Talitha
Page 26
The snow lay only an inch deep on the ground. The driveway, now black topped, was shiny slick with melted snow. The loop of the driveway held a new fountain, peaceful deer grazing by a sinuous stream, dry now that the winter freeze had come. In the spring, water would trickle musically over carved stones and delicate flowers etched into the base and pedestal.
The front steps were free of snow and ice, the massive doors already opening as they stepped out of the car.
“Cole,” Charles greeted him, taking his hand. “And Claire. Lovely as ever. How are the girls? My daughters can’t wait to see them again. They’ve become quite the babysitters.”
Cole held open the door, unbuckling one of the twins while Claire attended to the other. At four, they were becoming very independent, but the drive had made them sleepy.
“Daddy, where’s Mr. Pig? I want to take him in.”
Cole scooped up the sleepy child, fishing her favorite toy out of the seat and following Charles as he led the way.
Claire took Katrina’s slightly damp hand and led her up the stairs into the front door.
The foyer had been restored to all its grandeur, the crystal chandelier casting a glittering illumination over the room. The floor, refinished with gorgeous blue-gray tiles, reflected the light.
The bustle of a busy hotel was all around them, guests and workers alike filling the rooms with chatter and noise. The scent of pine needles and candles was intoxicating, the smell of Christmas in the country.
“Has it been a year since you’ve visited?” Charles asked, showing them up the stairs. “I guess it was around Christmas time last year.”
“Yes, well, we like to keep the kids home when we can,” Cole said smoothly, dropping Kathleen to her feet at the head of the stairs.
“You know Noel and Ben are scheduled to be in tomorrow. She said the place would be too dull without her. God, that kid of theirs is a terror.” Charles grimaced and led the way up the staircase.
Claire laughed, picturing her five-year-old godson running up and down the frozen aisles of the stately rose gardens out back.
They followed Charles to their rooms; Claire amused by his proprietary air. After becoming manager almost three years ago, Charles had made the place a smashing success. The rooms stayed booked almost a year in advance with men traveling miles for the excellent golf course and ladies enjoying the extensive gardens, numerous shopping choices, and day care for the children. Horses for riding, two swimming pools, and a five-star restaurant were included on the grounds. The proximity to the city, with both Louisville and Lexington in close driving distance, both hosting numerous sporting events as well as cultural affairs, was also a significant draw for the patrons.
Claire sighed with pleasure at the rooms. They always stayed in her old room when they came, the girls through an adjoining door to Noel’s old room. The door had been installed to link the two rooms several years ago, but their rooms had changed very little. The portrait still hung on the wall, the wise eyes of Cole’s ancestor watching them as they dropped their things.
“It looks great, Charles, thank you. Maybe after the girls have their nap they can see your daughters. How’s your wife?”
After a polite exchange, Charles left, sending a bellboy up with their baggage.
“You feeling well?” Cole asked softly, encircling her with his long arms from behind.
“I’m fine, just a little tired. Stop fretting,” she said playfully. “Let’s get the girls down and put our feet up.” She turned toward the curtained French doors. “Open the doors to let in the birds,” she said softly.
He smiled and scooped up the nearest daughter, taking her with him to the door where he threw open the panel. As though they had been waiting for their invitation, a line of four doves, each lovelier than the next, came soaring through the opening. They flew in an arc formation, lighting with barely a flutter on the footboard of the bed. Cole was still smiling as he took his daughter with him into the adjoining room, laying her on the twin bed with all the gentleness of a father’s love. Claire could hear them fussing about missing the birds, but she knew they would have plenty of time to visit later. Cole paused to smooth their daughter’s blond curls from her cheeks and stooped to kiss her on the forehead. He repeated the procedure with his second daughter before pulling the door partway closed.
“They’re out like a light. If Kathleen didn’t love the morning so much...”
“And Katrina the night...”
He grinned, “They just have to be different.”
Claire laid out her evening clothes, carefully unpacking the outfits for the next few days. She put them in the wardrobe, watching to make sure the birds were nowhere close to the fine fabric.
“I wonder if Etta will approve.”
Cole frowned at the dress she had chosen. “I doubt it. She likes brighter colors.”
Claire put away the blue dress thoughtfully. Etta and the doves were their only reminder of the horrifying events of that winter. No shadows of Beatrice or Henry remained, and they had discovered later that Michael, the last point of the twisted triangle, had died three states away, a bachelor of 86 years old. It seemed his spirit had apparently rested better than that of his victim or his co-conspirator.
Etta, however, had remained, tending to the one bedroom of the house as she had so many years ago, and visiting the turret room to light the lamp on occasion.
Only certain guests were invited to stay there in the haunted bedroom, and although almost once a year a scandal story was printed in the tabloids about the ghost house, nothing more had come of her continuing presence.
Cole had respectfully had Beatrice’s remains buried at the local cemetery, far from her murdered husband or her lover. Claire just hoped she had found some rest, although she was sure now that Beatrice, and not Henry, had caused any evil manifestations.
The painting was the one point of contention between her and Cole. She wanted it left alone, tucked in the little room. The basements were used for storage only, and even then, there were rooms that were not needed.
But Cole had insisted it be removed. Even if it hadn’t been her artistic talent, it had been Claire’s hand that had painted the picture, and he was strangely proud of it. After much debate, it had been trimmed down and placed in the clubhouse where the men admired the beautiful woman at the window, never realizing what had really lived behind those eyes.
Claire lay on the bed and relaxed, her eyes drooping. She enjoyed these visits now, but they were careful not to allow the girls out of their sight. Both girls had shown an unusual awareness of the history of the house, and Claire was afraid they might have inherited some of her sensitivity.
The year before, while traveling over the newly repaired bridge, Katrina had asked who the man sitting on the rail was. Cole’s face had paled but he had calmly asked who she saw. Her response had chilled Claire, but it hadn’t frightened the girls at all. “He looked just like you, Daddy.”
Claire had seen no more spirits but remained alert to her girls and their pretend play. She knew well one child’s imaginary friend may be something much more real.
Claire dozed lightly and woke to find both girls sitting on the bed. Each had a cooing bird on their chubby hand. Cole grinned at her from the chair.
“They wanted to wake you up. They’re hungry. Again.”
Kathleen studied her critically. “Mommy, when is my baby brother going to come out of your belly?”
Claire stared at her, sitting up.
“Who, sweetheart?”
“My baby brother. He’s in your belly, but I want him out so we can play. He’s little now. How long until he’s big enough to come out?”
Cole got up, walking over to the bed to sit next to Claire and lifting Kathleen onto his lap.
“You’re not?” he asked Claire, eyebrows raised.
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “I’m a little late but I never thought...”
Katrina spoke up insistently. “Can
we name him Bart?”
“You don’t name babies after dogs,” Kathleen snapped back.
“But Bart’s a good dog!” Katrina insisted.
“Girls, we don’t even know if we’re going to have another baby,” Claire interrupted.
“We know. We’ve talked about it. He’ll be a good baby.” Kathleen said, her voice very serious. “But we are not calling him Bart!”
Cole slowly put his arms out, engulfing them in a hug. “I am such a lucky man,” he said grinning.
Acknowledgments
This is an important book for me since it is the first that I completed and has undergone many rewrites. I must thank my readers who are trying out yet another genre with me. I do love a good ghost story!
About the Author
Rachael Rawlings is an emerging author of sports-themed westerns. This is Rachael’s third book.
Also by Rachael Rawlings
Book 1
Book 2
Book 3