She glanced out the front window and saw Mark Vereker getting back out of his car, holding a writing pad. In another moment he would be coming up the walk. She had to pull herself together and present her plans for the house to him in a positive light. If she got this grant from the historical society, she could finally build a real studio.
Combing her fingers through her hair, she took a deep breath. Ron had always made it difficult for her to pursue her art--maybe out of some sort of jealousy. Now that he was gone she intended to dedicate herself to her work, and revamping the studio would be the first major milestone in her new life. Making a good impression on Mark Vereker today could mean a huge difference for her in the future.
Too nervous to wait for his knock, she walked back into the current studio. Maybe she would try softening up her guest with some small talk. So far, making conversation with him had been surprisingly easy.
Though he hadn’t responded well to her questions about his ancestor, she thought the poet might still prove a good choice of topic. She would probably fare better if she simply expressed her admiration for Geoffrey Vereker instead of asking Mark for information about him. The poet had to be a great source of pride to the family.
Chapter 2
The late Geoffrey Vereker, who in life had won modest fame with his poetry and utter notoriety with his womanizing, floated around his haunt on a summer afternoon, utterly bored with his existence. Ennui, he’d long ago concluded, was his personal hell. Life for him had been an ongoing chase after adventure in one form or another, and the afterlife had proven the same--only with far fewer successes.
He glided down Main Street in Falls Borough, the town where he’d been born and raised. Though his haunt ranged to any place he had traveled during life, he found himself coming back to his hometown more and more frequently. What did it matter where one wandered when one could do so little anywhere?
A pretty redhead walking out of Town Hall caught his attention. Ah, here is some excitement worth pursuing. Geoff drifted closer to her for a better view.
She turned in his direction and sauntered toward him. Tall and elegantly dressed--for her times, in any case--she was a little slimmer than he preferred. As she approached him he sucked in his breath, admiring her green eyes. Her complexion was fair and faultless, precisely as he liked--though he rather wished she had long flowing locks, instead of the short modern coif she sported.
Reaching an electric traffic light, she stopped and waited at the crosswalk.
Geoff inched up beside her to study her profile.
All at once she put a hand up to her mouth, as if suddenly recalling something. She turned away from the light and strode at him--promptly walking through him.
“Oh!” Shuddering, she nearly stumbled in her spiked high heels. She directed a horrified glance over her shoulder toward him, but her gaze sliced through him. Shaking off her discomfort, she hurried on her way.
Geoff hovered behind, scowling to himself. This was the extent of his contact with women! He could inspire only fear in mortal females, and he had never met a female spirit--or a fellow male one for that matter. Though he occasionally might have sensed another ethereal being, making contact loomed beyond his abilities.
Well, if he’d learned one thing in the last century, it was that pining away only made his circumstances seem worse. He let out a great sigh and floated off, choosing the direction opposite the way the redhead had gone.
Having been out of town for several months, he decided to check up on a favorite local beauty. He’d first noticed the woman the previous autumn on the day her husband had moved out. Taking in the scene at the house, Geoff had been titillated. Divorcees had always intrigued him because of their worldliness. Soon he’d found, to his delight, that this one often read his poetry! From that moment on, the lovely blonde had held a special place in his heart.
As he neared her residence today, he spotted a strange man in front of the house. A jagged stab of jealousy ripped through him. A mortal man could do what he could not--touch the lovely divorcee. Still, it remained to be seen whether the woman actually liked this fellow. Trying to stifle his fears, he floated closer to see what would happen.
The man looked to be fetching an article from one of those motorized carriages people drove these days. As he pulled back out of the vehicle, Geoff glided over next to him. When he got a good look at the fellow, he started.
A Vereker! He would have known that profile anywhere--and because it had shown up in his own hometown, he felt doubly sure. That the man who could potentially steal his divorcee from him might be a relative didn’t lessen his resentment. Over the years he’d run into many of his descendants, and few of them had impressed him. Though occasionally one dabbled in writing or another fared well with the ladies, none had seemed to encompass enough of his own personality to interest him much.
The man stood up straight and revealed his full height, a good six foot. As he stepped onto a slate walk that led to the house, Geoff conceded that the fellow might have some presence. Though his drab attire obscured his physique, a long, easy stride showed he was in shape befitting a relative of Geoff’s. In fact, the ghost rather thought he saw a bit of himself in the man’s sweep of black hair and wide-set brown eyes. The mortal’s nose was stronger and straighter, but he rested easy, knowing that the fair sex had always admired his own rather delicate nose.
As he watched his flesh-and-blood counterpart climb up to the porch and rap at the door, he wished with all his soul that he could trade places--but he couldn’t. What would he do if his descendant managed to get where he himself could not with the divorcee? He wondered if there were any possibility he could enjoy the experience vicariously.
The twinge of distaste he felt at the thought told him it wasn’t likely.
To Geoff’s displeasure, the mortal opened the door himself, signifying some degree of intimacy with the divorcee.
“Lara?” he called.
So her name was Lara. He had wondered what to call her. That her name should be similar to that of Petrarch’s Laura seemed fitting, for Geoff could imagine this woman being his own earthly muse...if only he could still write. As it was he had no access to an ethereal pen and paper, and he couldn’t usually manipulate physical objects unless in a fit of extreme rage.
After a moment’s hesitation the mortal Vereker let himself in, stepping slowly, clearly tentative.
Geoff made a wry face. The fellow must not have been on completely familiar terms with the lady, despite seeming somewhat expectant of a welcome.
“I’m sorry,” a feminine voice sang out from a room beyond. “Here I am.”
The ghost followed his descendant into a barren drawing room. The lady emerged from a door in the back, and Geoff gaped. She was even more lovely than he had remembered.
On the upper half of her body, she wore a sleeveless bodice, fitted closely enough to demarcate the pertness of her breasts. Her eyes were among the bluest he’d ever seen. He had always liked the way her golden curls suggested a hairstyle more attuned to his century than the current one. But what truly tormented him now was the glory of her legs, flaunted under a pair of those shockingly short pantaloons that modern women wore in warm weather. Good Lord, but he wished he had been born a century later!
Biting his fist, he forced himself to stand back so as not to give her a blast of unexpected coldness. But if he’d had any doubt before, he felt certain now that he couldn’t bear to see his mortal counterpart have her when he could not.
The fellow was--for some unimaginable reason--observing the ceiling. He pulled his gaze down and nodded to the lady.
Geoff frowned at the indifferent greeting. Didn’t his descendant know that a man should always make a woman feel like she was the sole object of his attention?
In return the lady flashed him a smile that made her face radiant and--Geoff thought with pain--boded well for the recipient.
His descendant didn’t even seem to notice, looking back up at the ceili
ng. As he observed some unfathomable feature of interest there, the fool actually strode away from her into the center of the room.
Geoff stared, amazed that it looked as though he might be spared the anguish of further jealousy after all. What was wrong with this fellow? Could it be that he was dutifully leg-shackled? But no, a glance at his left hand showed he wore no wedding band.
Uncertain what to think of the mortal, Geoff resolved to stay and watch what transpired. The fellow was now turning about the room, apparently surveying the walls. Though he seemed disinterested in the lady, Geoff would not take any chances. If his descendant made a move on his Lara, he swore he would foil the man’s efforts.
* * * *
Mark Vereker made a slow pass around the parlor, only half-seeing the antique crown molding he meant to study. The proximity of Lara Peale behind him was too distracting for him to concentrate on anything. She must have been eager to hear what he thought of the house, but with her so close to him he couldn’t even think straight. The woman was so gorgeous and glowing with life--unlike him these days--that he felt in danger of making a fool of himself.
He glanced back at her and she beamed at him. She had sunny California looks that seemed out of place in this old Victorian on the East Coast. He tried to return her smile but felt his lip twitch. The attempt must have looked ridiculous.
Turning back to the ceiling, he wondered what to make of her. She seemed kind of flaky--which didn’t surprise him with her being a creative type. His ex-girlfriend, Karen, had been an interior decorator and could get pretty eccentric at times.
The thought of Karen made him frown. After they’d split up, he’d promised himself a long break from women. Now, only a month and a half later, here he was getting worked up over another artsy type–another divorcee. He’d seen what sort of baggage came with that. After eight months of dating him, Karen had gone back to her ex-husband, a man she’d never had a good word about. The last thing he needed was another woman recovering from a marriage.
Lara walked around to his side and cleared her throat, obviously trying to get his attention. “It’s so strange that I was reading your ancestor’s poetry just last night and then today you walk into my house.”
“Hmm.” Purposely not meeting her gaze, he tried again to focus on the architecture of the room. The poet had always been a sore spot with him. As a child, he’d been disgusted that the
one famous person in his family had gotten that way writing sissy love poems. These days his opinion hadn’t changed much. He’d recently tried reading some of old Geoff’s work again and found it nauseating--especially after his experience with Karen. At the moment he wasn’t too enthusiastic about love.
“Do you feel a draft?” Lara rubbed her bare upper arms.
“Maybe a slight one.” He frowned. “That’s strange. When I ran outside, it seemed to have warmed up again.”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “Anyway, I mentioned earlier how much I love Geoffrey Vereker’s poems. You must be very proud to be related to him.”
He made no comment.
“The vivid imagery he uses is what grabs me,” she went on. “For me, reading his poetry is something like what we were saying about reading old letters--like stepping into another world for a moment.”
She obviously didn’t realize her effusions were wasted on him, but he wasn’t about to tell her. He had no desire to dally here arguing with her about what constituted worthwhile reading. Her love of trite poetry only convinced him more thoroughly that she must be a bit of a flake.
Glancing around, he said, “Well, I guess I’ve seen most of the parlor. Shall we move on to another area?”
“Oh. Sure.” She went to one of the window seats and retrieved her iced tea. Her legs were slender and beautifully shaped, but he forced his thoughts on what she was doing. He noted that the padded surface of the seat didn’t seem like the safest place to keep a drink. If she spilled sugary tea all over the antique wood, she’d have a real mess to deal with.
He turned toward the back of the room, where a set of pocket doors stood partly open. “Do those lead to a second parlor?”
“Yes, and that’s the scene of my master plan.” She darted in front of him and gave him a wide grin. “My ex’s family always used this next room as a library. Unlike in here, most of the wood is painted with a thick caramel-like stuff that sucks up light like a sponge. But I plan to open up the space and convert it into a real art studio. Right now it serves as a makeshift version.”
“‘Open it up’?” The phrase put him on the alert. He wondered if she wanted to knock out any walls--not always a good idea in a house this old.
“Wait till you see what I have in mind.”
Grabbing hold of one of the pocket doors, she put all of her sparse weight into pulling it the rest of the way open. She smiled again. “Come on through to the studio.”
He followed her into the second parlor, where she motioned for him to join her at a large drawing table. As she rushed to push aside strewn layout papers and art books, he looked around the room, shocked by the mess.
Aside from the table and two wooden stools in front of it, the main furnishing was a large red couch, not old enough to be called antique but enough to have grown shabby. A scarred end table beside it held a lamp that had also seen better days. Two of the walls sported built-in bookcases coated with the dark varnish she’d complained about. About half the shelves held books, while the remainder overflowed with tubes of paint and other art supplies.
On the far wall, a pair of floor-to-ceiling windows stripped of treatments allowed sunlight to fall on an easel and a cluster of canvases, the visible ones primed but unworked. Stained drop cloths littered the floor, and occasional streaks of pigment had escaped onto the light-and-dark parquet.
He could feel his blood pressure rising as he took in the disorder. Such a great house deserved far better care.
A familiar odor drifted to his nose, and he sniffed at the air. Recognizing the smell, he scowled. “You’re not using linseed oil in here, are you?”
She nodded. “I usually work in acrylics, but at the moment I’m also doing an oil painting. I figure I have plenty of time with the summer off from teaching.”
“My God, you could burn the place down.” He stooped and gathered up the rags. A year ago one of the most impressive houses in town had burnt to the ground in a fire that started due to the same sort of debris. “Linseed oil can heat spontaneously. You can’t leave these lying around.”
“Don’t worry.” Frowning, she took the rags from him and set them on the corner of the drawing table. “I know enough to dispose properly of oily rags, but I was in the middle of using these when you came to the door.”
He glanced around the room again. “Where’s the painting you were working on?”
“I have it in the closet at the moment.”
“That doesn’t seem like a good place to keep it.”
She clenched her teeth. “I’ll take it out when you and I are finished our interview.”
He didn’t care if he was annoying her. She obviously didn’t understand the value of a house like this, not only materially but historically. And if she didn’t see the light after living here for five years, he doubted he could explain it to her. Closing his eyes, he took his note pad and pen into one hand so he could massage his temples with the other.
“What is it--sinus headache?” she asked. “I may have something I can give you.”
“No, thank you,” he snapped. He tossed his things onto the area of the drawing table that she’d cleared. “Can we sit down and talk about your ideas for the room?”
She blinked at him but eventually took a seat.
As he pulled out the other stool, she slid a sketchbook from a corner of the table into the center. Her arm brushed up against his, and his skin tingled.
He nudged away, bothered that he could still be attracted to her now that he’d seen how careless she was. Again he was reminded of Karen. As far as
his ex had been concerned, her interior decorating took precedence over any practical considerations, and in the end, she’d used the same lack of logic in personal decisions. From what he’d seen today he gathered that Lara Peale was cut from the same cloth.
“Since you don’t feel well, I’ll get straight to the point.” She flipped through her book to a draft of a floor plan. “Though the windows in here are large, the dark wood neutralizes the light. To make the room suitable for a studio, I’ll need virtually a whole wall of glass. What I plan is to knock out the outside wall, build a small addition, and line the new wall with French doors. Since the roof over the addition will jut out from the house, I’ll install skylights, too. Wait--I’ve got sketches of how I expect the end result to look.”
As she began searching through the pages again, he held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t bother. I’ll tell you right now that you can’t knock out an exterior wall. Frankly, I’m shocked you’d want to. Would you really sacrifice two original pocket windows for cheap contemporary doors?”
She pursed her lips. “I admit I had reservations, but, all considered, the need for serviceability won out. I’m not going to throw out the original windows. I thought I’d use them for something else.”
“Like when you’ve torn down a wall in some other part of the house?” He couldn’t prevent a note of scorn from seeping into his voice.
“Yes.” She stared at him for another moment, then looked down and snapped her sketchbook shut. “Well...you sound firm in your disapproval of the studio wall--the biggest of my ideas. Does that mean if I decide to go ahead with the plan, you won’t recommend me for the grant?”
“You can’t go ahead with the plan.”
Her focus shot back to his face, her blue eyes huge with apparent disbelief.
Eternally Yours Page 2
