Leaning forward, she scanned the mound of ledgers, envelopes and loose papers. “Is all of that his writing?”
“No, there are also letters here written to him from other people.” He sat back down next to her and bent over the box, flipping though the contents.
His knee brushed hers, reminding her how close he was to her. What a difference from this morning when he’d kept to the opposite side of the attic. Apparently after Karen’s visit he’d gone beyond thinking of her as a temptation.
He pulled a leatherbound ledger from the pile and placed it in his lap. “My dad thinks we may find something juicy among all of this. He says that one of Geoff’s sons hid a lot of his father’s effects from his mother and didn’t return them to the family archives until after her death.”
“Can I look through the letters to him?” she asked. “Maybe if I don’t rummage through his personal writing, he’ll allow me some privacy, too.”
He smirked but didn’t argue with her, handing her a stack of correspondence.
As she read through the letters, she soon found that they proved far more absorbing than the ones from Mariah Sulley’s chest. Many of them were from fans of the poet, including females making barely disguised--and sometimes boldfaced--propositions to him. Lara wondered if Geoffrey had ever responded to the women, or even met some of them. If he hadn’t gotten some kind of kick out of these letters, she doubted he would have kept them.
She finished her glass of shiraz, and Mark poured her another. The wine soothed her and, though she couldn’t exactly enjoy the research, their findings intrigued her. Whenever she or Mark came across an interesting passage, they read aloud to each other. At first he chose most of his excerpts for a chance to make fun of his ancestor’s romantic phrasing, but after a while, the examples of “barbed wit” that he quoted outnumbered the ones he mocked.
Lara pulled a particularly well-preserved letter out of her stack. Her heart sank when she spotted a familiar “M” on the wax seal. Turning it over, she saw that it was addressed to “G.” She stared at it, reluctant to unfold the paper. “Here’s one from Mariah Sulley.”
Mark met her gaze, his features solemn. “Well, if there was any doubt left, that confirms the lovers’ identities. Should we read it?”
“I don’t know. I’d say no, but maybe we’re meant to. Can you do it?”
“Sure.” He took the letter and read out loud:
My dearest G,
Your pain is contagious. I suffer every pang
along with you, and I can no longer endure this anguish. Pray meet me at midnight tonight at the kitchen door to my house. I have the perfect retreat for us. You are likely unaware that prior to the Civil War my ancestors aided with the Underground Railroad. They built a secret room
into our house, and it still remains. My sisters and I played there as children, but for years the room has lain undisturbed. After the rest of the household has retired, this haven will serve us well.
Your own tormented M.
For a long moment neither Lara nor Mark spoke.
At last he refolded the paper and set it on the coffee table. “Well, now we know that the secret room didn’t have a diabolic origin.”
“That doesn’t mean something terrible didn’t happen there later.” She looked away from him.
“I doubt Mariah committed suicide in the room, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Shifting on the love seat to face her more squarely, he lifted her chin to meet her gaze, his touch warm and tender. “If she had, someone would have found her note when the body was discovered. In that setting, the death would have looked suspicious enough that they would have scoured the premises.”
“I guess.” The reflection didn’t bring her much comfort. Reading Mariah’s letter had renewed her sympathy for the woman. She needed a break from probing into the past. “Can I use your bathroom?”
“Of course. You don’t have to ask.” He pointed her in the right direction.
Passing the bistro table, she dismissed the Victorian couple from her mind by reverting to her fears about Mark and Karen. In the bathroom she checked for evidence of a woman’s occupation. The sparse decor seemed appropriate for a man’s apartment. The room gleamed with cleanliness, but she felt safe attributing that to Mark. She didn’t stoop to peeking in the medicine cabinet but noted that the sink and shower area held no feminine toiletry products. So far she saw no indication that Karen kept any of her things here. Of course, that didn’t mean that they weren’t dating again.
When she got back to the living room, Mark was reading a different letter. He looked up at her with a funny expression. “I’ve found another one of ol’ Geoff’s brilliant love letters. This one addresses a woman with the initial R, but the words sure
sound familiar.”
Despite getting a bad feeling she took the paper from him and skimmed the meticulous handwriting. She glimpsed the phrases “exotic flower,” “a rose on the morn it blooms” and “our love will flourish fully.”
“Oh, my God.” She thrust the letter back at Mark. “How disgusting. He wrote the exact same things to Mariah.”
As the paper exchanged hands, chilly air skimmed the back of her neck, making her shudder.
Her gaze shot to Mark’s, but he looked down at the letter--so quickly that she suspected he too had felt the draft but didn’t want to admit it.
“It’s unfinished,” he said. “See? He didn’t sign it. He never sent it.”
“Big deal.” She took a step away from the love seat, then paced back toward him again. “He probably signed and sent out a hundred others like it. You were right all along, Mark. He was a real snake. I’m so disappointed. His poetry will never be the same for me.”
He stood up as if he meant to come to her, then stopped. She guessed he’d remembered Karen and thought twice about making physical contact with another woman. “I’m sorry this has ruined something that you loved. I wish I hadn’t shown you the letter.”
“Oh, I was getting the idea anyway.” She heard her voice reach a higher pitch. His hesitation to touch her revived her frustration over him and added to her annoyance. “You said it yourself: Women have intuition.”
He blinked. “I don’t know if that applies in this case. You thought the first letter was beautiful when you read it initially.”
“That’s only because I didn’t know Geoffrey Vereker personally. And Mariah’s problem was that she was so naive. A woman with experience knows when a man is toying with her. In fact, even she may have known but refused to accept the truth--like you said this morning. Why else would she have waited for his return from Baltimore when her cousin had warned her about him? Sometimes it’s easier to cling to little signs of hope than to admit defeat.”
“Maybe the situation wasn’t black and white for Geoff either.” Mark put down his ancestor’s letter and grabbed the one from Mariah. “He saved this letter that she wrote. She must have meant something to him, or he wouldn’t have kept this till the day he died.”
“He also saved fifty letters from fans making him propositions.” She pointed to the stack she’d read. “I’ll bet they all meant about as much to him as Mariah did.”
He shook his head. “I think I have as much intuition as you, and I suspect she meant more.”
“Why?” It occurred to her that Geoff’s presence in her house might indicate he was trying to resolve the rift between him and Mariah. She waited to see if Mark would confess to thinking along the same lines.
He looked down and set the letter from Mariah on the coffee table. “I don’t know. Intuition can’t be explained, can it?”
“You’ll have to do better than that, Mr. I-Need-Solid-Evidence. Intuition is grounded in observation.” The thought flashed in her mind that some observations contradicted others, like the fact that she’d seen Karen walk up to the apartment building with a casserole, but a couple of hours later both the woman and the dinner had disappeared without a trace. “I find it easier to believe in the existen
ce of ghosts than in Geoffrey Vereker’s loyalty.”
“I’m not saying he was loyal to her.” He met her gaze again, his brown eyes round and his focus direct. “We know that he was involved with other women, but we don’t know the nature of his feelings for any of them. He may have cared a lot about Mariah Sulley.”
She stared at him. Suddenly he’d become awfully protective about the ancestor he had always scorned. Was he talking about Geoffrey Vereker or really referring to himself? What was he trying to tell her--that despite his involvement with Karen, he might be interested in her, too? Well, sharing a lover was the last thing she intended to do.
“Sorry, but I think an adult man should realize he can’t have his cake and eat it, too. Someone always gets hurt in the end.” She bent down and picked up her purse from beside the love seat. “It’s getting late. I think I’d better go.”
“No, Lara, don’t leave like this.” He followed her as she brushed past the bistro table. “I don’t understand. Why are you so upset?”
“Use your intuition to figure it out.”
He grabbed his keys from the table and trailed her out into the hall, pulling the front door shut behind them. “Are you sure that you’re all right to drive? Remember--you’ve had a couple of glasses of wine.”
“I’m fine.” She marched downstairs with him still at her heels. “Thanks for having me over.”
When she paused to unlock the door to her car, he caught up with her and stood beside her. “I really am sorry you’re disappointed. I know Geoff’s poetry meant a lot to you. Maybe at some point you’ll find that you can separate the man from his art and enjoy the poems again.”
She shook her head to herself as she got behind the wheel and buckled her seat belt, yanking the strap tight across her lap. He totally didn’t see what was bothering her, but maybe that was just as well. At least he didn’t realize how hung up on him she’d become.
“Goodnight, Mark.” She started up the engine and put the car into reverse. He had no choice to step away and let her back out of the parking spot.
“Goodnight,” he called after her.
As she pulled out of the lot, she saw him in the rearview mirror, watching her drive off.
When he’d passed out of her sight, she stepped on the gas, still stewing over how clueless he was. Then another thought occurred to her: If he really didn’t understand what had upset her, maybe he hadn’t been hinting that he wanted to see both her and Karen. He had probably only been talking about Geoffrey Vereker after all.
He’d suggested that things weren’t often black and white, and now she acknowledged he was right. She also realized that she’d done nothing to clear up her confusion over his relationship with Karen. She should have asked him what was going on, like she’d meant to do before the Geoffrey and Mariah saga had sidetracked her.
Slowing down the car, she thought about turning around, but how could she go back and ask him that kind of question now, after making that kind of exit? Let him think that she was just upset about his ancestor tonight. She could talk to him about Karen some other time when she wouldn’t come off as hysterically jealous.
She reached home and pulled into her driveway, looking up at the house. Though she’d left the lights on in several rooms, most of the place loomed dark. Shadows in the nooks and crannies looked ominous. Was that a bat fluttering past the roof or just a falling leaf?
Getting out of the car, she slammed the door. Her emotions were running high and her patience low. She’d had such a long day that she didn’t have any strength left to waste on being afraid of her own house--not to mention that she was fed up with Geoffrey Vereker. If anything ghostly happened tonight, she refused to let it scare her. She wouldn’t give that two-faced jerk the pleasure.
She unlocked the front door and stepped into the foyer, flicking on the switch that lit up the main hallway. The area looked mundane, and the house stood quiet.
Nevertheless, as she started down the hall, she did get a feeling that someone was watching her. Intuition is based on observation, she reminded herself, trying to dismiss the sensation.
As she passed the door to the studio, a thud from inside the room made her jump. Frowning, she poked her head through the doorway and turned on a lamp. Immediately she spotted the volume of Geoffrey’s poetry lying open on the floor near one of the back bookcases.
She suspected that if she looked more closely, she’d find that the poem on that page held some sort of significance--but she refused to humor the ghost.
Taking a deep breath, she turned the light back out and continued through the kitchen to the back staircase.
As she climbed to the second floor, she swore that she could feel his presence behind her. For once her anger outstripped her fear, and she stopped and spun around.
The stairwell appeared empty.
“Leave me alone,” she said to the air. “I’ve had my fill of game-playing. If you want company, go to Mark’s.”
Chapter 13
Mark watched Lara’s car until it pulled out of his view. Down the street the engine revved, and he frowned to himself. He hoped that she wouldn’t drive recklessly. She’d only had about a glass and a half of wine, but she had been really upset. He wished he’d told her to call when she got home to let him know she had arrived--though in her mood she might have ignored the request anyway.
As he started back toward the building his keys jingled in his pocket. He could follow her to reassure himself, he realized. Running over to his car, he jumped inside and took off in the direction she’d taken.
She had too much of a lead for him to know exactly which way she’d gone, so he took his usual route through town. He didn’t see her during the drive.
When he got to her place, her car already stood in the driveway, empty. He let out a sigh of relief. Something under her hood crackled softly as the engine cooled. He looked toward the house and saw a light on the second floor come on. She’d definitely made it home safely.
Waiting a moment longer, he stared up at the window but didn’t see any movement inside. He wished he’d been able to calm her down back at his place, but the attempts he’d made had only irritated her more.
Beginning to feel like a Peeping Tom, he drove away.
As he retraced his path back to the apartment building he still felt surprised that Geoff’s letter to “R” had disturbed her so much. He could understand her disillusion--even he had felt disappointed--but she’d really taken the blow personally. He supposed Geoff’s poetry had once seemed heroic to her, making his artifice all the more painful.
A chilly breeze blew in the open car window, reminding him of her ghost speculations. Despite the creepy coincidences she had pointed out, he found it hard to believe that Geoff or any other spirit had visited them. He wished she wouldn’t give those ideas any more thought. That sort of thinking only spurred the imagination. Since she’d started with that kind of talk, even he had thought he’d heard a voice whispering something on a couple of occasions.
When he got home he locked up for the night and wandered to the living room. Spotting Lara’s unfinished wine on the coffee table, he grimaced. He’d hated to see her run out so quickly. If only he’d known how to talk some sense into her without coming across as overbearing...
Grabbing her glass to finish the wine himself, he sat down by the box of his ancestor’s effects. One positive result of this whole strange experience was that he’d gained an interest in the poet--only fitting, since the man was his great, great grandfather. Good and bad, Geoff was a part of him. Rejecting the connection hadn’t taken that away.
He picked up a stack of the poet’s letters and leaned back in the love seat to read.
Two hours later he could hardly keep his eyes open, but he couldn’t seem to put the correspondence down. Reading the impressions Geoff’s verses had made on some of his fans truly moved him. Many of the readers correlated significant events in their lives with passages in the poetry. Mark found himself wishing that
his own work inspired that kind of emotion. Maybe he needed to write something other than local history--something more grand in scope.
One more letter, he told himself, propping his elbow on a throw pillow, then I’ll go to bed.
Pulling a random sheet out of the stack on his lap, he unfolded the paper. When he saw the greeting he sat alert. The note was addressed to “M.”
He read the body:
My dearest M,
I hardly know what to write--a rare predicament for me. Leaving for Baltimore this morning will be agony. I can scarcely bear to relinquish your precious love for a day, let alone several weeks. The coachman has been waiting outside for an hour, but I haven’t had the will to set off. Though you and I said our good-byes last night, I am bursting with passion I wish I had expressed.
These past few evenings with you have left me in a state of awe. Your innocence is so refreshing. You make me see the world in a different light. Unveiling the mysteries of love to you has rekindled an ardor in me that I haven’t felt since my youth. Your guileless enthusiasm erases a decade or more of ennui.
I fear saying anything more. You threaten to make an honest man of me...
The letter cut off there, unsigned.
Staring at the paper, Mark whistled to himself. His jaded ancestor had nearly fallen for the ingenuous Mariah Sulley! The knowledge made Geoff seem considerably more human, despite the fact that he’d apparently never sent the letter. The old dog had probably turned tail and run away to Baltimore, putting Mariah safely out of sight and out of mind.
Mark had to admit he could understand that type of fear. How many times had he backed off from Lara, because he’d been afraid he’d get hurt the way he had with Karen? He wondered if Geoff had ever had an experience with love that had left him scarred. The poet’s reluctance to get involved with Mariah suggested it--in Mark’s eyes, anyway.
Folding the paper again, he shook his head. By leaving the letter unfinished Geoff may have given up his one chance at happiness. From what Mark had heard of his eventual marriage, it couldn’t have been satisfying. Family stories held that the poet’s wife had always derided his work. As a child, Mark had laughed over that. Now he felt sad.
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