Bed, Breakfast, and Beyond
by Bonnie Gardner
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
BED, BREAKFAST, AND BEYOND
Copyright © 2012 BONNIE GARDNER
ISBN 978-1-62135-104-7
Cover Art Designed by For the Muse Designs
Edited by Kay Springsteen
To Mud. Gone, but not forgotten.
Prologue
June 1903
Venable House
Bayou La Batre, Alabama
Hamilton Jordan tugged at the stiff collar of his wilted white shirt and his formal tie as he stood in the anteroom of Venable House. He struggled to contain his impatience as he waited for Vannie to remove her apron and collect the worn carpet bag she carried with her everywhere. As the tie came loose, the elderly black woman bustled in from the kitchen, planted her sensible shoes on the polished parquet, and stood, hands on hips.
"You sure Miss Cory won't be needin' me tonight, Mr. Ham? Surely, she'll be needin' help with all her stays…"
Ham swallowed a chuckle and managed a smile. "I think I can help her with them, Vannie."
Vannie, obviously flustered, dropped her carpet bag, drew a short little breath, and turned abruptly. Ham couldn't tell if he'd shocked the old woman, thanks to her ebony skin and the dim light in the room, but judging from her sudden turn, he had. Ham tugged open one of the huge double oak doors.
"Now, don't you worry, Vannie. Cory and I will be fine," he told the woman, glancing over her grizzled head toward the road. Heat lightning had been flickering on and off all evening, and now a cool breeze cut through the sultry air like a knife. "It looks like a storm gathering, and you have a long way to go."
The gentle reminder must have done the trick, for Vannie picked up her bag and turned. "I reckon you right, Mr. Ham. And I do want to see my new gran'baby." She turned back to Ham and smiled, her teeth gleaming in the darkness. "It ain't ever' day that I get me a new gran'baby and Miss Cory get her a new husband both." She chuckled, deep and low in her ample belly. "Land sakes, the Lord sure do work…" Still mumbling to herself, she hurried spryly down the wide front steps.
Ham stood for a moment, watching Vannie scurry down the oyster-shelled lane shaded by live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. He should have offered to drive the old woman the two miles to her daughter's home but she'd said that her son-in-law would meet her at the turn. He'd dismissed the rest of the staff, and he had a bride waiting.
The low sound of thunder rolled over him, and Ham spared another glance toward the road where Vannie had disappeared around the bend. The wind rattled more insistently through the two young magnolias that flanked the entrance to Venable House, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Ham shrugged off a shudder and pushed the door closed, the wind snatching it from him and slamming it shut.
As he forced himself to take the time to ensure that all the doors and windows were secured and shuttered, Ham let his mind play on what would happen later. He pulled off his necktie as he crossed the great hall and all but tore the buttons off his coat as he took the stairs two at a time.
The candles in the sconces along the gallery wall flickered and danced with the wind coming through the window at the end of the hall as Ham paused at the top of the stairs to get his bearings. He probably should close that window too, but it was on the leeward side of the house and protected by an overhang, and they might need the cooling breeze later. He took a calming breath; there was no sense in frightening Cory with eagerness. After all, they had all night.
And the rest of their lives.
Feeling only marginally calmer, Ham forced himself to take a deep breath. Then he rapped gently. "Cory, dearest. It's Hamilton." He waited, cocking his head toward the closed door.
"Perhaps she didn't hear me," he muttered. He raised his fist and prepared to pound, but the door moved inward with the first blow, allowing Ham to push it open.
"Cory, are you ready for me?" He was so ready for her. He glanced around, wondering if his bride was cowering in the dressing room as he'd heard that young women were wont to do on their wedding nights. And he hoped fervently that Cory wasn't. He stepped inside the room, shedding his coat and laying it across the inviting four poster bed. "Cory?"
A gust of wind parted the sheer curtains at the opposite end of the room and pushed the door shut behind him.
As he jumped in reaction to the sudden noise, Ham noticed movement by the window, and he crossed the room, heading toward the French doors that opened onto the balcony. "Cory, what are you doing out there?" he shouted over another blast of thunder as he pushed the blowing curtain aside.
Cory turned, still dressed in her white lace wedding gown, her unbound, coppery hair streaming around her in the rising wind. "Oh look, Ham. Isn't it just magnificent?" She gestured toward the storm and turned back into the wind, hair streaming behind her. Leaning out, her hands on the wrought iron railing, she offered her face to the wind.
Ham, transfixed, stared at his new bride standing fearless in the gale. A bolt of lightning ripped through the glowering sky, exploding in one of the trees that edged the lawn. A sharp tingling replaced the chill from the wind and Ham shivered. Something worrisome niggled at Ham's brain. What was it he'd remembered about lightning?
He'd heard tales of men being struck down by it, and hadn't Mr. Franklin proved that iron attracted it? And Cory was out there leaning on the wrought iron railing!
Ham lunged for her, jerking Cory roughly away from the rail as another shaft of lightning sliced through the sky.
Chapter One
The Venable Inn
Present Day
"…and the housekeeper found them lying there by the double doors in their marriage chamber, fully clothed, and locked in each other's arms the next morning. There wasn't a mark on their bodies, and no one could explain why two seemingly healthy people could have died together on what was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives," Corrie Wallace read from the tourist brochure to the man on the phone.
She sighed and put down the flyer. "That's really all I know about them. It's a romantic story, Dr. Chastain, but I've never ever seen anything that would indicate that they're haunting the place."
She listened as the man on the other end of the line explained that ghosts could manifest themselves in other ways than clanking chains and howling. Corrie smiled as he tried to convince her to let him investigate. "All right, Dr. Chastain, you've worn me down. You can be my test guest. We'll see you soon." She hung up the phone and folded the pamphlet back up.
"If that story doesn't bring 'em into the place in droves, nothing will, girlfriend."
Startled, Corrie looked up to see her friend and partner in the Venable Inn standing, hands on hips, her short cropped black hair haloed in the huge double doorway, her tall, thin figure making her look like some sort of stylized African doll with a bright grin on her dusky face.
"You think there's something wrong with it," Corrie answered dully as she laid the pamphlet back on the stack and placed the lid back on the stationer's box. That's all she needed now, to find out that she'd spent all that money on trash.
"Nothing is wrong with it," Va
nessa Brooks replied, shaking her head so hard that her dangling earrings rattled. "Not if you want the place filled with ghost hunters day and night." She paused. "Which you do." She dropped her suitcase in the doorway and gathered Corrie up in a warm embrace.
"I thought you'd never get here," Corrie murmured as she returned her friend's hug. "We've got our first guest due in two weeks and there's so much to do." She wriggled out of Vanessa's clutches and stepped back. "How was your trip from Huntsville?"
Waving her manicured hands in front of her, Vanessa grinned. "Don't you go changing the subject, Corrie. I thought we weren't planning to open until Memorial Day weekend." She placed a hand on her slim hip, swathed in a bright African print. "The trip was long, but okay." She shook a finger at Corrie. "When I agreed to come into this Venable House venture, I expected you to use my money for inspiration; I wasn't planning on providing perspiration."
Corrie chuckled. "If I ever thought you were going to be a silent partner, I was sure wrong. Look around. Most of the hard stuff's done. All that's left now is the shining and polishing." Corrie stepped back, taking in the rich trimmings, darkened with age, but still beautiful.
When she'd been laid off her job as a computer systems analyst in Huntsville, Alabama's equivalent to the Silicon Valley, she'd grasped at straws, hoping to make the monstrosity of a house she'd inherited into a working bed and breakfast inn. It had taken hard work and most of her and Vanessa's savings, but she'd managed to pull it off. She'd even gotten a couple of contracts for freelance computer work to get them through the rough spots.
Vanessa waggled her long, sculpted nails. "Just remember, girlfriend. I don't do windows."
Corrie looked down at her own work-stained hands and grimaced. "Guess one of us has to be pretty for the guests. It might as well be you."
"Just as it should be," Vanessa fired back, grinning. "Now, what's this about a guest in two weeks?" She leaned back against the counter to listen.
Tucking a strand of flyaway hair behind her ear, Corrie shrugged. "He made an offer I couldn't refuse – money."
"I've never been one to turn down ready cash, but it won't be fair to take his payment if we're not ready." Vanessa took a long, appraising look of the room. "I guess we can make it. Who's coming?"
"Some literature professor from the University of South Alabama. He's doing research for a book on Southern ghosts, and he heard about Ham and Cory." She picked up the box of brochures and stashed them behind the registration desk. "I tried to tell him that, as far as I know, there haven't been any reports of ghosts, but he wanted to take a look anyway. And he offered to help us if we needed it. What could I say?"
"Now I see what you mean about an offer you couldn't refuse. What's he like?"
"I don't know, Nessa. I've not met him. He sounded okay on the phone. He's an English professor. What do you think?"
Vanessa pushed herself away from the counter and went back to the front door, chuckling as she went. "Oh girl, I can see him now. Some decrepit, old white-haired professor. Can't see him being much help."
"It was nice of him to offer…" Corrie responded lamely. "And, we're pretty much done anyway. Come on. I'll show you around."
****
"I don't know, Ham," Cory murmured, looking down from the upstairs landing. "Strangers traipsing through my house. It frightens me."
This was one of those times when Ham really regretted not having a corporeal shoulder to offer his bride. It had been hard enough to see her but not touch her for all these years, but not to be able to hold her when she needed comforting was worse. "I know, Cory. But what can we do? We've lived here for over a hundred years, and we've never interfered with the family's business. We'll just have to make the best of it."
They drifted aside as Corrie Wallace and Vanessa Brooks passed them.
"But that's just it. They were family. They belonged here. If Corrine opens her inn, we'll have strangers running amok through the house." A pensive look crossed Cory's face as she looked after Corrie and her friend. "What if there is something we can do?"
Ham managed a soundless, patient sigh. "What do you want us to do, haunt them?"
Cory shrugged. "I know we haven't done it before, but it's worth a try."
****
Ben Chastain drew the car to a stop at the spot where the questionable lane entered the main road. He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head and squinted at the map. Mobile and its environs were as familiar as the back of his hand, but he'd never been to this part of Mobile County before. With the exception of the paved road, he could have been driving in another, slower century. Trees overhung the road, dripping Spanish moss, and what houses he'd seen were old and set far from the road. He drew in a deep breath, got his bearings, and lowered his shades. According to his map, the Venable Inn should be just around the next bend in the intersecting road. Ben put his car in gear and steered onto the shaded, oyster-shelled lane.
The house sneaked into view, peeking from behind two magnolia trees so old they must have been there since the last century. Ben paused, engine idling, as he took in the sight.
He wasn't disappointed in what he saw. Standing in refurbished splendor across a manicured lawn was a huge, Italianate-style home, newly painted an eye-pleasing shade of sand with the iron trim work blackened to a perfect contrast. If this place didn't have a couple of ghosts as proprietors, it should have. Not because it was scary or spooky, but because he couldn't imagine anyone ever wanting to leave.
Ben took another moment to absorb the scene, then he turned the car into the drive. He wondered about Miss Corrine Venable Wallace as his tires scrunched along the newly-shelled drive.
He hadn't been able to tell much about his hostess from their several phone conversations. Each time, she'd seemed friendly but frazzled, but in no way had he been able to tell anything about her. Probably an old maid or a widow who needed to make a living from old, family property, he supposed.
As he neared the house, he noticed a figure kneeling in the well-kept flower beds. Swathed in a baggy work shirt and jeans, hands covered with gloves, and topped with a wide-brimmed, straw hat, it was difficult to tell much about the person, except that she was female — no man would cover up that much just to get sweaty and dirty at work. For that matter, no young woman. This must be Miz Wallace.
The woman looked up as Ben halted the Mustang in the area designated for parking. By the time he had swung out of the car, she had risen to her feet and was coming toward him, her gloved hand shading her eyes.
"Are you Dr. Chastain?" The voice asking the question was soft, warm, and… young.
"Yes ma'am. Miz Wallace?" Ben caught a glimpse of porcelain skin and red-gold hair as she lowered her hand to reveal sea-green eyes twinkling from beneath golden brows. A rosebud mouth widened into a smile that showed perfect white teeth. He'd sure made some wrong assumptions.
"Call me Corrie." The swathed vision chuckled as she took off her hat, peeled out of her gloves and stuffed them in the hat's bowl. She extended a small hand toward him. "It's nice to meet you."
Ben closed his hand over her tiny, white one, and warmth radiated into him from her slender fingers. With that fair skin, no wonder she'd covered up like that. He'd hate to see what the sun would do to it. "I'm Ben. I don't even let my students call me doctor. I always feel as if someone will expect me to perform emergency surgery."
Corrie smiled. "You're certainly not what I expected."
Ben returned the grin. "No, I reckon not." And you sure aren't anything like what I expected either, he didn't say as he followed her inside.
****
Corrie blinked in the sudden gloom of the foyer as she ushered Dr. Chastain — Ben — inside. She shouldn't have been so unbalanced by seeing that Ben was not the tweedy professor she'd expected. And she certainly shouldn't have gone weak in the knees when he'd shaken her hand. Guilty on both counts, she shook her head slightly.
And why not? The man who'd turned up on her doorstep was no agin
g professor. He had the build and coloring of someone who spent his time out of doors. His thick mane of wavy, sun-streaked, blond hair looked like it belonged to a concert pianist, and the large, long-fingered hands certainly looked the part for a piano master.
Taking a moment to let the cool, air-conditioned air flow over her and, more importantly, to compose herself, Corrie waited to speak until her eyes adjusted. Ben stood quietly, appraising the room. Corrie hoped he liked what he saw — and not just about the inn. Good word of mouth would go a long way toward bringing in business, she convinced herself.
Anything to keep from admitting that she might possibly, just a teeny bit, be attracted to Dr. Benjamin Chastain in his worn jeans and faded polo shirt that stretched over a very un-professorial chest. And she'd trade her orange locks for that shoulder-length blond hair any day! She sure hadn't had any Lit professors like that at Auburn.
Feeling foolish, she shook herself out of her woolgathering. "Let's get you registered, then I'll show you your room." Corrie crossed the small lobby to the reception desk, Ben following her — she hoped. She circled around to the other side to look for the guest book. It wasn't on the lower rear counter where it was supposed to be. "That's odd," she said more to herself than to Ben.
"Oh? What's that?" Ben stopped his assessment of the high ceilings and lowered his gaze to Corrie.
Corrie could have gotten lost in the deep blue sea of his eyes, but she managed to answer. "The registration book. It's gone." She bent to look into the shelves built below the work space.
"Are you sure you remember where you put it?"
"Yes." Corrie straightened. "I left it right here." She ran her fingers over the empty spot where the book had been. The wood felt cool and smooth and very empty of one large book. "I put it out this morning just for you."
Ben frowned. "Hmmm. Maybe it's one of those ghosts you say you don't have playing a trick," he suggested, his sensuous lips widening in a lopsided grin. The expression reminded Corrie of Elvis Presley's one-sided smile.
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