The next swig of beer he took tasted bitter, and he set the bottle down on the coffee table. The taste lingered. He would have to remember not to buy that brand again.
The mistake aggravated him more than it normally would have, and he couldn’t entirely blame the beer. It was him. He couldn’t seem to do anything right anymore. He couldn’t even tell for sure if Lara was completely in the wrong or if he’d provoked her into getting militant about her house.
The minute he’d met her he had withdrawn and gotten curt, determined to resist any attractive woman at this point in his life. If he’d expressed his views in a friendlier way, she might have listened. He might have had a chance to influence her--and he’d blown it.
Sighing, he slumped back on the couch. Maybe he’d pick up his manuscript after all and see if she brought up the subject of the house. If nothing else, visiting her again would give him one last shot at seeing the secret room.
Meanwhile, Karen’s inquiries would probably stall the processing of the permit. If he was really lucky, the zoning board would straighten Lara out, and he could forget about this whole mess.
Chapter 5
Lara dabbed acrylic color onto a still life painting of fruit, trying hard not to glance over her shoulder. She usually lost herself in her work, but lately she couldn’t get past the feeling that someone--or something--was watching her.
Trying to capture the shadow of a pear, she took consolation in the fact that Di would be here for lunch any minute. Unfortunately she couldn’t count on her friend to rescue her from her isolation every day, especially since Di would be going to Cape Hatteras on Sunday.
Little prickles rose on the back of her neck. She spun around. Naturally, no one else was in the studio. Everything looked normal except for the bookcase, still jutting out slightly from the wall. Since she couldn’t get the damned thing back into
place, she wished she had the nerve to peek behind it. Maybe then she could shake off the creepy feelings she’d been having since learning about the secret room.
She just couldn’t bring herself to look.
Getting up, she started putting away her supplies in order to break for lunch. She wondered if Ron might know something about the secret room. But if she asked, and he didn’t, he’d only insist on taking a look. The last thing she needed was her ex-husband at the house berating her for the changes she’d made so far. For years her salary had paid off his home equity loans, and he’d never even given her a say in the decor. The fact that she now held the deed wouldn’t matter much to him either.
She went to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. While she was making sandwiches, a soft rap came at the back door. Looking up, she confirmed that it was Di, who knew enough not to frighten her by pounding at the front. She reached over and undid the latch. “Come on in.”
“Hi,” her friend said as she entered. She set her purse down on the counter and pushed her long, dark hair out of her eyes. “Hey, the floor looks great. When you told me about the bricks, I imagined a bunch of crumbling clay, but these are in really good shape.”
“Yeah, a few of them could use replacing, but overall it’s not bad.”
“Not bad at all.” Di walked into the center of the room and looked around in all directions. “The kitchen seems so much warmer. It’s hard to believe that someone thought this should be covered up with hideous linoleum.”
“At least the material was easy to tear up.” Lara sliced the sandwiches and set them on plates. “Thanks for coming over today. How’s the job going?”
“Okay.” Her friend stepped up to the sink and took two mugs from the dish rack, carrying them to coffee maker. “The work’s not exciting, but my discount should help me build up a decent wardrobe for school this fall.”
They exchanged a few more pleasantries and brought their lunches into the dining room. Lara had never moved the table back into the kitchen, it being too heavy for her. Instead she’d dragged the dinette chairs across the hall so the whole set now stood there.
“What happened here?” Di asked, nodding toward Mark Vereker’s manuscript, which lay spread over half of the table. Three days after he’d forgotten it, he still hadn’t contacted her about it--not that she wanted him to.
“Oh, sorry about the mess. This belongs to that guy
from the historical society. Remember that I told you he left his manuscript here the second time he stopped over?” She set her plate down at the clear end of the table. “My curiosity finally got the best of me, and I was looking at it this morning.”
“Oh, right.” Di took the place across from her. The signed copy of Mark’s last book was also on the table, and she flipped it over to the back cover, looking at his picture. “Wait a minute, this is him--Mark Vereker?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I went to school with this guy!”
Lara laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“No. How strange. I guess I’m not surprised that he turned out to be a writer. He was a whiz in English class. I have to say he always seemed nice back then, too--not at all the ogre you describe.” She looked more closely at the photo. “He’s even better-looking than he used to be. Are you sure he’s as bad as you say?”
“I only told you what happened between us. You can judge for yourself.” Lara bit into her sandwich.
“Well, maybe he’s been under stress lately. He may have a tight deadline to meet or something. Who knows? Did you happen to find out if he’s married?”
“Oh, please. He and I could barely say two words to each other without one of us flying off the handle. Of course, I didn’t bother asking if he’s available.”
Munching on her sandwich, Di skimmed through the bio beneath the photo. “There’s no mention of a family here. I’ll bet he’s single.”
Lara gave her a warning look. “Don’t even start.”
Her friend ignored her. “So, what did you think of his manuscript?”
“The part I read was pretty good,” she admitted. “I got through the first chapter during breakfast, and I hated to stop. Instead of just listing the features of a house, he sort of draws a sketch of life in it during the past. He made the story so interesting I felt like he’d swept me back in time.”
“I remember our English teacher once trying to get him to submit a short story of his to a magazine.” Di sipped her coffee. “He must be very talented.”
“What a coincidence that you went to school with him--well, maybe not, in such a small town.” Lara’s peek at Mark’s writing had made her wonder what more there was to him, but she didn’t want to show too much curiosity. That would only stimulate Di’s craving for matchmaking. Still, she asked, “You say he didn’t seem like a hothead back then?”
“Not at all. He was a very sweet guy. I guess the pressures of the world have soured him, just like the rest of us.” She grinned.
Though the comment was made jokingly, Lara thought it could be true. Preoccupied, she chewed on a bite of her sandwich. Certainly she was no longer the carefree girl she’d been ten years ago.
“I’ll bet you just caught him during a couple of bad days,” Di said. “I think you should make a play for him.”
Lara barely managed to swallow. “You’re crazy. He’s arrogant and manipulative, and he’s made it clear he thinks I’m irresponsible and apathetic. He obviously can’t stand me, or he would have come back for his manuscript by now.”
“Maybe he’s afraid you don’t want to see him.”
“I don’t.”
Di picked up her mug and swirled her coffee around. “But you said you liked his writing, and I’m telling you he isn’t really a bad guy. I’d think an artist and a writer would go well together--two creative types. Why don’t you take the manuscript over to his place? Seeing him on his own turf may give you a different perspective.”
Lara felt an unexpected hint of temptation. Mark’s writing had already shown him in a different light. She would have liked to see that pensive, soulful side of him in person--
but she wouldn’t admit it to her friend. She shook her head. “No way.”
They sat and chatted for another half-hour; then Di had to run back to work.
After seeing her off, Lara returned to the dining room, and the manuscript caught her eye again. Putting off clearing the dishes, she took a seat and picked up where she’d left off that morning. Before long she had finished the second chapter. Mark’s power of description intrigued her.
She straightened the papers carefully and slid them back into the envelope. She’d been wrong when she’d told him he had no vision. His imagination matched--or even beat--that of his ancestor.
The book he’d given her still lay where Di had left it. Remembering that she’d never read his inscription, she stretched her arm out across the surface and slid it toward her.
Opening to the title page, she read what he’d written:
Dear Lara,
The reason I like writing so much is because it gives me time to think before I make a statement. If I could rewrite the words I spoke to you yesterday, I swear I’d come off sounding helpful instead of pompous.
Since I can’t, I can only apologize and hope you’ll accept this book--my attempt to prove that I can be circumspect on occasion. If the writing does nothing for you, I hope at least the photos will appeal to your artistic sense.
Sincerely,
Mark
She put her hand up to her mouth. The words seemed so sincere, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to excuse him, when his second visit to the house had ended as poorly as the first.
Getting up to clear the dishes, she thought about her own behavior toward him. Hadn’t she been just as stubborn about her views as he’d been about his? He had no way of knowing the studio meant so much to her. And his own feelings about his parents’ house had probably made him react badly to her ideas.
After loading the dishwasher she went back to the studio, but the room felt cold and lonely. She’d had enough isolation for one day. Maybe her silly fears of being haunted were signals that she’d passed the stage of needing space after her divorce. Having a social life didn’t sound quite so intimidating as it had six months ago. She wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted, but she knew she had to get out of the house today.
Deciding to go for a drive, she went to get her purse. On her way to the kitchen stairs she spotted Mark’s manuscript again. He’d made a gesture of apology to her after their first tiff. Maybe this time it was her turn. Though she was tempted to read the whole thing before giving it back, this seemed like the perfect time to stop by his place.
She hunted through her organizer for his business card to see if his address was on it. It was, and she recognized the name of the apartment complex. The converted schoolhouse always caught her eye when she drove by.
Fifteen minutes later she entered the vestibule at the building and searched the names above the rows of mailboxes. “M. Vereker” stood out quickly, and she pressed the buzzer above it.
After a minute the intercom speaker crackled to life. “Hello?”
His voice sounded gruff, as if he’d been interrupted. Until that moment she hadn’t felt nervous. Maybe she hadn’t thought he’d be home. Now that she had him on the intercom she wondered if he might be busy.
“Hi, Mark.” She moistened her lips. “It’s Lara Peale. I’ve got your manuscript.”
The pause that followed made her bite her lip. I never should have come.
“Come up the stairs,” he said finally. “Turn right at the top. I’ll meet you in the hall.”
So he wasn’t going to ask her in. Feeling even more daunted, she took her time climbing the stairs.
The hall of the second floor still looked like part of an old elementary school. Emerging from the stairwell, she turned to the right.
Mark poked his head out of the first door, his expression bland. “It’s this one. Come on in.”
Though she’d received her invitation after all, he didn’t look happy about issuing it. She wished again that she hadn’t come but forced a smile as she stepped inside.
The smile wavered when a frowning redheaded woman stepped up beside him and gave her the once over. It was the obnoxious friend of the clerk at Town Hall! Today she wore a sleek burgundy-colored business suit, again with a short skirt. In comparison Lara felt like a frump in her paint-stained T-shirt and jeans.
Mark cleared his throat. “Lara, this is Karen Ridley.” He looked to the redhead. “Oh, I’m sorry. You said you’ve met, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” The woman glanced at him then looked back at Lara. “Suddenly we keep running into each other.”
“What a small world--or town, at least.” Lara looked back and forth between the two of them and got the feeling Karen was more than a friend. So he did have a girlfriend. Di would be disappointed. Strangely, she was, too. She supposed it was because she didn’t like this woman.
“Karen was just leaving.” Mark stood holding the door open, his features stoic. It appeared the two of them weren’t on such good terms after, all. Maybe they were ex-lovers.
The redhead faltered for a second or two but eventually took the hint. She reached up to a shelf on the wall and grabbed a clutch purse that matched the color of her suit to a tee. Walking to the door, she said to Mark, “I’ll drop off that shirt of yours soon.”
“Whenever.” He pressed his lips together.
She looked to Lara, her cat-like green eyes narrowing into slits. “Have a nice day, Ms. Peale.”
“You, too,” she murmured, her composure broken.
Mark shut the door as soon as the woman had exited. For a moment he didn’t turn around.
“I get the feeling I came at a bad time,” Lara said.
He let out a sigh but still wouldn’t look at her.
“Did you and Karen, um...once have a thing?”
He turned around and gave her a smirk. “You guessed it.”
She felt a little sick to her stomach--and more awkward than ever. Judging by his behavior, he seemed to be carrying a torch. She swallowed. “Maybe I should go.”
“No, it doesn’t matter.” He glanced at her, then walked past, looking at the floor.
“Here.” She held the envelope out to him. “I had another errand in town today, so I brought this with me.”
“Thanks.” He made another face, not quite a grimace but not a smile either. Taking the manuscript, he said, “You didn’t have to bring this by. I was going to print out another copy.”
“Oh.”
There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, then he said, “Can I make you a cup of coffee?”
“Are you sure I’m not intruding? If you’re in the middle of something, I’ll go.”
He shook his head, tossing the package onto a small bistro table that fit snugly into the wide front hall. Across from the table an archway opened, the edge of a refrigerator showing around the corner. He stepped into the kitchen, out of her view. “I owe you a cup of coffee.”
Not exactly an entreaty for me to stay, she thought, inching farther into the hall. He obviously hadn’t gotten over that Karen person. Why am I even here? A guy hooked up with that bitch couldn’t be the saint Di described.
On the other hand, maybe he’d have to be.
While he fixed the coffee, she scanned the towering walls in the front hall. Beside her hung a group of black-and-white photos, apparently shot in Paris in the nineteen-twenties or so. She moved forward to look at a larger print above the table and recognized Van Gogh’s “Cafe Terrace/Night.” Peeking into the kitchen, she admired the retro decor. Evidently Mark had varied tastes. She’d thought his place might look something like a Victorian museum.
“I’m surprised you came over. You could have just called.” Standing at a small counter between the sink and stove, he scooped ground coffee into a filter. A prolonged view of his backside led her to decide he looked best in jeans.
“I knew I would be in the neighborhood.” She sat down in one of the two chairs at the bistro ta
ble. Her statement, she told herself, was basically true. She lived in the neighborhood.
“Yeah?” He switched on the coffee maker and turned toward her. “What errands are you running today?”
“Besides bringing you your manuscript? Well, I’ve got to pick up a few things at the supermarket. I’m not good at keeping the fridge stocked. I end up having to hit the grocery store every other day.”
He walked over to the table and took a seat across from her. “Did you get everything on your agenda done yesterday?”
It was a strange question for him to ask, but her mind wandered before she pointed that out. She stared at a pair of unlit tapered candles between them, pushed off-center by his manuscript. A napkin holder and two coasters added to the cluttered surface. Wondering if he’d often made dinner for Karen here, she said, “Yes, I had to get a prescription for my mother and...do a couple other things. Believe it or not, I even have the kitchen floor completely uncovered now. All I need to do is move the dinette set back.”
As soon as she’d spoken, she worried that he might think she was fishing for help from him--which she by no means wanted. She’d find a way to take care of the table on her own. She added, “My friend Diane has promised to help me do it.”
“Karen mentioned she saw you in Town Hall,” he said, practically on top of her words. A hard edge had crept into his voice.
Had Karen told him about the building permit? She really was a bitch.
On the slim chance that he didn’t know, she decided not to volunteer the information. Luckily she’d had more than one errand at the office. “Yeah, I stopped to pay my property taxes.”
The coffee maker let out a discordant sputtering, as if protesting her half-truth. Breaking their shared gaze, Mark got up and went into the kitchen. His silence gnawed at her, and she raked her brain for another topic to talk about.
She cleared her throat. “I hope you don’t mind, but I read some of your manuscript this morning.”
Eternally Yours Page 6
