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.

Excerpt

“I don’t want there to be any misconceptions or hurt feelings between us, Nora.”
The sound of his harsh voice snapped her attention back to him. “Misconceptions?” she repeated, confused. “About what?”
“About what you and my sister expect is going to happen here.”
“I don’t ” Her protest died on her lips when he placed a fingertip over them, silencing her. She nearly choked on a shallow breath at the fireball of sensation that roared down to the pit of her stomach at that minute touch. Thankfully, he withdrew the finger before she could do anything really damaging to her pride like suck it into her mouth but the fiery sensation lingered in her stomach, quietly banking a fire of old sensations into full life.
“I don’t need a social secretary,” he said, seemingly unaware of her reaction to him. “If I did need a secretary, I’d find one through a headhunter, not my sister.”
“Okay.”
“And I certainly wouldn’t take one whose background is in social services.”
“Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m not here to be your secretary.”
“Good. Now that we’ve got that established, let’s move on.”
“Please do.”
Kyle ignored that last comment as he launched into his speech. As he spoke, he made a leisurely circle about Nora, pausing to lean toward her in punctuation of each sentence.
“I’m not looking for a wife or a new mother for my children ”
“I’m not ”
” so if that’s the little scheme you’ve got going with my sister, you can just forget about it now.”
“I don’t have any “˜little scheme’ going with Joelle – or anyone else, for that matter!”
“Glad to hear it,” Kyle said, his tone belying his words. “Let’s move on, shall we?”
“Oh, please do.”
“I live alone. I like that.”
His breath skimmed her right ear as he leaned in close to her, front to front. She tried not to shudder at the pleasurable sensation it sent shimmering down her neck and into her stomach, where it joined the fire still banked there. She feared that she failed miserably. She almost didn’t hear his next words in the aftermath of the sensations he aroused in her.
“I throw my clothes on the floor when I undress.” He slipped around her right shoulder, but circled close to it too close. “I leave the toilet seat up. I squeeze toothpaste from the middle. I sleep in the nude.” He leaned over her shoulder. His lips pressed to her ear, his breath searing a path down the left side of her neck now that, oddly enough, brought chills to her spine. “I like that.”
As the chills rippled through her, Nora swayed, slightly off-balance. Kyle righted her equilibrium with a quick, painless jab of his knees to the backs of hers. Then he pulled back, abruptly, completed his circle as he drilled home his point. “I don’t want anyone picking up my clothes. I don’t want anyone putting down the toilet seat or telling me where to squeeze my toothpaste.” He paused to quirk his lips in what could almost pass for a smile at the suggestive statement. “And I don’t want anyone buying me silk pajamas. I don’t want to be reformed.” He leaned his face so close to Nora’s then that his features filled her entire realm of vision. “Got that?”
Well, of all the arrogant, insufferable !  Nora was trembling with rage by the conclusion of Kyle’s little speech. Just who the hell did he think he was, anyway, making demands like that?
“That’s what I missed about you all these years, Kyle,” she said with hard-won calm. “That charming personality.”
Kyle smiled then, but it was just a flexing of the muscles; there was no warmth to it. He leaned nearer to Nora, the tip of his nose in a position to touch hers should either of them make the slightest movement. It was an oddly intimate pose; a slight twist to the left, or a slight twist to the right, and their lips would be touching, even if no other parts of their bodies were. But the heat of his body emanating from his skin in a wonderfully male scent that reminded her of warm summer days at the beach did touch her; like a brand, searing another impression of him on her heart. The urge to melt into him wasn’t as hard as the urge to pull away; it took all of her strength to resist it. Oh, no, she wouldn’t give him that.
“Oh, I can be very charming.” He dropped the smile. “Or not.” Withdrawing, he stared down his nose at her, pointed a finger toward her collarbone. “Your choice. Just remember this I don’t want to be seduced.”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s any chance of that,” Nora said, her voice so thick with sarcasm she nearly choked on it. She thought she detected a flicker of something admiration, perhaps in his eyes when she stated, “I’m here to take care of your children’s needs, not yours.” But whatever she thought she saw in his eyes was gone before she could name it. Must be my imagination, she decided.
“See that you remember that.”
“Oh, I will.”
They faced off for an eternal moment, two battle-scarred warriors at an emotional impasse. Each waiting for the other to flinch first. When that didn’t happen, they simultaneously relaxed their stances, as if by some silent agreement.
Kyle took a wary step backward. His eyes never left her face. “Good. Then there’s nothing left to discuss. Is there?”
“Just one thing,” she said when he would’ve turned away. She ignored the annoyed look he cast over his shoulder as he paused on his flight up the stairs. She started down the hall toward the sounds of merriment emanating from the kitchen, but paused when she came abreast of Kyle on the stairs. “I take my responsibilities very seriously.” She hesitated, for effect, then drove the statement home with, “All of them.” And then she was gone, leaving Kyle to stare after her in wonder.

Copyright 2008 Margay Justice. 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

1120 A.D., Britain

Lord Geoff took his time, seeking to resolve his troubled emotions before arriving at the cottage. He walked the path for a second time that day, hoping the physical exertion would relieve the longing ache that had settled in his gut since seeing the Saxon beauty. He fervently prayed the vexing woman was not William’s new bride, but a traveling companion or a sister.

That woman has turned me upside down, he thought.

He was angry with himself, but, perversely, excited to stumble so unexpectedly upon a woman who set his blood boiling.
*  *  *

Darkening shadows licked at the room. Matilda and William sat side-by-side at the table, finishing a meal of cheese and bread, their heads bent toward each other as they talked. A shadow cut between them, blocking the last rays of a sun that had been feebly forcing its way through the open door. Matilda looked up and gasped. The baron had arrived.

Golden rays from the setting sun caused the visitor’s thick sandy hair to glow like fire. The elegant lines of a well-trimmed beard in no way detracted from a determined jaw.

Why is he not clean-shaven in the style of the Norman? she wondered. It’s strange he should go against fashion.

Why this should be her first thought she didn’t know, but the fact that he followed his own inclinations unnerved her.

His face””arrogant-looking with its straight, aristocratic nose””was nonetheless extremely handsome. Laugh lines around his eyes, crinkling in sun-tightened skin, showed him to be a man to take enjoyment out of life. No mustache hid those sensuous lips on which Matilda’s gaze unwillingly locked. A warm flush started at her toes and worked its way up her body. The man’s seductiveness was too close to that of her dream lover.

I must be careful, she reproached herself.

The baron stood in the doorway, his supple, knee-high leather boots planted firmly on either side of the wide doorframe. High cheekbones called attention to his intense, gray eyes that seemed to drink in Matilda’s face and form. The riveting intensity of his gaze confounded her, making her uneasy.

William rose abruptly so that his chair toppled backward and slammed noisily onto the wide planks of the cottage floor. While he greeted the baron, Matilda uprighted the fallen chair. She stood behind it and nervously grasped its solid wooden back, trying to be inconspicuous, but William gestured for her to come forward.

“This is Lord Geoffrey de la Werreiur.” William’s voice resonated his respect. “Lord Geoff, this is my bride, Matilda.” She noticed the word “˜bride’ left her cousin’s lips easily.

As she reluctantly abandoned the chair’s protective barrier to greet the baron, her heart leapt to her throat, allowing no sound to escape. The curtsy she intended to make never happened.

The baron captured one trembling hand in both of his, creating a tormenting prison. While raising it to waiting lips, he gently caressed its smooth skin with an insistent thumb. When at last he placed the inappropriate kiss upon the back of her hand, she didn’t wait for release, but tugged, intending to free her hand quickly. Instead, the baron held it securely and pressed the tip of his tongue to her skin as if to explore its elemental nature. At the same time he looked up at her from under lowered lashes with a twinkle in his eye.

He’s deliberately tormenting me, she realized.

She tugged harder and freed her hand, her face flushed with embarrassment, her mouth dry and her tongue still unable to utter a sound.

“Welcome to Caelfield.” His voice reverberated deeply within her body. He smiled, teeth flashing white against shadow-darkened skin, acknowledging her discomfort, but not consenting to relieve the emotional pressure. “We’ve met before.”

“Surely not, my lord. I would’ve remembered.”

Her voice sounded strange to her.

“You were but twelve. You’ve grown up.”

The caressing voice flowed around her, adding undertones of meaning. She felt wrapped in an encapsulating cocoon, as if William was pushed out and only she and the baron inhabited this world. Totally disarrayed, Matilda turned aside in panic as William pushed a precisely crafted chair in the baron’s direction.

“Sit down, my lord. Would you like something to eat?”

The baron sat, declining the offer of food.

William positioned himself against the wall, allowing Matilda to sink gratefully onto the other chair, having first moved it so the stout table created a barrier between the baron and her shaking body.

She put her hands in her lap””rubbing the offended spot with her skirt””and cast her gaze downward. She didn’t want to see those teasing eyes, to experience again that first compelling response that put her heart in her throat. She sat, turning her face to the final rays of the sun, and spoke not a word.

The shadows continued to deepen and the sounds from the village to lessen as evening settled in. With her gaze, she traced the outline of first one shadow and then another, on the smooth plank floor. She shifted nervously on the wooden chair.

As the two men talked, Matilda glanced stealthily at the baron and found him staring at her. She quickly looked away.

Time passed and Matilda heard the conversation become strained. William labored to find topics, while the baron talked haphazardly, seeming not to care. She stole glances to watch a frown (unconnected with the lagging conversation) periodically form on his arresting face.

The level of unease increased, making the atmosphere leaden. William shuffled restlessly.

At last the baron rose. His brows knitted in a deep frown as though some thought not totally to his liking moved around in his head. He shook himself, squared his shoulders and moved toward the door. There he turned. It was at William that he looked and to William that he spoke.

“I demand first night rights.”

Matilda felt the color drain from her face. Droit de seigneur. The right of the lord to bed the bride on the wedding night. The thought filled her with horror. She would be ruined.

“First night rights?” William questioned hesitantly. “My Lord, we’ve been married three days.”

“First night on the manor land then.” The voice was hard and demanding, allowing no dissent. “I’ll send my overseer within the hour.”

Matilda’s hands clenched, her arms rigid at her side. “You cannot, William,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.

William stared wide-eyed, his own coloring completely gone. His face reflected the tumult surging through his mind. Pain was etched there””and anger””and bewilderment. Then, as if a great burden had been pushed onto his shoulders, so great it aged him by its touch, he bowed his head and said, “Yes, my lord.”

Copyright 2008 Joann Smith Ainsworth. 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 1

Only an hour ago, Jenny had seen her reflection for the first time since the
accident. She’d stared at a face full of nicks and scratches, and visible ends of
stitches where flesh had been sewn back together. It reminded her of a bad shave in
a cartoon, except she wasn’t laughing. She’d been unconscious for two days and
they said she was lucky? Her shoulder had been pinned together, her head had a
metal plate beneath; she felt like shit.
“You haven’t caught me on a good day you know. I could be bitchy.”
“You’ve been a hard person to trace, Jenny. I’ll manage.” The woman
proffered her hand. “Maria Santos, I’m an abogada.”
Jenny frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You’d probably call me a solicitor back in Britain. A lawyer.”
“I meant I don’t understand why an abogada would be tracing me.”
Jenny took the hand in her good hand as best she could. It hurt her shoulder
though and she wished she hadn’t. She’d almost learned to move without moving
and would probably make a good busker when she got out.
“Sorry! I should have realised. Are you feeling up to this?”
“I guess so. I’m still woozy though, I’m afraid you’ll have to bear with
me.”
“Say if you want me to leave.”
“I’m fine. I’ll be okay, just don’t expect too much.”
The woman undid her attache© case, took out a sheaf of papers and studied
them. “I’m afraid red tape in Spain is rather cumbersome. I sometimes wonder if
we’ll eventually get buried under our own paper work.”
Jenny was curious and struggled into a sitting position. Denia hospital was
far from home and the prospect of company, a treat. The next bed was empty. It
had been occupied but the woman was gone, discharged. There’d been hardly
anyone to talk to for a couple of days. Not that the woman had spoken much, but
she’d been a face to look at, someone to share her frustration with.
“Is it about the accident? I wasn’t driving you know. I can’t remember
much about it but I wasn’t driving. I’d scrounged a lift after a party.”
There had been a confusion of red tail-lights, a blocked carriageway, the
car jolting, scraping, bucking; nowhere to go before they hit metal. She’d drawn
her knees up; instinctively lowered her head; willed her whole being to shrink up
her backside. It was sounds she remembered the most; metal screeching, glass
splintering, sounds she didn’t want to recall.
“Nothing to do with the accident.” Maria shook her head, her eyes all the
time on Jenny, perceptive, no sign of emotion. “Okay, so let’s start with your full
name.”
“Senorita Jennifer Alicia Bucknall, What’s this about?”
“Do you have Spanish nationality?”
“No. Born and bred in England.”
“The maiden name of your mother?”
Jenny had to think hard, paddled through a head full of thick soup, but it
came eventually.
“Olive Grace Peterson.”
“Tell me about your father.”
“I never knew my father.” Jenny screwed her face with effort. “I think he
died before I was born. His mother was Spanish. He died over here.”
Maria wrote it down, seemed satisfied.
“I’m sorry. I can’t seem to remember much. It annoys me, but they say it’s
not unusual.” Jenny pointed to where the plate was on her head. “They’ve put a
trap door here so that if things get bad you can open it up and dig out the memories
for yourself. I keep forgetting things, silly things, not everything, God knows
why. They say it’ll get better with time , Look, what’s all this about?”
There was a vase of flowers on the bedside cabinet, flaccid in the heat.
Maria pushed herself to her feet and indicated towards them.
“Your flowers, shall I give them fresh water? It’s a shame to let them
spoil.” She sniffed at them, took them to the sink in the corner of the room, filled
the vase. “You have proof of your identity?”
“I guess so – passport, bankcards. They’ll do, won’t they?”
“I wonder if I could see them, please?”
Jenny could hear the murmur of the television in the common room, a
scrape as someone moved furniture, hushed conversations. The wearisome
familiarity of the place depressed her. It felt as if she’d been lying there forever.
Maria Santos made a welcome break and she intended hanging onto her for as long
as possible. If it involved answering questions then so be it. She said, “There’s no
harm in you seeing my passport. You’re not touching my bankcards, though.”
“Very wise.”
“In the cupboard by your side; a clutch bag. It should be in the zip
pocket,Look, do you mind telling me what’s going on?”
“Please bear with me, Senorita.” Maria found the bag, took out the
passport, studied it, checked the date of birth, looked at Jenny and compared her to
the photograph, put the passport away again, wrote on the paper, then offered it to
Jenny.  “Would you mind signing this?”
“Difficult. My shoulder, I can’t use my arm. I’m right-handed.”
Maria smiled wanly, “Sorry! No worries. It can be done later. I’m
reasonably satisfied you’re the person I’m looking for.”
“The significance being?”
“Juan Garce­a. Juan Cabra-Garce­a to be pedantic. Cabra was his mother’s
family.”
Jenny shook her head from side to side. “No! You’ve got me there. Means
nothing to me.”
“He died a few months ago, in that terrible bomb in Madrid. In his last Will
and Testament, he made you heir to La Finca Piedra, along with his younger half-
brother.”
Jenny stared.
“It isn’t an even split. His brother has the major share, but these are details
we can go into at a later date.”
“I really don’t know what you’re on about.”
“The important thing is, we’ve established your identity.”
“But I don’t know a Juan Cabra-Garcia.” She closed her eyes, thought
hard. Nothing.
“There will be formalities to go through, and documents need to be drawn
up. A Public Notary will need to verify the documents to legalize them. But these
things are only a matter of time.”
Jenny said carefully, “I rather think you’ve made a mistake.”
Maria smiled. A small inclination of the head indicated she didn’t think so.
“We’ll make arrangements for you to come to my office when you’re
feeling up to it, say in six months , I’ll probably need that amount of time to
confirm things, and to make further checks. I’m afraid things tend to move a little
slowly over here.”

***

“Fuck!” The letter was crumpled into a ball then pressed between his palms.
Eduardo, window seat 27A, had no one by his side. He had purchased 27B and
27C to ensure privacy. People talked and he didn’t want to talk. Who was doing
this? Why the hell send it to him here in the U.S.? He’d barely been away ten days.
The engines flared, died, flared again, and they were on the move. He
stared at the control tower, at reflections on rain-slicked tarmac. A yellow van
scooted in the distance, wound a way through the handful of light aircraft scattered
outside hangers. He stared as the van disappeared into the complex.
Someone had gained access to his business movements. Surely it wouldn’t
be too difficult to pinpoint who?
The plane taxied to the end of the runway and waited for clearance. The
sky looked resentful, made everything miserable. There was no first-class on the
plane, which hadn’t improved his temper. The girl at check-in couldn’t offer an
upgrade; the flight was too short, the plane too small. She’d smiled widely, showed
too much gum, told him to have a good day.
Jesus! There were all those in the office, friends, consultants. There were
probably dozens if you included those who might have passed word on without
thinking. Maybe it wouldn’t be so easy after all.
It would be another week before he made home. He didn’t need shit like
this, he thought, he hardly had time for what was planned, never mind worry about
threatening letters. The jaunt had been time-consuming, the sanctity of Spain was a
long way off, but business was business and it was what he did.
This was a double hop, Charleston to Atlanta; Atlanta to Manchester. It
would involve a mad dash across the sprawl of Atlanta airport to find the Delta
flight. It would be a mad dash because the bloody plane was already late. He stared
morosely through the porthole window. The overcast skies looked tortured.
He hoped they’d be up soon because a storm could delay them and if they
were delayed he’d miss the connection.
The heavens opened and rain bounced high off the runway, but the engines
were screaming, the plane shaking. They were going, regardless of the weather.
He unscrewed the letter; stared at it, felt angry all over again. Someone was
turning it into a fucking campaign.

***

Jenny looked around the claustrophobic office. Beneath the clutter it was rather
utilitarian with black wood furniture and chrome-framed chairs. On the wall was a
clock, a calendar beneath. The calendar had come from some law society or other.
Two extra chairs were stacked by a row of filing cabinets. On the desk were two
A4 lined pads, paper clips, law books and plastic pens that could be bought by the
dozen. A heavy-looking satchel big enough for files lay in the corner by one of the
chairs. On the shelves she could make out transcripts bound with string, curled at
the edges, handwritten notes, typed reports, probably summaries, and ream after
ream of testimonies – or something else equally legal and equally tedious.
Maria pushed some of the confusion to one side, dug out a photograph and
offered it to her. Jenny leaned forward very carefully. Her shoulder was painful if
she moved too quickly. It didn’t stop her doing things, though. They said the scar
on her face would fade, but six months hadn’t been enough. She studied the
photograph and her eyes widened. “Is that it? But it’s wonderful!”
The picture showed La Finca Piedra lying in the folds of a limestone
outcrop. Pine trees swept down from the sierra. In that light, it looked astonishing.
High walls surrounded the Finca; palms curved over the wrought-iron gates. On
the slopes behind the buildings were terraces of almonds and olives. Further away,
promontories became fused in haze. The view seemed to roll onwards into infinity.
Maria Santos said, “Glad you like it. I’ve always been fond of the place.”
“So, where do I find this wonderland?”
“Between Alicante and Valencia, but it’s hidden in the sierras, rather a
quiet backwater, I’m afraid. Not a lot goes on. Benidorm is about thirty or forty
kilometres south, if you fancy nightlife.”
“The colours,” Jenny put the picture down, swept a cloud of dark hair from
her face and tied it back. “They’re incredible.” She had the same unruly hair as her
mother. She’d been told she had her mother’s attitude too, but that didn’t bother
her. She thought her mother dignified.
“Well, I didn’t use filters if that’s what you’re thinking, but I suppose it
could look false if you tried to paint it.” Maria picked up one of the plastic pens
and twisted it around her fingers.
“It’s so intense it hardly seems real. Don’t you think it’s curious how bright
colours are over here? Everywhere seems larger than life.”
“On the contrary. I’ve always found the landscape in England somewhat
watery. It looks as if it has been washed too many times.”
“This is fabulous.” Jenny assumed there must be a connection between
Pape¡’s family and Juan Garce­a, though Mum had been emphatic there wasn’t. Her
Pape¡ had grown up somewhere close to here, died here before she was born, and
according to Mum was definitely, definitely, not related to the Garce­a family. “So
why has it been left to me?” she asked. “It makes me feel odd. Someone’s bound to
resent it.”
“Well, I can assure you, you’re the legal heir. These things happen more
often than you might imagine. You’re not the first I’ve had to track down, and I
don’t suppose you’ll be the last.”
“But why?”
“I think for the most part, you’ll find that whys and wherefores are beside
the point. I think the trick is coping, especially when others are involved.”
“So you won’t discuss it? I’m to be kept well and truly in the dark. Is that
it?”
The abogada nodded.
“Afraid so.”
She was in her late thirties, short, large-hipped, hair a mop of dark ringlets,
a few streaks of grey beginning to show. Her teeth were over-sized and she must
have been aware of them because she tended to keep her lips close together when
speaking.
Jenny was finding it hard to take in. She hadn’t expected the Finca to be
like this. She’d thought it might be some sort of smallholding, rocks and barren
land, not this sort of thing. The enormity of what was happening was scarier than
she wanted to admit. She didn’t know how elaborate the thread was, but it had
been woven damn intricately.
“Eduardo Garce­a is due back in a couple of days. You’ll have to meet him
sometime, so I’ve arranged for you to be shown around then, that’s if it’s okay by
you. In general you shouldn’t bump into him much, as he mostly stays in Valencia
when he’s over.”
“He doesn’t live here, then?”
“Well, he’s been selected as party candidate for the next Parliamentary
election so that takes up a lot of his time, but his business also tends to take him all
over the world. He’s expanding the Garce­a hotel empire like there’s no tomorrow.
To be honest, I think his heart is in America. He was born in England, moved to
America, and took a degree at Harvard. He didn’t contemplate Spain until his
twenties, then started to take his holidays here. Got to know Juan a little better,
caught up on brotherly love, I suppose.”
“How come he was born in England?”
“The parents divorced. Juan was young and stayed with his mother at
Piedra. The Finca belonged to Juan’s mother, the Cabra family, nothing to do with
Garce­a. The old man came to England looking at sites for a new hotel, put roots
down, remarried and had Eduardo. It became a bit complicated when the old man
died. Juan had half the hotel business but wasn’t interested in it. Eduardo couldn’t
touch the Finca, and was.”
“A strange affair.”
“It happens when families split.” Maria shrugged. “By the way, be aware
that Eduardo likes to do things his way. He might not like the idea of you having
power of veto; he’s used to running the show. Maybe it’ll be a good idea for you to
take a back seat for a while.”
“You mean be a good little lady?” Jenny arched her brow. “I’ve never been
good at that sort of thing. It hacks me off behaving like a trained moron.”
“Certainly not! I meant, listen and wait before doing anything.”
“You mean before jumping in with both feet?” She gave a snort. “I have
been known to, I suppose. I’m not renowned for subtlety.”
“Well, try to move from a position of knowledge. Understand what he’s
doing and why. If you feel the need to oppose, that is.”
“I probably will. Just for the hell of it. Just to see what his reaction is.”
Jenny leaned back in the seat. Eduardo Garce­a probably despised her. She could
see trouble ahead.
“He’s one of life’s great individuals is our Eduardo. Fractious to work
with, but there’s an emptiness when he’s gone.”
“A bit like a boil on the backside?”
Maria laughed at that. “When I was a youngster, I remember my mother
put the neck of a hot bottle over a boil on my neck. As it cooled it was supposed to
suck the grunge out. It hurt like hell.”
Jenny grimaced. “I don’t do pain. I’d want an anaesthetic.”
“Eduardo is rather exceptional. Very arrogant, very intolerant, but he has
an inspired intellect and a cool sense of humour. Rather wry and perceptive, I
suppose.”
“Sounds like a big-head to me.”
Maria stopped twiddling with the pen and tossed it to the desk. “So, tell me
about yourself. What do you do back in England?”
“I’m a research assistant for Angela Burchill.”
“The historical biographer? I know her stuff.”
“The one.”
“I’ve read ‘The Princess of Aragon’. It must be interesting doing that sort
of work. You must get to travel a lot.”
“A little. Angie says I was over here doing research for her next book when
I had the accident, but I don’t remember; there’s still a lot that’s missing from the
old grey matter. Mostly though, I get to surf the web, sit in stuffy libraries. Angela
gives me the general idea of what she’s after then it’s down to me. She filters out
what isn’t relevant then pores over it for weeks whilst I search for something else.”
“So you’re bit of a detective?”
Jenny expressed amusement. “No! Angela’s the detective. I’m the plod
knocking on doors, crawling on hands and knees for anything that looks remotely
interesting.” She turned in her seat to look through the plate-glass window. Back
home, autumn had come early, gardens had already mellowed. She said, “Isn’t the
weather lovely here? We have too much rain at home, cold as well. You’re lucky.”
“You think so? We had no let up from the sun this year, and then we had
the mother of storms. It all came at once.” Maria shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t have
air-conditioning at home. The windows get thrown open and the fans turned on.”
“We’ve no need for air-conditioning in the UK. Not where I live, anyway.
We huddle around the central heating with meals on trays, watching the telly.”
Maria smiled. “This year we’ve been eating mostly on the terrace. A
couple of months ago there were fires in the sierra at the back of us. It went up like
tinder. They brought in planes and helicopters and one flew over us. Water fell
from it onto the sunshade. We watched whilst we had our meal.”
“That must have been terrifying.”
“The children were scared stiff but thankfully the bomberos brought it
under control before bedtime. We’d considered moving to my parents for the night,
but it turned out all right in the end.”
“I think I might have gone anyway, just to be sure.”
“Did you get the confirmation from the notary, by the way?”
“It’s here, thanks.” The letter was in Jenny’s bag and she patted it. Mum
had gone mad when she’d heard about it. Until then, they’d been best friends. This
was too exciting to handle by herself, yet Mum flatly refused to be involved. In
fact Jenny was sure Mum thought she’d been having an affair with Juan Garce­a,
whoever he was.
“You sound tired. I hope it isn’t over-taxing you.”
Jenny stretched. “I’ll be okay. It’s been a bit hectic, that’s all.”
Actually, she felt drained now that it was almost over. When she’d first
seen Maria, she’d been too weak from the car accident for it to sink in. The words
had been dream things, now it was time to face reality.
“Overall management of the property and riding stables will be under
Eduardo’s control. Needless to say you have use of all facilities.” Maria cast her a
glance. “And like I’ve said, you have power of veto over anything to do with the
Finca.”
“I presume from your tone it’s a good thing?”
“Take my advice; don’t abuse it. Remember, he’s a respected businessman
with a good head on his shoulders. He ploughed himself into the hotel business
once he cleared university and made a damn good job of it. If he says something,
listen. He’s very successful. Juan was the artistic soul, Eduardo the practical one,
even helped Juan make money from his art.”
He probably did. Jenny didn’t care.
“Are you planning to stay at the Finca, by the way?”
Jenny shook her head. “I’d feel a bit awkward. I’ve looked around the area
and trawled a few estate agents, but they’ve come up with nothing I like.”
“I thought you might feel that way. I’ve pencilled in a furnished apartment
for you in Calpe if that’s all right. I told them you might have other arrangements
but to keep it on hold.”
“That’s nice of you. Thanks.”
She’d stayed in a hotel overnight, in a good-sized room with mini-bar and
hairdryer, chocolates on the pillow, bathrobe on the turned-down bed. There’d
been a paper attached to the robe asking her not to take it home. The mini-bar had a
price list detailing the contents. She hadn’t bothered. Hotel prices were notoriously
high. She’d used the Cafe© Haag, though. It had tasted just fine. The chocolates had
gone too. She wondered for a moment if it was one of Eduardo Garce­a’s, hoped
not, hoped she wasn’t boosting his profits.
“It’s on the outskirts of the resort, has good shops, local entertainment,
fairly close to the sea front, yet away from holiday rentals. I thought you might like
a sea view.”
“Sounds good.”
“You can change it, of course. The estate will look after the money side, so
don’t worry about that,” The abogada fumbled in a drawer, bent her head to look.
“I know the keys are in here somewhere, along with the directions.”
Jenny took the keys once Maria found them and stifled another yawn, “I’ll
see how it goes. But I expect it’ll be fine.”
Mum’s accusation that she was hiding something had hurt. There’d been a
welt of pain inside and she’d yelled that she’d never met Juan Cabra-Garcia, never
dated him, never talked to him, and had never, ever, had sex with him.
Her mother had been furious when the abogada had flown over to see her.
“She’s been asking damn-fool questions of me. Probed my past, asked me to prove
who I am, even wanted to see my marriage certificate. I asked her if she wanted to
know the colour of my bloody knickers. Why do you want to go getting involved?
Why can’t you ignore it? No good can come of it.”
“Neither you nor Eduardo can dispose of the property, nor make structural
change, without witnessed consent from the other. It’s a measure to prevent the
Finca from being broken up.”
“I understand. No problem. I’d have insisted on the same.”
“Juan Garce­a was always most adamant that the estate remained intact.”
“You realise there’re no family links to the Garce­as,” Jenny said
rebelliously. “I’ve checked. It has to be something else. So what is it?”
Maria ignored her.
“Can’t you give me just a little clue? What was he like, this Spanish
recluse?”
The abogada shrugged. “Juan was of the old school; a lonely man in a lot
of ways. Kept his thoughts to himself. Seemed tormented, By the way, there’s a
cheque on its way to your account; your share of the cash and liquidated portfolio.
You’ll also share any profits from renting the villas on the far side of the estate.”
“Villas? Just how big is the place?”
“About a thousand hectares, nearly five kilometres by two.”
Jenny did a mental calculation, frowned with concentration. “That’s well
over two thousand acres. God! I didn’t think it was like that.”
“And there are the stables of course, they’re quite well-known, but Juan
wasn’t a man of business and left the running of things to managers. He thought
money was vulgar. He just wanted to paint. He did quite well with his oils, they’re
okay. He liked the idea of being a gentleman landowner I suppose, but that was as
far as it went. Art was his thing.”
“Nice when you can think like that.”
“Eduardo will probably want to change the operation; he has the Midas
touch. He’s twenty years younger than Juan. They were half-brothers like I’ve said,
he was quite the baby of the family, in his thirties. His ideas are different. He’s a
powerful man.”
“And it’s gone to his head, from what I’ve read in the glossies. I’ve been
doing my research. It doesn’t bode well.”
Maria scratched her nose. “Magazines are there to sell magazines. If the
truth comes out it’s generally by accident. I wouldn’t take too much notice of what
you read.”
“You mean like the article that claims his overriding passion is to infiltrate
the genitalia of every woman he meets?”
“That really was bordering on slander.”
“Isn’t there a saying that power corrupts, though? I think I might avoid him
where possible.”
“Eduardo is egotistical, difficult to work with, probably ruthless to the
extreme, but that’s what’s made him a success. I find it acceptable that he should
be like that. You can’t succeed without some of those qualities.”
“He seems a heartless bastard to me. Senor Eduardo Garce­a doesn’t sound
the sort of person to lock horns with.”
Maria smiled thinly. “If it doesn’t suit; you could always let him handle
things. You don’t have to be involved. You could let him act on your behalf.”
Jenny shook her head. “I’ll take my chance.” She rose to her feet and
collected her shoulder bag and straw hat. “Thanks for everything. I think I’ll get off
now.”
“Well, you’ve got the keys to the apartment. You have the map of how to
get there; and I’ve also given you the map to the Finca. By the way, I’ve left a
message for Eduardo to expect you any time after ten. I presumed you wouldn’t
relish too early a start. I told you it was in two days’ time, didn’t I?”
“Sure thing.” Jenny shook Maria’s hand and left.
She started the car, flicked the indicators on, turned into the mainstream of
traffic and put her hand up to thank the following driver for blasting his horn.
For all her fine words, she really didn’t fancy the thought of a bust-up with
Garce­a, who sounded like an egotistical maniac. When the next lay-by came up,
she pulled the car in and parked up. She took out the map and studied it, mulled it
over, took a decision and turned the car around and headed into the countryside for
the Finca.
Jenny changed gear as she began the roller coaster passage along the
foothills of the sierras, crossed over and left behind the dry, stone rutted riverbed
she’d first spotted from the main road. Traffic became non-existent; the valley
below full of green, rich with fruit trees.
Mum had gone ape-shit when she’d first heard about the legacy. “What the
hell have you been up to, Jenny? You’ve kept this quiet. How long have you been
seeing him?”
She changed gear again and negotiated a narrow bridge over a gorge, went
past a restaurant tucked to the right, saw a handful of people make their way across
the car park, a couple decidedly wobbly; hoped they weren’t going to follow her.
“Mother, why have you jumped to the conclusion that I had an affair with
him? If you think I’ve been handling wrinkly old testicles you must be mad. It’s
repulsive. I’d never even heard of him until the abogada told me.”
She rounded the top of a rise and saw the ocean.
It was a day of astonishing beauty. The sea, far below, was streaked in
every tone of blue. To the right, huge escarpments of rock scraped at the sky.
Prehistoric things, shrouded in mist. Two years ago, she’d taken a holiday at
Benidorm. The countryside had been scrubland, not like this. Not mountains, not
groves of fruit and almonds, not mile after mile of vineyards; not this sort of Spain.
The sheer grandeur of what she saw made her feel insignificant.
“I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean you were sleeping with him.”
“What did you mean then?”
“Why has he left it to you?”
“Mum, I don’t know who the hell he is. I don’t know why he’s left it me.”
“No-one does that sort of thing. Not without good reason. You’ve been
seeing him. Was it whilst you were supposed to be researching for that damned
writer? Was it whilst you were on holiday?”
“Mother, he was your age. What the hell do you think I am? I’m not
desperate.”
“You must have done something for him to leave it to you.”
“For God’s sake, Mother. I’ve told you, I don’t know who he is, I’ve never
met him and he certainly hasn’t had his hands grubbing inside my knickers.”
There was a Finca below. Jenny pulled the car to a stop at the brow of the
hill. Was that it? The view was from a different angle but it looked like the one in
the photograph. If it was, it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, ten times
better than the picture. She wound the electric windows down. There was a
murmur of glass against rubber and pine-rich air flooded in. She gawped for ages.
Eventually she drove down to the Finca, through the open gates, stopped
the car and stepped out. She jammed the hat on her head, shoved her hands into her
back pockets, and stood quite still, marvelling at the huge property. It was
overwhelming.
A side door opened, a woman approached across the gravel drive.
“Buenos de­as. May I help?”
“Buenos de­as, Senora,” she replied. “I’m Senorita Jenny Bucknall. I don’t
know if anyone has mentioned anything about me.”
“Ah! Yes of course. I’m sorry; we were expecting you in two days’ time,
Senorita. My name is Elvira; I’m the housekeeper. I’m afraid we have nothing
ready for you.”
An old lady with mop and bucket ambled across the drive to them.
“It’s okay. I wasn’t expecting anything.” Jenny held out her hand to Elvira.
“I was in the area and thought I’d drop in for a look around. Have I caused a
problem?”
Elvira took her hand and shook it. “Of course not. No problem.”
The old lady came to Jenny’s side, and greeted her with unexpected
enthusiasm.
“Senorita, you’ve lost weight. You’ll be skin and bone if you aren’t
careful. Those fine silks won’t suit you then. Mark my words, you need to eat
more, a lot more.” She poked her delicately in the ribs. “Put some flesh where it
counts. I’ve told you before, men like a bit of something to hang on to.”
She gave a knowing grin and sauntered away. Jenny watched her go with
mild amusement.
“She thinks she knows me. Who is she?”
“Carmen. She’s the cleaner. I’m afraid the poor woman hardly knows what
day it is. Perhaps the Senorita would like to follow me inside?”
Jenny tagged behind Elvira, up the stone balustrade steps, through the
enormous carved doors and into the Finca. What history had been forged here, how
many lives changed? She breathed in, took in the odour of ancient things and
forgotten dust, gazed around. Why would no one explain why she’d been included
in Juan Cabra-Garcia’s will? She might only own a share of this historic villa, yet
even that must be worth a fortune. It was like something out of a fairy tale. It was
mad. What bizarre web was she caught in? She couldn’t help thinking that
someone had fouled up big time.
A telephone rang and Elvira went to answer it. After a moment she came
back and apologised. “Would you excuse me? Something needs my attention.
Perhaps you’d like to explore a little until I return?”
“No problem.” Jenny took off her hat and shook her hair free. There were
tapestries on the wall. She wandered over and very cautiously touched one. The
archaic material was coarse. She sniffed; it smelled musty. The fabric was faded
but the picture on it was lively: knights and horses, crazy people doing crazy
things, clashing bodies, motion, all quite exquisite.

She peered closely at the needlework and a deep voice said, “You could
use those colours, I suppose. At least a modern version, give or take a shade or
two.”
Jenny jerked upright, hadn’t heard anyone approach. “Colours?” She
looked stupidly at the man who stopped by her side. With height advantage he
made an imposing figure. He leaned to examine the tapestry along with her. It
brought him too close. She frowned and unconsciously touched the scar on her
face.
“Sorry. Didn’t intend to make you jump. The colours on the tapestry; could
you use them when you get around to decorating the place? It would be
sympathetic, yes?”
She held the straw hat by the brim and played with it nervously. “I suppose
it can be good to pick out a few to use as highlights, but not necessarily. I think
complementary colours can work just as well.”
“Well, you’re the expert.”
She arched her brow.
His eyes calmly held hers. “So I guess I should bow to your opinion.
Rafael assures me you come with the very best credentials.”
He’d obviously confused her with someone else. There was something
about him that was disturbing; she could imagine his entry into a room caused
wives to glance at their reflections, and made husbands hostile.
He suddenly grinned. “Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself, I’m Eduardo
Garce­a, but haven’t we met already?”
She shook her head slowly. Eduardo Garce­a? Damn! She shouldn’t be
snooping around like this, not uninvited, not without letting him know first. He
thrust out his hand. She took it carefully.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t bite. I’m afraid I’ve only just arrived, so I
couldn’t see to you earlier. Actually, I wasn’t due until the day after tomorrow, but
I finished business early and I like to spend time here when I can. I’ve discovered
it’s the one place I can properly unwind,” He allowed their hands to part. “, I’m
sure I know you from somewhere. At one of Rafael’s infamous parties, maybe?”
Her lips were dry and she wet them. “I hardly think so.”
“Your accent is distinctive. It must give an amusing edge in your business.
At the moment, people here seem to associate arty things with the English, so an
accent like yours should definitely be in vogue, By the way, have you seen
around the place yet?”
“Elvira was about to show me.”
“Perhaps I should guide you instead.” Eduardo tapped his lips vaguely.
“You know, I’m certain we’ve met. You seem quite familiar.”
His eyes sought hers and it made her feel out of the ordinary, made her feel
significant. Jenny suddenly swallowed. Jesus Christ, he made her think of sex.
“So,” he said, “How long have you been into interior design?”
What the hell did she do now? They strolled side by side. She cleared her
throat. “Not as long as you might think.”
“Considering Rafael’s remarks, I expected you to be older. He told me how
impressed he was. In fact he raved. Eminence comes in younger packages these
days, it seems.”
They turned along a panelled corridor. At the end was a closed door.
“This room takes pride of place.” He undid the door, waved her forward so
that she might go first.
Over his shoulder she could see a stone fireplace, window seats, panelled
walls. She squeezed past, delicately trying to keep her distance, and wondered
what his reaction would be if she accidentally brushed against him.
Inside, a couple of dark oak chairs were close to the fireplace. In the centre
was a large four-poster, soft drapes were over the walls. It seemed oddly familiar;
she must have seen it in a magazine somewhere.
“This is the room of La Dama de la Xara,” Eduardo followed her in.
“There are records for it dating back several hundred years. There are details of
every bedsheet, every piece of linen that has ever been bought. They say La Dama
de la Xara haunts the place. It’s become a local legend.”
“I think I read about her once, though I can’t remember when or where.”
“She was the eldest daughter of one of the owners, supposedly quite a
catch. They say she stormed off one night after she found her fiance© bedding a
serving wench in here, and was never seen again. Could have run off, but was most
probably murdered. They say she returns each year and drifts around to see if he’s
repented. Utter nonsense of course, but it sounds good.”
“I think it sounds sad.”
He smiled indulgently. “And what would you do with this room if you
were let loose?”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t touch it. There’s too much character here.
No matter what you did it would be destructive. In fact, it would be downright
desecration.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
Jenny peered through a leaded window. To the side was a hedge of
oleanders; below the window, a huge jasmine, heady with perfume. Gardens
stretched into the distance. She said wistfully, “This is like something from a film
set.”
“It is rather beautiful, I suppose.” He held the door open and motioned her
to it. “We’ll go to the west wing, if you’re ready.”
She gave the room one last look. “About the only thing I’d change is the
position of that chest. It doesn’t look right there. Is it a linen chest? It’s huge.”
“I believe so. I think it’s from the late sixteenth century. It’s beautifully
made.” He walked over to it and lifted the lid to show her the intricate carvings on
the inside.
“Well, if I had my way, I’d move it into the window bay. It feels as if it’s
in the wrong place. Perhaps have it slightly to the right of the window?”
“Juan only moved the thing from there a couple of years ago. We’ll have it
put back, if that’s what you think.” He closed the lid. “Shall we go?”
She went to the door and automatically turned to the left, but Eduardo took
hold of her arm. “Maybe I should go first?” he said prudently. “We don’t want you
getting lost.”
She moved to one side to allow him to pass, but their bodies locked and the
idea of sex came to mind again. She freed herself very carefully.
He said, “Your instincts are good. We’d normally go that way, but we need
to take a detour. We had a really bad storm a few weeks ago and it caused a roof to
fall. A lot of damage was done.”
She followed him without speaking until they reached the west wing. The
door creaked as he opened it. He said, “This room desperately needs work doing on
it. It’s a good example of its type, though. A secret room was added.” He waved
his hand. “It was a hellish time you know, the inquisition and all that. They needed
somewhere to hide.”
Jenny looked around with growing unease. This seemed familiar as well.
Was her tired mind playing tricks, or had she been here before?
“The secret room will also need work.” Eduardo pushed a lump of wood to
one side with his foot. “In fact, there’s a lot of renovation required all around.
However, there are other boorish people involved and I shall have to persuade
them first. I’d like you to draw up plans, though. We’ll worry about the work
later.”
She said, “Just think, all that violence and torture. I suppose evading it
became a way of life for most of them.”
“Or death. They used the inquisition as an excuse to settle scores. Evil
bastards!”
“It must’ve been dreadful cooped up like that, praying they wouldn’t
discover where you were hidden.”
“I guess for a lot of people it’s not so different now. The world’s a terrible
place.”
Jenny ran her hand over the arm of a chair. Years of work had probably
once buffed it to satin, but now it looked dull, lifeless. “I think I can picture what it
must have been like. Small tables and knobbly legs, tiny beds, perhaps a window
with moth-eaten linen drapes. I’ll bet it was like living in an oversized doll’s house,
loads of dust and must and heartache.”
Eduardo flicked her a curious look, reached for a lever hidden on the
underside of the sill, and pulled. There was a dull thud, a wall panel cracked open,
and he nodded for her to go through. She hesitantly pushed the panel and entered
the small doorway.
Jenny frowned and turned to look back at him. It was ridiculous, but she
knew the odour. She crept in. Immediately, the hairs of her neck stood on end. The
room was like a large doll’s house. In the centre was a dark oak table, legs with
chases, convolutions and ridges. In the corner was a tiny bed, and there were
threadbare linen drapes at the window. She damn well recognized every bit. Had
she dreamed it? How could you dream smells? She made her way out, felt stunned.
“So Elvira has shown you around after all. Very clever. Thank you for
wasting my time. What did you hope to gain by it?”
“No, wait!” Jenny stared with dismay as he strode into the corridor.
“We’ll go back to the main hall.”
She caught up with him. “A lot of places will be built like this I suppose?
You know, secret rooms and the like?”
“Didn’t Elvira tell you?” he said sarcastically. “This is probably the only
Finca in Valencia with one like it.”
“Elvira has told me nothing.”
“Benito Cabra designed the priest hole, he liked to dabble where he
shouldn’t.” Eduardo thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “He was a character by
all accounts. Did a bit of ducking and diving, was one of the nouveau riche of the
day. He was popular at the Spanish court. There was envy. It made him
vulnerable.”
They turned to the left as the corridor branched. Jenny walked by his side,
trying hard to keep up. He behaved as if she was responsible, but it was hardly her
fault. She cleared her throat. “I suppose all of this is well documented. There’ll be
books on it, photographs and suchlike.”
“I doubt it. Only guests will have seen it. Not that it’s confidential,” he
added, “It just isn’t public knowledge. Why should it be?”
Why did she know things? Jenny followed him back to the main hall.
Elvira was there and came over as he saw them. “Senor, the interior designer has
arrived.”
“Designer?” He stopped abruptly, frowned, turned to Jenny. “Then who are
you?”
“There hasn’t been a chance to tell you.”
“Don’t be absurd. Of course there’s been a chance.”
“I tried but,”
“Just who the hell are you?”
She turned from him but he gripped her arm and spun her back again.
“Are you one of their bloody spies? Have they sent you? What have they
told you?”
Elvira said, “I’m sorry I had to leave you, Senorita Bucknall. I looked for
you, but you were gone.”
“Senorita Bucknall? I know that name!” Eduardo glared fiercely. “I know
who you are. You’re the one in Juan’s will. The pretender to the bloody throne.”
“Everything is legal and above-board.”
“Is that what you think?”
Jenny strove for a cutting remark; none would come. Her mouth opened
then snapped shut without uttering a sound. Triumph skittered across Eduardo’s
face. She knew he understood her alarm, and probably derived pleasure from it.
“So, the usurper cometh. The English invasion in full force.”
“Get lost!”
Elvira said nervously, “Perhaps the Senorita would like cafe© con leche,
biscuits? I can prepare tea, if you prefer.”
“I suspect the Senorita is ready to take her leave.”
Jenny gave him a scathing look then strode from him towards the
housekeeper.
Elvira was anxious. “I hope Senor Garce­a looked after you all right? I’m
sorry I was so long. It’s a beautiful Finca though, isn’t it?”
Jenny nodded in dumb agreement, but she’d changed her mind. La Finca
Piedra was a bizarre place and she didn’t know if she wanted anything to do with
it.
As they neared the entrance, a woman swept past with barely a glance. She
was tall, elegant, dressed in severe black, as self-important as any person Jenny had
seen.
“A fine building.” Elvira frowned; her eyes unconsciously followed the
woman. “Absolutely top notch. It’s full of history. Did it rise to your expectations?
I’ve always loved the place. You’re very lucky.”
Jenny didn’t answer. High on the wall was a huge oil painting of her, and
she was absolutely naked. Her legs and arms were draped carelessly over a chaise
longue. Dark strands of unruly hair escaped in a provocative manner from beneath
a comb. Dangling from her left shoulder, covering nothing, was a thin fragment of
grey silk with a gold lion emblem sewn into the corner.
She suddenly felt sick. Who was doing this to her? This was part of no dream. That
silk scarf had been a birthday gift.

Copyright 2008 Anthony James Barnett. 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

BETH GAZED out the window of the limousine at the rain-drenched streets of downtown Portland. There was something about Oregon’s ‘City of Roses’ at night that appealed to her, especially around the holidays. It was two days after Thanksgiving, but Christmas had already made its appearance with the arrival of the seventy-foot Douglas fir at Pioneer Courthouse Square. She was looking forward to seeing the tree decked out in its hundreds of white lights. She could tolerate the man sitting next to her that much longer, she told herself, glancing at him from the corner of her vision.
Ian Heller, a plastic surgeon from Chicago, his eyes glassy and an unhealthy ruddiness to his plump cheeks from several gin and tonics, winked at her. “What do you say we skip the scenic tour and finish our business in my hotel room?”
Beth had to admit his offer didn’t surprise her. Though he’d seemed genuinely interested in her work with burn victims at Derma Definitions, and had been cordial over dinner, a voice in the back of her head had told her Dr. Ian Heller was no more interested in seeing Christmas lights than she was in visiting his hotel room. But she’d wanted to give Dr. Rivers’ colleague the benefit of the doubt.
So much for professional courtesy.
She was about to tell the good doctor what he could do with his suggestion when his clammy fingers slid under the hem of her wool skirt and clamped onto her thigh. Drawing a startled gasp, Beth slapped his hand away and slid to the forward seat.
“Touch me again,” she said coldly, “and I’ll break your hand.”
“Is everything all right?” the chauffeur asked through the open partition directly behind her.
Beth’s heart thudded, once. The man who’d introduced himself moments earlier as Tyler Stone had a voice as deep and lush as the velvet interior of his fancy car. When he’d emerged from the sleek, white limousine, his garrison cap pulled low over his eyes, his black uniform emphasizing long legs and broad shoulders, Beth had stared. Now there’s trouble, she remembered thinking for no apparent reason.
She slanted Ian a frown. At the moment, Tyler Stone was the least of her worries. Swallowing against the tight anger lodged in her throat, she addressed the driver. “I’d like you to drop me off at the nearest light-rail station, please.”
Tyler Stone brought the car to a stop at a red light. He turned and Beth got her first good look at his eyes, a flash of burnished steel in the bright lights of a shop on the corner. They were a sharp contrast to his short, coal black hair and slashed brows. Experienced. Shrewd. As if he can read my every thought. Beth felt a flush of heat that lingered, even as he looked away.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and the car started moving again.
Beth breathed a sigh of relief and settled back in the seat. It was a beautiful car, plush burgundy upholstery, polished oak accents, a sunroof, cellular phone, television, DVD and God only knew what else. Too bad I’m not going to have time to enjoy it.
She made herself look at the man sitting across from her. “It’s been an interesting evening,” she told him, “but this is where I get out.”
Ian had the audacity to look hurt. Under different circumstances his protruding lower lip might have been comical.
“The evening’s young yet. Where will you go?” he asked.
“Home. Alone.” Beth repositioned her black felt tam on her head, snugged the front of her belted wool jacket, and muttered, “While I still have some dignity intact.”
“But, honey–”
“I am not your honey!” Bile rose in Beth’s throat. Dr. Rivers is definitely going to hear about this! Her hand went to her side for her purse, but it wasn’t there. She’d left it on the seat next to Ian in her haste to escape his grope. She reached for it and the doctor grabbed her wrist.
“Not so fast,” he said, his voice thick.
Fear jagged through Beth, settled like a drum beat in her ears. “Let go of me,” she stated, trying desperately to control the sudden quaver in her voice.
Instead, the doctor yanked on her wrist. Beth gave an involuntary yelp and landed on the floor at his feet. She felt the carpet tear her hose, the burn of abraded skin on her knees.
“We have unfinished business.” Ian pushed his face close to hers.
His breath reeked of soured alcohol. He’d apparently had a lot more to drink than Beth had realized. His fingers dug into her wrist, but she resisted the impulse to fight his hold, knowing she was no match against his strength. But, oh, how she hated his arrogant attempt to control the situation. To control her. Her stomach plunged sickeningly as it all came back to her–the explosive moods, the threats, the humiliation.
And with the memory came cold, calculating rage. Not this time. Never again. Then her friend Samantha’s advice raced through her head. Confuse your attacker. It could buy you time to get free.
Beth decided if it worked for a woman who moonlighted as a nightclub bouncer, sometimes ejecting disorderly patrons twice her size, it was worth a try. She drew in a steadying breath, met Ian’s drunken gaze, and smiled. It felt stiff and unnatural, as if her face would crack from the effort, but amazingly the doctor’s grip loosened. Beth silently counted to three and jerked her arm back.
But instead of breaking free, as she’d hoped, the doctor retightened his hold. The momentum of her arm caused him to lurch toward her. Acting on reflex, Beth slammed the heel of her free hand into his face.
Ian let out a curdling howl. The limousine skidded to a halt and the doctor shot from the seat and landed on top of Beth, pinning her to the floor.
She struggled to breathe beneath his considerable girth. “Get off me you son of–”
A gust of cold air brushed her legs and the weight lifted as Ian Heller was pulled from the car.
“What the–” he sputtered, trying to get his feet under him. He landed on his rump on the wet pavement between two parked cars.
Tyler Stone braced his legs and hoisted the doctor to his feet as if he were no more than a bag of hot air. Ian jerked free. His nose was bleeding. From the floor of the limousine, Beth watched the two men face off at the edge of the road in the pouring rain, the street lamp spotlighting them as though they were on stage.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ian raged. “You were paid to chauffeur, not chaperone!”
“Then act like a man instead of an irresponsible ass.”
The chauffeur’s voice was as hard as the look in his eyes and a shudder rippled through Beth. As much as Ian Heller may have deserved it, she hoped he wasn’t stupid enough to physically attack the tall man in black. Something in the way Mr. Stone carried himself told her he had been in his share of fights. And he was used to winning.
Not that she’d been any easier on the good doctor.
Ian chose that moment to lift a hand to his upper lip. “I’m bleeding!” He looked from the red stain on his fingers to Beth. “You little bitch!”
He took a lunging step toward the car, but Tyler had anticipated the man’s move and slammed the door shut.
Heller whirled on him, angry indignation contorting his features. Tyler tasted metal and realized he was grinding the fillings in his teeth. He’d met men like Heller before. Self-important. Egotistical. Crude. He stood his ground, almost wishing the man would take a swing at him. Nobody talked to one of his passengers that way. And nobody manhandled a woman in the back of his limousine. He eyed Heller’s bloodied nose and resisted a smirk. Even if that woman is capable of defending herself.
He had to admit he wouldn’t have expected it of the petite woman he’d escorted to the limo. With legs that made a man look twice, he’d thought Elizabeth Heart alluringly delicate in her neat wool suit, her little cap barely containing a fire-storm of red-gold hair, her small chin held high. She’d almost made him forget about the rain slicker he’d left home, or the fact that Dan O’Connor, his relief driver, was supposed to have taken this job tonight.
Apparently Heller had misread the woman as well. Tyler studied the paunchy little man’s combative stance and cursed Dan’s timing. “You going to do it, or not?” he asked impatiently.
Uncertainty flicked across Heller’s expression. “You’ve got no right tossing me out like that.”
“It’s my car.”
“Dr. Rivers will hear about this. You can expect him to demand a full refund.”
“He won’t have to,” Tyler said, relieved the threat was gone. He’d never enjoyed settling matters with his fists, even when it had been the only way. “I’ll have his money in the mail by morning.”
A small group of passers-by had gathered on the sidewalk a few feet away to gawk. Tyler pulled a white handkerchief from his hip pocket and thrust it at Heller, causing him to flinch. “Clean yourself up.”
The doctor snatched the handkerchief and pressed it to his nose. “How the hell am I supposed to get back to my hotel?”
Tyler reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out a quarter and flipped it in Heller’s direction. “Call a cab.”
Heller caught the coin, his fingers forming a fist around it, and for an instant Tyler thought he might have to fight the man after all.
Then the doctor jammed the quarter in the pocket of his suit jacket and said, “You’re a sorry son of a bitch, you know that?”
Tyler gave a smile that held no humor. “I’ve been called worse.” Mostly by his own father, but that was none of this man’s business.
Heller stepped up onto the sidewalk and mumbled a parting four-letter suggestion of what Tyler could do to himself. Tyler chose to ignore it.
With the doctor’s departure, the gawkers began to disperse. Some looked disappointed that the argument had ended without a single blow. Tyler tipped his head back and closed his eyes, letting the rain pelt his face. His uniform was soaked, he’d lost a paying client, and his land-yacht of a car was blocking traffic. A perfect evening to match the perfect afternoon he’d had arguing with his daughter. Combing his fingers through his wet hair, he skirted the limo and got in.
The fragrance of roses embraced him immediately. He caught a glimpse of fire and gold in the rearview mirror and realized Ms. Heart had returned to the forward seat. Her face shone pale in the dome light, her green eyes stark. A small diamond stud winked from one ear. Tyler pulled his door shut, throwing the interior of the car in shadow.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m just great.”
Tyler heard the unsteadiness beneath her sharp tone. “Do you need a doctor?”
His lovely passenger gave an inelegant snort. “I’ve had my fill of doctors for one evening, thank you.”
The remark brought a rueful smile to Tyler’s lips. “You and me both, lady.” He eased the big car into the flow of traffic. He’d told himself it was none of his business, but couldn’t stop from saying, “I hope this guy wasn’t a friend of yours.”
“No. He was no friend.”
Beth leaned back in the seat and hugged herself as the city lights funneled away from her through the smoked rear window. She suddenly couldn’t seem to get warm. She made to smooth her hair and discovered her tam was gone. She reached down and searched the shadowed floor. As her fingers touched the soft felt, a truck pulled up behind the limousine, its headlights flooding the back so that Beth could clearly see the rip in her hose and the rug burn on her right knee. A moan of angry frustration rose in her throat. How could I have been so gullible?
“What is it?” the chauffeur asked.
The alarm in his voice only intensified Beth’s humiliation. I’m 31, for God’s sake! I know better….
The car stopped and Tyler Stone turned. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“The creep ruined my nylons.” Angry tears pressed at the backs of her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
She hadn’t expected him to understand, but when she met his gaze in the lights of the truck still behind them, she saw the sympathy in his burnished eyes gone soft. Kindness. In spite of her earlier premonition about the man, she realized she felt safe with him. A lump swelled in her throat.
“You handled yourself pretty good back there,” he said, his voice low and velvet-edged.
Beth swallowed hard and tried to smile, but couldn’t quite. “Have you been in many fights, Mr. Stone?”
“Call me Tyler. I’ve been in enough.”
“Then maybe you can tell me how to stop shaking.”
Something dark flicked across his expression, but his tone was gentle as he advised, “Take deep breaths. It’ll pass.”
The truck honked to let them know the light had changed. Tyler faced front and they were moving again. “Where do you live?”
“Just drop me off at the Square.”
“I can’t do that.”
Beth massaged the growing ache in her temple. “Then the nearest bus stop.”
“I’m not going to dump you on some street corner and ruin what’s left of my evening worrying about you.”
The curtness in his response drew her gaze again. In spite of the muscle that clenched in his jaw, he had a fascinating face. There was a deceiving innocence to his firm, sensual mouth and the way his straight nose tipped up almost imperceptibly at the end. Deceiving because she’d seen the passion in his anger. He was a man used to having things his way. And right now, his anger was directed at her. Yet, oddly, she wasn’t frightened.
“Why would you worry about me?” she asked quietly, and was surprised at his muttered oath.
“Not all of us are like Heller.”
Us, meaning men. Beth understood then and felt it tug at her conscience. He was trying to help her, trying to be chivalrous, and she hadn’t even bothered to thank him. A wry smile tugged at her mouth. Chivalry. Tyler Stone and his white ’steed’ had come to her rescue. If she hadn’t been so tired, she might have laughed at the whole crazy situation.
She gave him her address in the northeast Hollywood district and let the velvety interior of the car pull her into its warmth. Definitely more comfortable than the city bus.
“I’m grateful for your help,” she said. “And I’ll reimburse you if Dr. Rivers demands a refund.”
“I don’t want your money, ma’am.”
“What will your employer say to that?”
“You’re looking at him.”
She hadn’t been, but did now. Heat jagged through her and she looked away. “I don’t want to feel I owe you.”
Tyler wondered if it was just him she didn’t want to be indebted to, or men in general. “You don’t owe me a thing.”
Long seconds passed before he heard her soft, “Thank you.”
The difficulty she had saying it had him guessing it was more than tonight’s scrape with Heller that had taught her not to trust. He found himself wanting to know more about the woman behind the tough front.
But time, it would seem, wasn’t on his side as she extended her arm through the privacy window and pointed to a house on the right.
“It’s that one with Santa in front.”
A single-level brick house, like its neighbor on either side, sat tucked against the base of a low butte. Multi-colored Christmas lights framed a covered porch, and a three-foot tall Santa, his illuminated colors faded, stood sentry at the steps. The limousine dwarfed the red Geo and compact pickup parked side by side in front of the wide, two-story garage. A dog, a big one by the sound of it, barked from somewhere in back.
It was still raining hard. Tyler grabbed the umbrella from the floor and got out to open the rear door of the limo. Considering he was already soaked, he didn’t bother with his cap.
Expanding the umbrella, he took Elizabeth Heart’s hand to help her from the car. It was small and cool and trembled in his and touched some deep need in him to protect. She stood regarding him with those wide green eyes, her hair disheveled and her stockings torn, and he wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her nobody would ever hurt her again.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” he said.
She drew her hand back, tucking it quickly in the pocket of her short jacket. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll be fine. Thank you again for the ride.”
It came easier this time, as though she’d decided he didn’t pose a threat. Tyler was glad of that much at least. “It was my pleasure, Ms. Heart.”
Amusement crinkled the corners of her eyes. “It was a hell of an evening, wasn’t it?”
Tyler chuckled and pushed his fingers through his hair again. “Yes, ma’am, it was that.”
“Well…good night, Tyler.” She turned and walked toward the house.
Her belted jacket flared over her slim, rounded hips. Tyler watched their provocative sway, convinced she was unconscious of the effect. He continued to stand beside the limousine long after she’d produced a key and let herself in. His hair lay flat against his head and rivulets of water coursed down his face. He was wet to the skin. But he wasn’t cold. Far from it. He felt like he’d been pushed from an airplane without a chute, smack into the middle of a monsoon, and his blood was pumping hard.
Maybe it was her hair, like fire. Or the sound of her voice when she said his name, like aged wine, mellow and potent. Or the smell of her, like sweet, rain-soaked roses, that made him feel as if he’d suddenly lost control of his senses.
No. It’s her smile, he decided. He had the feeling she didn’t do it often, at least toward a man she’d just met.
The porch light went off, then the Christmas lights and Santa, and Tyler realized she’d probably been watching him from the window. Probably wondering why he was still standing out there like a fool. A wet fool, at that.
Good question.
He climbed into the limousine. He should have been upset over losing a fare, but he wasn’t. Meeting the lovely, enigmatic Elizabeth Heart had made the evening worth every penny.
As he backed the long car out of her driveway, he found himself regretting the fact that he’d probably never see her again.
***
“DAD, IS THAT you?”
“Yeah, baby,” Tyler answered, coming into the room.
Holly had her long legs curled under her on the couch and was watching TV in her pajamas, a bowl of popcorn on the cushion beside her.
Hardly a baby anymore, Tyler mused. Hell, she’s almost as tall as me and wears a 34B. But as long as she let him, he would continue to use the nickname he’d given her the day he’d brought her home from the hospital. Has it really been almost eighteen years?
His daughter sat up, her long, coffee-colored hair a tangle of curls, mild surprise in her dark eyes. “You’re home early. Did your client cancel?”
“Not exactly.” Tyler shrugged loose of his wet jacket, then on a weary sigh admitted, “I threw him out.”
Holly’s eyes widened. “What happened?”
Tyler dropped onto the other end of the old tweed couch. While he pulled his soggy shoes and socks off, he filled his daughter in on his evening.
When he got to the part where his lovely lady passenger had given Dr. Heller a bloody nose, Holly’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.” Tyler put his bare feet on the coffee table. His toes were wrinkled and white with cold. He laid his head back and closed his eyes.
“You forgot your slicker again, didn’t you?”
Tyler’s answering grunt was humorless.
“Have some popcorn.” He heard Holly scoot the bowl closer. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Tyler rolled his head and peered at her through a slitted eye. “Is this your dinner?”
“Nooo.”
Tyler’s gaze sharpened. He was too tired for any more sarcasm tonight.
“I had some of that leftover spaghetti,” Holly relented on an exaggerated sigh.
“Good.” Tyler felt guilty that he couldn’t always have dinner with his daughter. It was one of the disadvantages of being self-employed. Getting ahead meant long hours, even with Dan working for him part-time.
He helped her finish the popcorn and watched the last of the news. More rain was forecast for tomorrow. The college brochures were on the coffee table where he’d left them, untouched. Apparently nothing he’d said to her that afternoon had gotten through. After the sports report, he clicked off the television.
“So, have you given any more thought to what we discussed earlier?” he asked.
Holly cast him a self-suffering look. “I discussed, you yelled.”
“Holly–”
But she didn’t wait for him to finish. “How can I decide which college to go to when I don’t know what I want to major in?”
Tyler had heard the argument before. “There are a lot of opportunities in the medical field,” he suggested, for what must have been the hundredth time. He couldn’t help it. He liked the sound of Holly Louise Stone, M.D. Although after meeting Dr. Heller tonight, maybe he’d push for dentistry instead. It occurred to him that he didn’t know what Elizabeth Heart did for a living. She’d said Dr. Heller wasn’t a friend. Did that mean they were connected professionally?
“Maybe I’ll be a rocket scientist,” Holly grumbled.
“You’d make a good one.”
“Dad–”
“I know,” he interrupted, his smile bland, “you were just kidding.” He caught and held her gaze. “But I’m not. You’re smart enough to be anything you want.”
“But I don’t know what I want! Why do I have to decide now? Why can’t I just get a job, like you did?”
Tyler clamped down hard on his impatience. “We’ve been over this before, Holly. Grandma Lou left you that money so you could go to college and do better.”
The fact that he had dropped out of school his senior year wasn’t something he was proud of, even if his motives had been honorable. He had a pretty good idea where he’d have ended up if he hadn’t made the decision to claim responsibility for his baby daughter, if he’d allowed Holly’s mother to put their child up for adoption. Probably a jail cell somewhere, instead of the house his mother had been raised in. He’d been a seventeen-year-old delinquent with an attitude problem and parents who didn’t care.
“But you’ve got your own business now,” Holly argued. “You did fine without going to college.”
“I got lucky. And I worked a lot of crummy jobs for minimum wage. I don’t want that for you.”
“You can’t protect me forever, Dad.”
“Maybe not,” Tyler replied, the edge to his voice softening, “but I can see that you get the education you need to take care of yourself.”
Once again, he found himself thinking of Elizabeth, wondering if her knowledge of self-defense had been instinct or learned. He tempered the unbidden anger that shot through him. A woman shouldn’t have to use force to tell a man she wasn’t interested.
He looked at Holly. What would she have done in a situation like that? The fact that he didn’t know settled uneasy in his stomach. Maybe he should teach his daughter some of the things he’d learned on the street. But some of the things he’d learned, he hoped she never found out about.
“Actually, I was thinking of waitressing at the Meatmarket Restaurant,” Holly commented in an off-handed tone.
“Over my dead body!”
His daughter shot him a mischievous smile. “Honestly, Dad, you have no sense of humor.”

Read more about Her Phoenix Heart and Cindy Hiday HERE.

Copyright 2008 Cindy Hiday. 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.