose. No, it’s your ‘horse’, and I’m very happy sitting in the right seat. If I get drowsy, I’d rather that you have the reins.”
Things change, and Cam reflected on how different this drive home was from the last trip they’d made into Massachusetts. There was small talk then, but this time Vicki was mostly quiet on the way back.
When they weren’t far from Sudbury, Cam finally said, “Penny for your thoughts.”
“Just thinking about yesterday’s meetings, the beauty of last night, and again this morning, and the abysmal frame of mind I let myself fall into at midafternoon.”
“You’re tired, and Monday is on your mind again. It’s a mirror image of the last time you were here. Maybe a recuperative hug will help you mend. I’ll see that you get a couple once we’re home. And let’s plan on eating out. It’s too late to start dinner.”
“That suits my mood. Be good to sit with the boys and open up with them about what we did. And you’re right about Monday. These trips I make are hard on both of us. The arrival is wonderful. The departure isn’t. But I like the idea of a hug. That also suits my mood. And I’ve discovered something. I’m generally ‘down’ after my fertile window closes. As I look back, there is a pattern. Usually I’m too busy to think about it, but when the pressure is off I have time to recognize that I am a bit depressed. Sorry to be gloomy. When I get home, I’ll be angry about having been a killjoy when we have only a few days together.”
“Don’t worry about it. A hug with healing powers will help, and you’ll be back to normal tonight.”
Vicki finally smiled and then squeezed Cam’s hand to show him that she was on the mend. “There you go again. Dr. Gordon’s special medication for an ailing Vicki. I feel better already.”
“Good. Now that we’re home, take that great smile up to number 710 and wow the boys.”
“I’ll show them nothing less than radiant sunshine.” And that’s exactly what they saw.
Afterwards, Cam delivered on his promise to give Vicki his special version of a recovery hug. She trembled slightly, held on, and felt much better following his treatment.
Cam and Vicki each had a drink, and then got the boys organized to go out for Italian, again, at a new place in town called Puccini’s. The owners named it after the famous Italian composer. “I read that the guy in charge of the pizzas is from the old country. He makes them with thin crust and they’re very tasty. At least that’s what the food columnist wrote in the Sunday paper. Want to give it a try?”
“Affirmative responses times three made it a unanimous vote.
After they’d been seated, each of them had a drink and at the same time ordered something other than pizza. Later, when they’d finished, everyone said their meals were good. Just as important, they all had a good time. The dour mood of late afternoon was greatly improved.
After the lights were out, Vicki thanked Cam for helping her overcome a bad case of the blues and followed it with a loving at its affectionate best. The two weary lovers then kissed softly and slept like embracing logs.

Sunday, Vicki’s last full day in the East, dawned bright and cheerful. Her frame of mind was back on track and equally sunny. She apologized again for having been morose before they started home yesterday. “My trip is so short. Every hour should’ve been filled with happiness. I let you down.”
“Forget it. We’re fine now. Let’s enjoy the time we have left.”
They relaxed and achieved their objective. It was a good feeling. Late in the afternoon, Cam and Vicki took drinks to the terrace and watched the sailboats out on Long Island Sound. No discussion about where their lives were going, or world affairs, or any other matter of substance. It was a time to unwind and just be themselves. It worked. It could be Vicki had concluded that this would be her last trip, that her plans for a life with Cam Gordon were destined to fail, and that she might as well enjoy these last moments with this man she cared about so much. It might be interpreted as a sense of relief that the future was now clear to her. If so, she was still well ahead of Cam and what direction he would allow his personal life to take. But there, too, his cautious approach to relationships was defining the path that would be his into the foreseeable future. He enjoyed the company of different women at different times, and until he was as certain as humanly possible about th
e next Mrs. Gordon, he would let the future unfold by itself. There would be no plan, no goal, and no target date. Cam had just turned thirty-nine, was in good health, virile, and in no rush to remarry. His sons, at least Jon, looked at the future rather differently.
As afternoon faded into twilight, Cam and Vicki put dinner together and then had a family meal on the terrace. The weather was exceptionally warm for late May, so it was a pleasant evening they shared, Vicki’s last in New England. The boys enjoyed it, but they were also looking forward to seeing Cris tomorrow afternoon.
That night, and early the next morning, Cam and Vicki said their goodbyes with the same fervor that had always been there. Later, they all had breakfast together and not long afterwards the two of them left for Kennedy. Vicki hugged the boys, told Jon she was proud of him, and then she and their dad were gone.
As with Veteran’s Day last November, Memorial Day traffic was lighter than on a regular weekday. Even so, it was busy because it was perfect beach weather. They arrived at JFK in plenty of time for Vicki’s flight at noon. After she’d checked in, they went for coffee.

Read more about A SEASON OF TRANSITIONS and R. M. Gibson HERE.

Copyright 2010 R. M. Gibson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt
A Prologue

Even at his best, a man is a mess. He’s strong-willed and impatient, gets dirty at work and play, and often doesn’t smell good. However, if you’re one of those who suspects that life has some purpose other than filling one’s belly and stirring up the bed lint, you might have seen, on occasion, something else under all that male bluff and bluster. You might have discovered a warm, humane creature that has, at times, given serious thought to the more meaningful things of life. Such a man is the one I’m going to tell you about. His name is Heck Tennel. Heck was my best friend back when  the Great Depression bore down on East Texas farms. Both of us were as poor as winter weeds and dumb as mud about some things, but that didn’t stop Heck from wanting to improve his life.

What is the meaning of life anyway? Does it have a purpose? Perhaps not, but if it doesn’t, why do so many folks keep asking that question?

Heck’s main purpose back then was taking care of his sick little brother and his sisters, saving money to pay down on a piece of good land and finding a proper girl to marry. Fate didn’t give him enough time to make the money he needed, but he came real close to hitching himself to a proper girl. It was his love for that pretty girl that almost got him killed.

Heck is old now, like me; but when he was young, his hopes and plans made lights pop on and whistles blow. He believed, as did all other men inclined to be sentimental about such things, there is no love like the first one early in life. (It might be that way with women too, but since I’m not a woman, I don’t know.)

Heck’s first real love was special because it fulfilled all his expectations about beauty, tenderness and grace, and all those other things that make life better than it has to be. It also gave him his first real chance to escape the unpleasantness that had troubled him up to that point in his life.

When I mention love, I hope you don’t think I’m talking about the physical part of it that men are often accused of thinking about too much. That part can happen with any woman, is over in minutes, and is often forgotten. The other part, the part that puzzles us the most, won’t let a man forget, not even after he’s old enough to know better.

Some say it’s foolish to dwell on things that appear to have slipped away forever. You’ll have to decide if that applies in this story about Heck Tennel which begins in May, l934.

Copyright 2009 Calvin Bowden. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

The stench of decayed flesh stole her breath. Fighting to get away, the chains tore into her tender skin, his laughter echoing in her thoughts. There he stood, eyes glowing, teeth coated in blood. Excruciating pain seeped into her body as the demon’s crimson fangs ripped into her throat. Jordan screamed, pleading for him to stop. Gulping for air, heart beating way too fast, she blinked back tears and swallowed. Knowing her life would end tonight.

The creature smiled as he drank from her. For tonight, her essence would give him the power he sought for centuries. Her death would make him invincible, stronger than the elders of his kind. Sensing her heartbeat nearly gone, his fangs dug in deeper. Pure ecstasy began flooding through his body, until another of his kind ruined everything.

Robbed of strength from destroying the creature, he placed the woman in his arms. He whispered a silent prayer, thanking the fates her heart was still beating, barely… Her life rested in his hands, for he was her only hope!

Wrapped in her savior’s arms, floating deeper into a dark abyss, death called out to her. Then Jordan sensed his subtle voice, whispering into her thoughts. Promising her, vowing, “If it took his last breath… He would not let her life end this night”.

Copyright 2008 D.A. Berry. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Prologue

“Hi Liz!  Over Here!” Diana smiled and waved a tiny wave as Liz came threading her way through the other tables to the booth where Diana was sitting.  Shrugging off her winter coat, Liz slid in on the seat across from Diana and dumped her coat and purse on the seat beside her.  Best friends since childhood, Liz and Diana usually tried to meet at least once a week in spite of their busy working schedules.

“This is only February, right?  Baby, it’s cold out there!” Liz shivered and started to pull off her scarf.   “Spring is coming?  Isn’t it?”

February on Cape Cod was usually still blustery cold and here in this little village of Mashpee, Massachusetts, the winds from the Northeast were biting tonight, clawing their way straight across Cape Cod Bay bringing with it plummeting, frigid temperatures.  The streets, covered with a dusting of the three inches of snow that fell earlier in the afternoon were now slick with frozen slush in spite of being treated with sand and salt  during the day making the driving at night when the temperatures dropped not only challenging to the best of drivers but dangerous to those who were not fully attentive.

Liz piled her gloves and scarf on top of her purse.  Rubbing her hands together to warm them up a little, she was glad of the coziness  here in the pub at Dino’s Sports Bar.

“Phew! It was a day! That should give you a good indication!  So, how are you doing?” Liz leaned towards Diana and looked her in the eye.

“They offered me that job working in Mr. You-Know-Who’s office as his ‘personal assistant’!” Diana rolled her eyes up and made a very un-lady-like face.  “It will be a cold day in Hell.  Harwich when I ever accept that position.  The man is not very nice!”  Diana announced and reached for the menu.

Liz laughed out loud, throwing her hands in the air.  “That is the understatement of the year, girlfriend!  He has driven all of his other ‘personal assistants’ right out of the company.  ‘Not very nice’ is a very euphemistic description.  The man just does not know how to keep his hands to himself and his temper has sent almost every one of his long line of assistants to the personnel office in tears.  Why they keep him in that position is totally beyond my comprehension.  Did you refuse the post?”

“Yes, I did, today.  I said ‘no thanks’.  I think they are going to eliminate some more positions.  Have you heard anything?” Diana smiled at her friend hoping to glean a little information.

“Only rumors, nothing substantial.  Let’s order, I’m starving!  What are you going to order?  No, wait a minute, we have been coming here to Dino’s Sports Bar every Friday night for how many years, now?  Let me guess?  You will probably order the big cheese pizza with vegetables.  Am I right?  You are spoiled, you know, Dino makes that pizza up for you special because it is not on the menu.  How you rate, I have no idea, but you do.  Everyone loves you!  And speaking of that subject, when are you going to start dating again.  I know an awful lot of younger and not so younger males in this town that are just waiting for you to give them some sort of encouragement.  I also know that we come here because you feel safe and know that Dino will not let anyone step out of line.  You also baby-sit for his children so that is another reason.” Liz grabbed a menu and began to scan it with unseeing eyes more as something to keep her hands occupied rather than see what looked good to order.  Diana was uncomfortable with that remark and Liz knew it!

Diana laughed, not too convincingly and leaned forward to look at Liz square in the face.  “Yes, I do come here for all of those reasons.  With both of my parents gone, Dino has become my Guardian Angel!  For that, I am very grateful.  A single girl on her own needs all the protection she can get!  I think I will order the big cheese pizza with the fresh vegetables.” Diana laughed and placed the menu back in the holder.  “What are you going to have, Ms. Creature-of-Habit?”

Liz closed the menu with a snap and set it back in its place.  “Are you ever going to make me a gourmet meal or even a gourmet sandwich?  You graduated from J&W how long ago?  I think I will order the burger with the fries.  Don’t you dare tease me.  I am well aware that I order that every time I come in here but I can’t seem to think ‘out of the box’  tonight!”

Diana smiled at her friend and nodded her head.  “It must have been a VERY BAD day!  Besides, the burgers are really high quality here and I should know!” Diana really laughed this time and looked up as the waitress came to take their order.

When the waitress had left the table with their order, Liz looked very seriously at her friend and asked, “Really, Diana, when are you going to leave this corporate jungle and start your own business?  You have degrees and certificates and all sorts of credentials.  You could be quite a success if you set your mind to it.  The Governor Bradford Inn in Plymouth is advertising for  chefs and the Belfry Inn and Bistro in Sandwich is expanding and in need of a head chef.  I work in personnel, remember, and I know what jobs are available.  Course, you could always go to work at Dunkies’  time to make the donuts”  Liz waved her napkin at Diana teasing her.

Diana leaned over and swiped her napkin at Liz. “Ha, ha, very funny!  Those dreams are buried in the attic.  Oh, good, here comes our food!  Perfect timing.  Now, please, no more reminding me of the past.  That time is long ago.  Gosh!  That burger really does look good.  Look at the size of this pizza.  This must be a double-double or else Jack is making the pizzas tonight.  Nope, this looks like Dino’s handiwork.  He wrote  “Dino” in the middle with the peppers!  Now is that creative or what!”  Diana waved her thanks towards the kitchen and was certain that Dino could see her.

“Boy!  You really are special.  I didn’t get any name on mine.  But I did get two very fat burgers in between this very huge roll!  We are truly treated well here!”  Liz waved her thanks to Dino who was in the kitchen watching two of his favorite customers through the two way mirror.

Read more about What Should You Do With Your Life? – Diana’s Story and Sharon D. Anderson, Ph.D. HERE.

Copyright 2008 Sharon D. Anderson, Ph.D.. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Alex approached J.J.’s door exactly on time, her heart pattering for some reason. She hoped he’d come up with a party her friends would enjoy. No pate and caviar. Her friends were more the pizza and beer types.

She never rang his doorbell anymore, but she gave the door a little knock and called out as she opened it to give the guests warning that she had arrived.

They surged toward her in the foyer with a chorus of shouted happy birthdays. J.J. made his way to the front of the crowd and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Everyone she had thought to mention was there: her employees, as well as Walt’s wife and Jerry’s niece, her girlfriends–even the ones she’d been neglecting–J.J.’s parents, looking less than completely comfortable in casual clothes, and…there, next to the Chamberlains were…she couldn’t believe it.

A gasp escaped. She must be imagining things. She thought she saw her mother and father standing there. She blinked and shook her head, looked again. No, it really was them. Her father had gone completely gray, and her mother’s hair was shorter, but it was definitely them, looking at her with shy, careful smiles.

Smiles like the ones they’d shown all through her farce of a childhood. Smiles they’d stopped granting after she passed on college. Smiles that meant nothing. Smiles she would not allow to melt her frozen heart.

Her ears rang so loudly they drowned out the sounds of the partying crowd. If it was even still there. The universe had shrunk to a size that would contain only Alex and, facing her, her parents. Three animals trapped in a very small cage.

She swallowed, and her ears cleared. The world moved again.

“Hello, Alexandra,” her mother said in a tremulous voice.

Alex couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Didn’t trust what she would say, anyway. She turned, rushed through the front door, and slammed it behind her.

Copyright 2008 Kim Sheard. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter One

Lina Zuendel blamed the loss of her job on Stephen King. If she hadn’t been reading Salem’s Lot that night in the nurses’ lounge, she wouldn’t have been so spooked and jumpy, and she wouldn’t have screamed when she turned a hallway corner at two o’clock in the morning and collided with Sara, another nurse. Sara carried a half-full dinner tray and wheeled an empty IV device, and when Lina smashed into her the result was spectacular. Sara fell, knocking over both the IV and Lina. As Lina sprawled on the hall tiles she saw the dinner tray go airborne.

A crescent of burger bounced off her forehead while an apple core hit Sara in the eye. Jabbering apologies, Lina rose to help Sara, planted her foot on a pudding cup, and slipped again, whacking her forehead on Sara’s chin. At that point Sara started to hit Lina to keep her away. Lina crawled aside, wiping ketchup off her ear and still apologizing, while two grinning orderlies helped Sara up and led her to the lounge.

Lina admitted in her heart that the moment had been a perfectly executed piece of slapstick. She understood why people laughed. None of them knew at the time Lina would kill a patient because of it.

“I went to get sodium chloride for Mr. Ambaum, to flush his catheter,” she explained to the doctors and the hospital administrator who called her in after Mr. Ambaum’s death. It was five in the morning; Lina still had a chocolate pudding stain on her white sneaker. “I was rattled after, um, running into Sara. I took what I thought was the sodium chloride, and went to his room and injected it, but…” Her hands still trembled. “It turned out to be potassium chloride. I somehow grabbed that instead; I don’t know how.”

“You injected potassium chloride into his central venous line?” The administrator took notes as he spoke. He hid his emotions well, but his voice was gruff. He couldn’t have been pleased to learn that a nurse had accidentally given a patient a lethal injection.

Mr. Ambaum had been receiving chemotherapy for liver cancer. He had a wife and two grown sons.

“Yes.” Professionalism had to be upheld; Lina would not cry in front of everyone. She blinked against the tears and controlled her voice. “I thought I checked. I saw the word ‘chloride.’ I should have…” She stopped. She should have checked better; end of weak defense. The hospital already explained to Mr. Ambaum’s family that he had died of cardiac arrest after a medication error. Though the family members were merely in shock right now, the administrator told Lina to expect anger and press coverage, though probably not legal action, as the hospital would do everything it could to settle with the Ambaums out of court. In the meantime, the administrator sent Lina home and told her to take tomorrow off. Lina nodded, gathered her shreds of pudding-splashed dignity, and left the hospital.

A fresh September dawn bathed the eastern sky. Lina stumbled along the sidewalk, blinking at buildings and citizens and seagulls. Salmon-colored sunlight gleamed on the cars; roasting coffee filled the salty air with its scent; a beeping bread truck backed into an alley.

Seattle’s First Hill bore the nickname “Pill Hill” for the numerous hospitals dotting it, and Lina’s apartment sat in the middle of them. When she had moved into it as a fresh young nurse with a bright white lab coat, she had counted herself lucky to live among so many potential workplaces. Now, five years and three lab coats later, she doubted she would stay at Everglade Hospital even if they did forgive her. They had been too kind; she had killed a man. In her own mind she had committed manslaughter. She did not want to give up nursing, nor go to jail, but she felt she deserved both those fates, and suspected she would never touch a syringe again without shuddering. But this was only the first morning, she thought in desperation. It would improve with time and sleep. Wouldn’t it?

Lina unlocked the iron security gate of her building, trudged up the stone steps, and shuffled inside. She needed someone to talk to, someone close, but she had no one. The other nurses were friendly, but not the sort of people whose blouses she would cry upon. Her brother was probably stoned. Her mom never paid attention to nursing concerns unless they concerned herself. Her dad might actually be dismayed with her for her mistake. Really, Lina had no one.

Except maybe Brent.

In the stairwell, she paused at the landing between the second and third floor, where a window faced Elliott Bay. Deep blue water and evergreen-bristled shores cozied up to the metropolis; a white ferry trundled toward Bainbridge Island. Desperate love for the city swelled beneath her ribs. Seattle had seemed the promised land when she had been growing up in her ugly Tacoma neighborhood, and since she had moved here not a day had gone by when she didn’t love it still. Brent had invited her to come with him to Atlanta. Because of her ties to Seattle she refused, and they broke up and said all those cruel things to each other. But would he be kind to her now if she called him and spilled the whole awful story? He knew her better than anyone else did. He was her strongest hope for sanity this morning.

In her apartment she thumped Salem’s Lot onto her desk, pushed newspapers off her chair, and plopped down to check her email. Like magic, one from Brent appeared. But it wasn’t addressed just to Lina. In fact, it appeared to be addressed to everyone Brent knew; the “cc” list went on for about fifty names.

“Hi friends and folks! Atlanta is treating me great. In fact, you’re never going to believe this, but I’m getting married! Her name’s Joanne and we met at a biomed research conference, and well, it had to be fate. I’m too slammed right now to give the whole story, but I’m really happy and wanted to let everyone know, and I’m sure some of you will be calling me anyway for details when you get this. Have a wonderful day!”

That was all. Lina checked again, but he sent no separate email for her alone, no kind words for the woman he left behind in Seattle just five months ago. She checked the voice mail on her cell phone. Nothing there either.

She rose on shaking legs and looked at the answering machine on her land line. The blinking light signaled a message. She dove forward, knocking a dictionary off the desk, and pressed the button.

“Hey Lina, it’s your mom,” drawled the recording. Lina sank back into the chair and put her head in her hands. “I’ve got these cramps again; they’re making me miserable, honey and I wanted to ask you what that tea was you told me about. ‘Cause I swear, sugar, the Midol ain’t cutting it anymore. When the hell is menopause going to get here already? Well, at least I got a nurse for a daughter who I can call and complain to. Call me back. Also, Lina, your brother has a thing on his face again. Talk to him about it, okay? Bye, honey.”

With dried ketchup in her hair, pudding on her shoe, and shackles of love and cowardice chaining her to an unforgiving Seattle, Lina sat at her desk and wept.

* * *

Lina quit a week later. The doctors, nurses, and administrators all pleaded with her to stay, but she declined. Every patient visit tormented her, and not just the ones involving IV medications. Every hospital room reminded her of the thousand things she could do to endanger or destroy the trusting folk who had come here to be healed. The newspapers and local TV stations had run the story of Mr. Ambaum’s demise. Though Lina had been shielded from having to talk to reporters, and her name hadn’t even been printed, she felt her coworkers watching her wherever she went. Even if it was pity and not reproach, she wanted none of it.

There would be no court trial. For Lina’s mistake the Ambaums were willing to take a $500,000 settlement from Everglade Hospital, which, a hospital lawyer confided to Lina, was nothing. Families had been awarded millions for similar incidents. Mr. Ambaum, though only fifty-seven, had been an alcoholic his entire adult life, leading to the liver cancer, and Lina got the impression his wife and sons were weary of dealing with him. They wanted to close the case, pay the medical bills, and move on.

That thought depressed her. A person’s spouse and children should be the ones who cared the most and fought the hardest. How many mistakes did you have to make before the world washed its hands of you? How far down that path was Lina herself, with such a colossal mistake on her record already at merely thirty-two years old?

She didn’t tell her family what happened. She didn’t even plan to tell them she quit until she got a new job, and then she would only tell them she wanted a change of scene. That at least was true. Paradoxically, she felt herself unqualified for anything but nursing, while unable to go on being a nurse at Everglade. Her plan, her final hope, was to try being a nurse somewhere else, somewhere with fewer opportunities for lethal error.

On a windy morning in late September, Lina put on mascara and her lab coat, gave up the valuable street parking space she’d held down with her Impala for a week, and drove to the University District for an interview. The ad in the Seattle Times sought a live-in nurse for “Drake House, elegant retirement home.” Lina’s current apartment now oppressed her–in addition to its hospital-central location, it bore too many memories of Brent–so she emailed her resume to the address given. Marla Drake, the landlady, called her the same day and set up an interview. All Lina had to do was not screw it up, assuming she could stand the place.

No problem there. She fell in love with the house upon sight: a red-brick, three-story mansion with a spiky iron fence and a steep black roof. Marla, a short middle-aged woman with a seemingly permanent grin, let her in, pumped her hand, and beckoned her to follow. Lina crossed the thick white carpets, gaping at the furnishings: a grand piano, wavy old windowpanes, hardwood floors in the dining room. The ground floor smelled of lemon cake and freshly vacuumed rugs. Her spirits wobbled upward. In such a place, she might stand a chance at practicing qualm-free nursing again.

Marla brought Lina to a small parlor where a thin man in his fifties with bushy gray hair hopped up from the sofa and smiled. “My husband, Alan.” “Welcome, Lina.” He shook her hand.

“These are our quarters.” Marla settled herself into a polished wooden chair with green cushions. “Couple hundred square feet to hide away in. Have a seat.”

Lina sat in the indicated chair, which matched Marla’s, and Alan relaxed onto the sofa again, twiddling a pencil between thumb and finger.

“I’m an RN myself,” Marla said, “but God knows I need helpers. Best case would be someone who can move in. Makes the shifts more flexible. Room and board come with salary, and the rent is real cheap. Especially for this town.”

Lina smiled. “Sounds fine to me. I’m happy to move.”

Alan scratched his nose with the pencil. “Don’t mind leaving that commute behind, huh?”

“Not a bit.”

The interview flowed as smooth as small talk. Then came that inevitable question. “Why did you leave your last job?”

Lina had undergone two other interviews in the last ten days, in facilities like this one–though nowhere near as beautiful–and at this question she launched into an account of her collision with Sara and the subsequent medication mix-up. No matter how she tried to downplay it, the story could only end with, “The man died.” After that, both interviews had turned chillier, and Lina went home knowing she wouldn’t be called back.

Everglade Hospital had agreed not to mention the incident if anyone called for references. Disclosing the truth–or not–was Lina’s choice.

The lemon cake smelled so good. The carpets were so clean.

Lina cleared her throat. “Hospitals can get very depressing. Very hectic, impersonal.”

Marla and Alan Drake nodded in commiseration.

“I love nursing,” Lina said, “but I really wanted a more home-like environment, with patients I could get to know and stay with longer.”

The very next day, Marla called to tell her she got the job.

On the first of October, during a rainstorm, she moved into Drake House as the new resident nurse. After unpacking her boxes in her third-floor room, Lina took a notebook and went to see each of the eleven senior citizens. She wore her white lab coat to look professional and her hair loose to look friendly. She hoped the result wasn’t mere contradiction.

The residents’ quarters comforted her, with their potted plants and wallpaper and large-print book collections. In such an environment she felt relaxed, or at least more relaxed than she had been since her involuntary manslaughter. Encouraged by her mood improvement, she talked half an hour with each resident, learning and writing down their habits and ailments, and what they liked and disliked about Drake House.

“The meals are wonderful,” at least half of them said.

Cook very good, Lina jotted down in her notebook.

“Marla and Alan set up such lovely activities for us,” some added.

Fun times, Lina wrote.

“We’re all such good friends; we’re like a big family,” nearly all said.

Happy place, Lina recorded.

The dislikes were minor. The radiators needed replacing; they clanked and took a while to heat up. “But Alan or Ren lights a fire for us in the living room, and we sit down there and have a grand time,” said Dolly Tidd, her third patient. “Have you met Ren? Our houseboy? Oh, you will! He’s just darling. Do you have a boyfriend? No? Then you will love Ren.”

Cute coworkers, Lina wrote, then crossed it out. She was too much of a wreck for romance right now. Besides, with a title like “houseboy,” this Ren was probably still in high school.

The residents’ other dislikes included the lack of an elevator, though there was a wheelchair lift on the front staircase; the difficulty visitors had in finding parking; and, oh yes, the ghost.

Lina’s pencil paused the first time someone mentioned it. “The ghost?”

“Yes,” said Betty Carter, cutting an article out of a newspaper at a pace of about five snips per minute. “But it doesn’t really hurt anyone, and we’re all used to it.”

“Then I hope to hear some good stories around that fireplace.”

And Lina wrote “Haunted house believer” on Mrs. Carter’s page.

Then George Lambert, who was hard of hearing but didn’t let that stop him from flirting with every woman he met, shouted at her, “Did they tell you about the ghost?”

“Not much. What does this ghost do?”

“Don’t worry!” He winked. “I’ll protect you.”

She dropped the topic and moved on to his medical history. But her last patient brought up the ghost yet again.

Augusta Beltrayne, who everyone called Mrs. B, had the room next door to Lina’s. Mrs. B, a tiny, brown-skinned lady, eighty-nine years old, had advanced macular degeneration, arthritis, and a stunning number of magazine subscriptions. They overflowed her shelves, filled four crates, and lurked in piles under the lavender armchairs.

“Not much point, the way my eyesight’s going,” Mrs. B said. “But I love the smell of them. Especially these.” She lifted an issue of Vogue, and flashed a smile full of teeth so straight they had to be dentures.

“I’d be happy to read to you once in a while, or find you some audio material.”

“That would be marvelous. Then I could just turn up the volume if that poltergeist starts knocking on walls.” Mrs. B laughed.

Lina lowered her notebook. “Okay, you’re the third person to mention a ghost. Is there anything I should know?”

“Don’t you worry. All it does is rearrange things and walk up and down the stairs.”

The clouds darkened outside. Lina told herself the chill up her spine was really still Stephen King’s fault. “People see it?”

“With my eyes I’m hardly the one to ask! But no, I gather nobody sees it. They just hear it–footsteps and so forth.”

“Have you heard it?”

“My door swung open one day and tapped against the wall, three times, like someone was standing there playing with it. Only there wasn’t anyone.”

Stupid to get goose bumps from a dubious anecdote, Lina scolded herself. “Was that the only time?”

“Not exactly. I could swear things end up in different places than where I laid them down. But then, I’m not exactly young anymore!”

A burst of static and a loud voice from the open door made Lina jump almost out of her chair. “Good evening, everyone,” said the voice, Alan Drake’s. “Dinner is served! Please come on down.” The intercom clicked off.

Lina let out her breath.

“Oh, good!” Mrs. B flung aside the Vogue and reached for Lina’s hand. “Let’s go down.”

Mrs. B squeezed her arm as they walked down the corridor. “I’m so glad you’re my new neighbor. That last nurse hardly stayed a month. She was such a jumpy thing.”

“Why did she leave?”

Mrs. B gestured as if sweeping cobwebs out of her face. “Oh, she said her computer keys kept tapping by themselves in the middle of the night. Honestly, can’t some people get earplugs?”

While Lina digested that remark, Marla Drake bounded into view at the staircase’s second-floor landing. “Hey, Lina!” Perhaps because she lived with the elderly, Marla seemed to be in the habit of shouting. “How’s your room?”

“Fine. I haven’t spent much time in it yet, though. I’ve been talking to my new housemates.”

“Well, you got one more. Our twelfth room just got filled. Jackie Clairmont. You can meet her at dinner.”

“My!” said Mrs. B. “What a busy day. Two new people.”

“First of the month.” Marla led the way down the stairs to the main floor. “I reckon people’s leases are up.” She laughed, a single-note bray.

They stepped into the dining room, onto the shining hardwood floors Lina had admired. Four tables, with six chairs each, gave residents and visitors plenty of seating choice at mealtimes. Lina helped Mrs. B into a chair and sat beside her. The Drakes, George Lambert, and Gertrude Brown (age eighty-six, high blood pressure, bluebird motif in room) rounded out their table.

Two young women burst out of the swinging doors to the kitchen, pushing carts of food. In their wake appeared a young man, probably a student at the nearby University of Washington, his white sleeves rolled up, a pitcher in each hand. His dark eyes took her in as he glanced across the room. Realizing this must be the Ren she heard about, Lina averted her gaze. The kid had to be ten years younger than she was. Wouldn’t that be a lovely way to get back at Brent when she finally answered him? “Nice to hear from you,” she could write. “I’ve taken a new lover too. He just turned twenty-one and does dishes in a retirement home.”

Lina turned to Alan. “So, when was the house built?”

“Nineteen oh-five. It was actually a sorority until the sixties.”

“My grandma was the housemother,” Marla said. “She bought the place when the chapter closed.”

“The ghosts are old college kids,” hollered George Lambert, “trying to party with us.” He winked a milky blue eye at Lina. “Kids your age!”

Lina spread her napkin across her lap. “Hardly my age.”

A shadow fell over their table. She looked up to find the young man standing beside her.

“Hello, Ren!” Mrs. B said. She turned to Lina. “Now, Ren’s the best part of living here.”

“Ren Schultz is our houseboy,” Marla said. “This is Lina, our new nurse.”

“Aren’t you lucky!” George boomed to Ren. “New girl moved in for you!”

A dimple formed in Ren’s cheek and he glanced at Lina, who was squashing her toes together under the table and wishing to dissolve. “Welcome,” he said. “How about some coffee tonight?”

God save her; now he was asking her out in front of everyone. Lina fussed with the cloth napkin on her lap. “Um, I’m too busy. But thanks.”

Marla burst into her raucous laugh. Alan and the residents grinned.

“Well…” Ren lifted one of the pitchers he held. “We’ve got tea too, if you prefer. No strings attached, I promise.”

“Oh.” Lina was blushing so hard she felt likely to get an aneurysm. “Sorry. I–yes, coffee, please.” She pulled her hands out of the way to allow Ren to pour coffee into her mug.

Marla wiped her eyes. “Oh, Lina. We need to eat with you every night. You’re a hoot!”

“Be nice to her.” Mrs. B held up her mug. “I’d take Ren out for coffee myself if I were sixty years younger. But I’ll have tea tonight, please, Ren dear.”

Ren reached across, still wearing that dimple, and poured it for her. Before he withdrew he nodded at Lina in a manner she would have labeled “formal” with a splash of “impish.”

She considered asking if they had any arsenic handy to stir into her coffee. Instead she addressed the Drakes again. “So, ‘houseboy.’ That seems like an old-fashioned job title.”

“In the sororities they’re still called houseboys,” Mrs. B said. “My granddaughter is an Alpha Phi. She talks about them all the time.”

“What do they do? Dishwashing and serving?”

George guffawed. “That’s not all they do! Lock up your daughters!”

Lina glanced at the next table to see if Ren heard. If he had, he was pretending he hadn’t. He went on pouring water for someone without so much as a smirk.

“Oh, George!” said Marla. “Well, I don’t know about the sorority houseboys, but ours does practically anything in the house, and the yard too. He’s a godsend.”

“U-Dub student, I imagine,” Lina said, calling UW by its familiar abbreviated form.

“No, just working,” Marla said. “Oh, Gertrude, here, let me get that salt for you.”

While the topic of dinner conversation turned to the role of salt in one’s diet, Lina glanced again at the houseboy. He stood in profile to her. A sharp, slender nose; dark hair trimmed short and tending to curl; firm lips that did not part except to speak. She easily imagined Ren featuring in some daughter’s daydreams, especially those who liked the pale poet type–and those who didn’t find him too young. If she had to choose a man to succeed Brent today, she would have chosen a bookish fellow in his thirties or forties, unaffiliated with medicine, maybe British, definitely fond of wool sweaters–cardigan or pullover; Lina wasn’t choosy, as long as the colors weren’t obnoxious.

She twirled beef stroganoff around her fork. She didn’t have to choose anyone today, though, and a good thing too. Witness the mess she already made of an innocent remark about coffee.

“Who are the people over there?” asked Mrs. B.

Marla blotted her mouth with her cloth napkin. “The new resident, Jackie Clairmont, and her family. Widowed lady.”

“Well, aren’t we all.”

Lina looked over her shoulder to see the one senior she hadn’t met yet. Mrs. Clairmont had a mass of curly white hair and wore an emerald-green pantsuit. A wooden walking stick leaned against the wall beside her. A man and woman in their fifties, presumably her children or children-in-law, sat with her.

“Said she was a sorority girl here,” said Alan, “back in the thirties.”

“She remembers my grandma,” said Marla. “How about that?”

“Oh, a fellow University woman!” said Mrs. B. “I shall have to make friends with her.”

“What did you study, Mrs. B?” Lina asked.

But Mrs. B did not get to answer, for at that moment someone shouted in a hoarse voice straight out of a horror movie, “You! What are you doing here? Where’s Julia?”

Lina and all the other diners turned and stared. Jackie Clairmont rose to her feet, gaping at Ren, who had just arrived at her table. He, understandably, seemed quite taken aback. Mrs. Clairmont pointed at him and repeated, “What are you doing here? What did you do with Julia?”

Ren stepped backward, cheeks pale, clutching the carafe of tea against his ribs. He didn’t take his eyes from Mrs. Clairmont except to dart occasional glances at Marla Drake.

Marla looked scandalized. Her short red hair, which always stood on end, now appeared to be doing so out of shock. She jumped out of her chair and rushed to Mrs. Clairmont, whose relatives were trying to get her to sit down. “Now, Jackie,” said Marla, “you don’t know this boy. This is Ren Schultz. This is our houseboy.”

But apparently Mrs. Clairmont possessed more strength than the average nonagenarian, for she threw off Marla’s hand, seized the walking stick, and raised it in the air. “Where’s Julia? Why are you here? Where is she?”

The walking stick whipped down and struck Ren on the arm. Everyone gasped. The carafe clattered to the floor; tea splashed on the hardwood. Ren ducked and retreated into the kitchen. The door swung shut behind him. People murmured and exclaimed; Marla and the Clairmont relatives tried to calm and scold Mrs. Clairmont at the same time.

“Did she hit him?” Mrs. B squinted at the place where Ren had been standing.

“Right on the arm!” answered George Lambert with relish, as if he was watching a boxing match.

“Well, for goodness’ sake, I don’t care who she is, that’s just unwarranted!”

Lina rose from the table, activated into motion by her nurse instincts. “Maybe I should…”

“You should go make sure Ren is all right.” Mrs. B winked.

Lina struggled not to look flustered. She nodded and set off toward the kitchen.

She found Ren pacing alone in the pantry. He rubbed his forearm, which bore a dark pink mark.

Lina thought this was one of those rare moments when the phrase “He didn’t know what hit him” was especially apt, and she had to clench her jaw muscles to keep down a smile. “Is your arm all right? Can I get you some ice or anything?”

He kept pacing. “It’s okay. I’m a quick healer. It probably won’t even bruise.”

He didn’t seem okay. Lina stood in the doorway, watching him take three steps toward her and three steps away, over and over. “Kind of scary when people lash out like that,” she said. “I once had a woman get so upset with me for trying to take her temperature, she stomped on my foot.”

“Hm.” It was a quick sound, exhaled through his nose. “So that’s the other new woman. What’s her name?”

“Jackie Clairmont, I think. I haven’t met her yet.”

“Jackie Clairmont…her married name, I suppose?”

“Probably. They said she was a widow. Do you think you know her?”

His eyebrows lifted. “Doesn’t seem likely.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Old folks sometimes, you know how they are. Supposedly she lived in this house when she was in college. She’s probably just getting her memories confused.”

“Did she?” Ren still paced. “Interesting.”

Marla Drake rushed in. “Oh, Ren, there you are! I’m sorry; so, so sorry! Lina, dear, could you go help Alan with Mrs. Clairmont?”

“Of course.” Lina turned back to the dining room.

Behind her, she heard Ren ask something in quiet tones, and heard Marla answer, “Yes, but I didn’t think it would be any trouble.”

She heard no more of their exchange once she pushed through the swinging door. She went to the table where Alan and the family members were soothing Mrs. Clairmont.

“I know,” Jackie Clairmont said, in her loud, creaky voice. “I know and I’m sorry. It just rattled me to see him. A houseboy, there.”

Lina poured her a glass of water, not sure what else she was supposed to do. After a few more minutes of Mrs. Clairmont insisting she was all right and that it wouldn’t happen again, everyone returned to their seats, and dinner resumed.

“Is Ren all right?” Mrs. B asked her.

Lina nodded. “Just startled, I think.”

“Goodness, I am too.” Mrs. B set down her fork. “I tell you, Lina, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

She sounded like someone in a formulaic mystery novel. Lina had to smile. “Bottom of what, Mrs. B?”

“Who’s ‘Julia ‘, for one thing? And why does it warrant smacking our poor Ren with a cane?”

“Good questions.” Lina glanced at Mrs. Clairmont. Alan Drake was escorting her and her two family members out of the room, all of them balancing their dinner plates. Jackie Clairmont wanted to eat the rest of the meal in her room tonight. Small wonder.

Ren did not come out for the rest of the meal either, not even to clear the dishes. Lina didn’t see him until she went down to the kitchen later, to get a mug of herbal tea for her neighbor, Mrs. B.

Ren stood at the sink, washing the larger dishes, the ones that wouldn’t fit in the dishwasher. He did not turn around or say anything.

She wanted to apologize for being an idiot when they had been introduced. She wanted to sympathize with him for the way Jackie Clairmont had humiliated him. Somehow her mind associated her own slapstick disaster with Mrs. Clairmont’s attack. And on her first night in a new house she wanted someone to talk to, someone who was neither her patient nor her employer, someone to replace the other nurses or interns who had always been around in the staff lounge and who could be counted on for a friendly word.

But, faced with his silent back, and feeling drained from such a weird first day of work, she said nothing and went upstairs again.

She brought the tea to Mrs. B’s room. “What with me and Mrs. Clairmont, I imagine poor Ren is thinking about a change of job right now.”

Mrs. B smiled at her over the mug, her brown eyes crinkling. “I doubt he’d leave, with a pretty new girl like you in the house.”

“Pretty! Well–no, I’m sure he doesn’t think…” Lina stopped spluttering, aware it was only making things worse. “He seems nice, but he’s too young for me.”

“He couldn’t be that young. He was here when I got here, and that was five years ago.”

“Maybe he started as a teenager.”

“I suppose. Anyway, you probably have a man already.”

Lina’s smile wilted. She turned to brush dust off the edge of a shelf. “I’m…between relationships.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What happened to the last one?”

“Moved to Atlanta for a fancy hospital job. I didn’t want to go.”

“Careers these days.” Mrs. B shook her head. “It’s for the best. I love Seattle too much to leave it, too.”

Lina straightened a row of large-print Reader’s Digests. “I told him how I felt. Lots of times.”

“Then it wasn’t meant to be. You’ll find someone else.” Mrs. B sounded perfectly certain, the way old ladies could.

“Maybe someday.” Lina moved to the door. “Goodnight, Mrs. B. You can leave the mug beside your bed. I’ll take it down for you in the morning. Ring if you need anything.”

Back in her own room, Lina unzipped her jeans and wriggled out of them in preparation for bed. She grimaced at the stubble on her legs–gone too long without shaving again. She fell behind on her beauty treatments when she didn’t have a boyfriend, although maybe now with this Ren in the house…

She rolled her eyes at herself and tossed her jeans into the laundry hamper. Pretty, Mrs. B had said, but you had to remember this was from a woman with failing eyesight. At 5′9″ Lina was taller than she wanted to be, and felt awkward for it. Her hair lay flat and straight no matter what heating and curling implements she tortured it with. Her mouth, nose, and chin, all taken together, had a duck-like look in her opinion, though one past boyfriend had been sweet enough to call her mouth sensual. She thought her light amber-brown eyes were her best feature, and therefore accentuated them with mascara. But beautiful? Hardly.

Still…she stepped over to the mirror above the vanity, holding her nightgown against herself for warmth and cover. Under these gentle incandescent lights instead of the hospital fluorescents, her skin already glowed a healthier hue. She’d get more sleep in this job than she used to; that would help as well. And maybe with some lip gloss, yes, perhaps then pretty wouldn’t be out of the question.

The lamp snapped off. The room went dark, except for the filtered city light through her blinds. She thought the power had gone out, then noticed the red glowing numbers of her alarm clock; it was still functioning. A faint glow seeped under her door from the lights in the corridor too. Nothing else had gone off, only her lamp. And it had sounded like the click of the switch, not the tiny contained explosion of a bulb burning out.

Her heart pounded. She saw well enough in these bluish night-hues to know nobody was standing in the room with her. Everything was where she left it, nothing moved.

She advanced to the lamp and turned the switch. The light came back, regular as you please. She tried this a few times, turning the lamp on and off, and left it alone a few seconds each time to see if it changed state by itself. Finally she decided she was being ridiculous. Once in a while switches did that. You pushed them farther than you realized, or not far enough, and they gradually slipped back into the “off” mode. It happened. It didn’t have anything to do with ghosts.

She tugged her flannel nightgown on at last, and sat down at her computer.

“I made it through my first day,” she typed in an email to her mom, dad, and brother. She paused to add the addresses of a few people back at Everglade who had left “Hang in there” messages on her machine after she had quit.

“Definitely a change,” she wrote, “but I think I can manage. Still, it’s quiet here and they say the place is haunted–yeah, sure–so for those in the Seattle area, let me know if anything fun is going on this weekend, and I’ll try to come.”

She included Brent’s email address. Just one of the group. It was the first thing she sent him since his engagement announcement.

But as she shut down her computer, she knew she was unlikely to drive across town to do anything “fun” if invited, and doubted anyone would invite her. She was forgettable. Brent had demonstrated that.

“Just me and the old folks and the college ghosts,” she said aloud, then wished she hadn’t, despite not believing in ghosts.

But to be on the safe side, she left the lamp on when she climbed into bed.

Copyright 2008 Molly Ringle. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.