Bed, Breakfast, and Beyond

by Bonnie Gardner

  Then she locked up the house and headed for her own lonely bed.

  ****

  For someone who claimed not to believe, Corrie had proved very perceptive, Ben mused as he closed the door behind him. He didn't bother to switch on the light, but maneuvered the short distance from the door to the bed using the scant light from the moon. It did feel as though someone or something had been pulling their — no, her — strings tonight. He'd seen the slight tremor that had run through her just before she'd asked him to kiss her. And he remembered the brief sensation of being cold himself the night before when they'd gotten so carried away. It had even happened that first day in the lobby when they'd been looking at Cory and Ham's wedding portrait.

  He glanced at the empty wash basin and the spot on the floor where he'd found the broken pitcher. Ben knew that everything had to do with the house and its ghosts. And he also knew that Cory or Ham or both of them were showing remarkable restraint by stopping before they went too far.

  Ben lowered himself to the bed and bent to remove his shoes. But why? Why stop them? Ben was more convinced than ever that Cory and Ham wanted to use him and Corrie to… He shook his head. Though the thought had been nagging at him all afternoon, he couldn't allow himself to believe the notion. Not even to himself.

  But Corrie had seemed to sense something too. How had she put it? She said she felt as if she were being manipulated.

  And if it were true that Cory and Ham were waiting, then why were they waiting? What did they have to gain? He smoothed the coarse fabric of the bedspread and stared off into nothing trying to erase the thought that kept tormenting him. Why couldn't they just do it now and be done with it? For that matter, why hadn't they done it years ago?

  Maybe the library downstairs held the key. Corrie had told him that there were journals and diaries. The family albums might be an invaluable source of information. Ben laughed softly as he eased out of his pants and pulled his shirt over his head. He really didn't have to read the journals.

  He really didn't have to search through dusty archives.

  He threw off the light chenille spread and stretched out on the lonely bed. Why wouldn't he admit that he knew just what Ham and Cory wanted? And why were they waiting? Of course! The third of June. Did they have to wait until the exact date to make the circumstances right?

  The blades of the ceiling fan twirled slowly above him, making the sheer draperies on the double French doors wave in their sultry breeze. His thoughts swirled around him as fast as the fan cut through the quiet summer evening.

  He tossed and turned and punched the pillow. Anything to get comfortable enough to sleep. He laughed softly, ruefully. Comfort had nothing to do with it. It was the thoughts that kept him awake in the night. And they'd keep at it even if he were sleeping on a cloud. "It isn't just about what Cory and Ham want anymore," he muttered to himself. "I want it too."

  Chapter Eight

  After finally drifting into fitful and restless sleep, Ben woke with a start. Vaguely disoriented, he looked around the dark room. Oh, he knew where he was, he realized as his mind cleared.

  It was the when he wasn't so sure about.

  Ben rubbed his eyes and yawned and stretched, hoping that the mechanical, automatic actions would help clear his head and banish the notion that seemed less and less far-fetched as time went on.

  But when he looked again, nothing had changed. Or everything had, depending on your point of view.

  The room still superficially resembled the chamber he'd finally fallen to sleep in. As far as he could tell, the furniture was the same. Or, at least, the pieces were identical in style and finish to what had been there before.

  A slight breeze fanned him, and Ben realized that the French doors were open, the sheer lace curtains fluttering in the breeze. He hadn't left them that way, and the ceiling fan was off. Ben glanced up. No! It was gone.

  The broken pitcher was back in its place in the wash basin. Or one similar to it, Ben amended. It was hard to tell what he was seeing in the murky light.

  He detected the faint scent of roses, which, he rationalized, could have drifted in through the open doors from the garden outside. But he couldn't account for the bentwood rocker, which sat in a corner where none had been before.

  Ben squeezed his eyes shut and looked again. The chair was still there, rocking gently back and forth, and…

  Someone was sitting in it.

  At least, Ben thought it was someone. There was a decidedly female shape there, blurry and indistinct. The woman wore a long, white gown, with lots of lace and ribbon just like the one in Cory and Ham's wedding picture.

  "This used to be my room whenever I stayed here, you know," the vision commented softly. She ran her hand lovingly over the scarred arm of the chair. "My mother used to rock me in this chair when I was a baby. And when I was older, I'd rock my dolls here. Or I'd just sit and dream," she explained in a distant, yet very clear voice.

  Ben was certain that he understood the words; he just wasn't sure he really could hear them. "Cory?" he managed in a hoarse whisper.

  "Good, you can see me," the woman said with some measure of satisfaction, but she shook her head. "I'm not her — Corrine. Though I must admit that she does bear a passable resemblance to me."

  Struggling with the sheets to keep himself decently covered, Ben pushed himself upright. "What do you want?" He winced as his voice reverberated through the silent night.

  She got up then and seemed to drift toward him, bringing with her the scent of summer roses. "I don't know really. I've not been able to talk to one of our residents before, though I expect that one or two people may have seen us. Ham and I have been watching the inhabitants of Venable House over the years." She sat down on the edge of the bed though the mattress did not shift or creak with her weight. But then, why should it?

  "But why can I see you now? Why me?"

  Cory shook her head. "I can't answer that, for I truly do not know. Perhaps, it is because, as you told Corrine, you're sensitive to us." She shrugged.

  "Is your husband here?" Ben glanced around the room, so similar to the one he'd gone to sleep in.

  "No. Ham has gone to bed in the West room."

  "To sleep? You sleep?"

  Cory laughed, a bubbling, musical sound. "No," she explained. "But Ham likes to pretend we have a normal life… like mortals… when we're here." She sighed. "But, of course, we do not."

  "You mean you have been awake and aware of us all this time?" Of course, it was quite possible that he was not awake himself, Ben reminded himself.

  "I don't think so," Cory answered thoughtfully. "It just appears that from time to time I am. Sometimes great periods of time pass between visits and other times only days. Lately, though, both Ham and I have been restless as if something is about to happen." She reached toward Ben, and he had to force himself not to back away.

  He felt her touch as she gently stroked the line of his jaw and caressed his lip with the tip of her finger. It wasn't a solid, human touch, but more of a wish. Yet, he felt something, a slightly chilly but not unpleasant fluttering, similar to what he'd felt before. When he'd thought he'd walked under the breeze from the air conditioner vent.

  Cory withdrew her hand. "Oh, how I long to be able to touch and feel." She sighed and smiled sadly. "You do look a great deal like my dear Hamilton, though he would not dream of allowing his hair to be so unkempt." She grinned then in a very appealing and non-ghostly way. "I do like the way the world has changed since I … lived."

  She rose, again without impacting the mattress, and drifted away from the bed.

  Ben reached out and tried to catch her hand to pull her back. His fingers closed on cool, thin air.

  "There's one thing I've been wondering about a good deal lately," Cory announced, abruptly turning back. "We were taught that when one… ceases living, he or she goes to walk with the Lord. Or perhaps to the other place. Why is it that we seem to be trapped here?"

  Ben ran a hand through hi
s tangled hair and drew in a deep breath. He had really hoped that she would know the answer to that question. How could they complete their earthly business if they didn't know what it was? He exhaled.

  "My education and experience tells me that… spirits…" He wondered how carefully he should word his explanation. Would she be offended if he used the word ghost? "Spirits sometimes stay stuck on the mortal plane when they have unfinished business to take care of." Ben waited anxiously for Cory's response.

  "Business? I have no business. My only occupation was to be married and be a wife and mother. Of course, Ham was always poring over his books and ledgers. Perhaps, he left something undone."

  "I don't think unfinished commerce is what's keeping you here." It was all Ben could do to keep from blurting out what he had been suspecting. He certainly didn't want to suggest something that might give the ghosts ideas.

  "Of course, we never had the chance to live as husband and wife or raise a family." Realization seemed to make her pale face glow. "That must be it! I must tell Ham!" Cory hurried away, seeming to fade into nowhere.

  Ben watched her disappear. He knew that he'd be wide awake after what he'd just seen — or thought he had. But surprisingly enough, he drifted right off to sleep.

  ****

  The jangling alarm nudged Corrie out of peaceful sleep full of pleasant dreams about Ham Jordan. Or was it Ben who had made such sweet love to her in her dreams? Whoever it was, Corrie had wakened feeling as fresh and alert as any non-morning person could be. After her bad morning yesterday, anything would have been an improvement. She tossed her covers aside and eased out of bed. There was no sense in pushing it by leaping around so soon.

  She fumbled her way to the shower and stepped into the stinging spray, allowing the water to warm as it ran over her. She didn't like being pelted by ice water, but it did do the trick in closing her pores and opening her eyes. By the time she had scrubbed herself clean, she was awake and reasonably alert.

  That in itself was enough to please her. It assured her that what had happened the previous day wouldn't be the norm. She chalked up her foul mood of the morning before as first-day jitters. She'd gotten over the hump. She'd made it.

  Feeling almost cheerful, she dressed and let her hair dry naturally. Then she made her way to the kitchen for the coffee Vanessa was sure to have ready. She might be in better shape than she had been yesterday, but she still needed her jolt of caffeine to jump-start her brain.

  She followed her nose into the kitchen, savoring the rich aroma of fresh coffee, thick and laced with chicory. Vanessa might like those syrupy, fruit-flavored blends, but at least, she had the good sense to brew up the high test variety for the real coffee drinkers. She pushed open the door. "That coffee smells like just what I need, 'Nessa. Pour me a c—"

  Corrie looked up and stopped short.

  Vanessa was not alone in the kitchen. J. R. Jessup leaned casually against her butcher block, sipping a cup of coffee as if he belonged there.

  And she'd thought that Vanessa had made the coffee for her. She managed a welcoming smile, though. "Good morning, J. R. What brings you here so early on a Sunday?"

  "I thought I'd check on that part for the generator. Sure would hate for you to lose your power come the next storm."

  Corrie felt the corners of her mouth twitch, and she tried unsuccessfully to hide the resulting smile. "J. R., J. R., J. R. If that part hadn't arrived yesterday afternoon, what makes you think it would be here now?" Corrie knew exactly why J. R. was there, and she wanted to be sure J. R. knew she knew it too.

  "All right," he admitted, putting his coffee down and raising his hands in mock surrender. "You caught me. I just wanted some time with Miss Vanessa here."

  "As if I didn't know that." She chuckled. "So, have you made your introductions?"

  Vanessa handed her a steaming cup of black coffee. "We're just fine, girlfriend. In fact, J. R.'s taking me into Mobile for supper tonight," she answered, making no effort to conceal her delight.

  J. R. took a deep swig of his coffee then put the mug down carefully on the counter. "I think it's time for me to leave you to your girl talk," he said, looking decidedly uncomfortable about the turn in topic. He nodded his head toward Vanessa. "I'll see you at six," he murmured and backed out through the swinging doors.

  "Well, good for you. I've always thought Junior — J. R. — was a nice guy." Corrie took a sip of her coffee, relishing the instant surge of energy it gave her. "I have a date tonight too. With Ben," she added unnecessarily.

  "I knew that man was interested in more than just ghosts," Vanessa answered smugly. She glanced toward the clock on the stove. "It's a little late for him this morning. I wonder what's keeping him."

  ****

  Usually one who rose with the sun, or at least the birds, Ben was surprised to discover that the sun was well above the trees. It wasn't exactly high noon, but the late spring morning was well on its way.

  Ben rubbed his eyes and yawned. Remembering what he'd seen — or dreamed maybe — he took a quick inventory of his surroundings. Everything was as it should be. Everything was right where it had been last night before he'd gone to sleep. Maybe it had been a dream after all.

  Knowing that he had only one more day to finish his research, he tossed the covers aside and rolled out of bed. Yawning, he strolled over to the French doors, now properly closed, and pushed the curtains aside. He could tell by the way vapor was already beginning to obscure the distant gulf that the day promised to be a hot one. He glanced at the milky sky, already dulled by the heat haze, and wondered if it presaged a storm.

  He let the curtain fall back into place. What did it matter? All his research could just as well be done inside.

  He turned to collect his shaving kit. As he reached for the compact leather bag, he noticed something on the edge of his peripheral vision. There on the floor, almost on the exact spot where the ghostly rocker had been, lay a small, white rosette. Just the kind that might have adorned the clothing of a turn-of-the-century woman. Particularly, on a wedding dress.

  There it was on the hardwood before him: concrete proof that ghosts existed or at least that one had visited him the night before. He bent to pick up the tiny furbelow and examined it, holding the delicate thing carefully in his hand.

  Was it his imagination? Or did the air still hang thick with the scent of roses? He brought the tiny rosette to his nose and the fragrance of roses grew yet stronger. Was it possible that Cory Venable had worn rose-scented perfume?

  He would have thought that the fragile piece of satin or silk — he was no expert on those things — would have been old and yellowed. But this was white and crisp and looked like new. But then, Cory had not aged. Why would her clothing?

  "Cory?" Ben felt odd about speaking out loud to someone or something that might not be there, but he had to try. "Are you still here?" He waited for an answer.

  The silence deepened and the ticking clock began to echo like a time bomb waiting to go off. Ben shrugged and headed for his shower.

  Maybe that would clear his head.

  ****

  Corrie polished off a second piece of sausage quiche and sighed. She could really get into this business of having Vanessa cook for her every day. "Vanessa, if these first two days are any indication, our guests are going to come away very satisfied." She laid down her fork and pushed back her chair.

  "And very fat. You sure you needed two pieces of that, girlfriend? It ain't exactly low calorie." Vanessa removed the plate as if she were afraid Corrie would go back for thirds. "Um, um, um. Looks like I don't even need to scrape." She shook her head disapprovingly. "What did you do? Lick it when I wasn't looking?"

  Chuckling, Corrie got up and crossed to the coffee pot. "No, girlfriend. I just managed to pick up every delicious morsel. Sure beats those toaster pastries I've been fixing for myself."

  Vanessa glanced toward the gleaming eight-slot toaster, her eyes wide. "You didn't."

  Enjoying the joke, Corr
ie rushed on. "Absolutely. I'm sure I've had a pastry in every one of those little slots at one time or another. Does a good job on freezer waffles too."

  Vanessa bent over the toaster to examine it. "Well, it looks okay," she murmured doubtfully. She turned to Corrie. "From now on you keep your…" She shuddered. "Keep your junk food out of my equipment."

  "You'd think I'd contaminated it or something." Corrie poured herself another cup of coffee and shook her head.

  "Humph." Vanessa made a disapproving face and shook her head until her heavy, beaded earrings rattled. "How would it look if the guests found out we'd been cooking those… those things in here?"

  Corrie sipped at her coffee and looked at Vanessa over the rim of her cup. Speaking of guests, she wondered what had happened to theirs.

  She had no reason to wait around for Ben; they hadn't made any plans for the day. Only the evening. Thoughtfully, she slipped back into her chair. Yet, she found herself glancing toward the door that led from the kitchen to the dining room.

  "I thought I heard him walking around up there. He'll be down soon."

  Corrie started to protest Vanessa's assumption, but snapped her mouth shut. She and Vanessa had known each other since they were two shy kids on their first day at Challenger Middle School. They could each read the other as well as Adventures in Reading, their seventh grade literature text. She didn't even try to hide the blush. "I don't want this food to go to waste," she stated stiffly.

  Vanessa just grinned, her even white teeth shining out of her dark face. "It'll warm up just fine in Mr. Microwave." She strolled over to Corrie and patted her on the back. "Sure is nice of you to be so considerate of your guests."

  "Well, we are a service industry."

  "Anything you say, Corrie." Vanessa paused. "Didn't you say you were going to church this morning?"