Thoroughly Modern Amanda

by Susan Macatee

  “Would it be all right it I took this?” Jack glanced at Bradley. A slight scowl crossed his face. “You can keep the frame,” Jack hastily added.

  Bradley’s scowl changed into a smile. “Deal, dude.”

  Jack opened the back of the frame, carefully extracted the old photo, and handed the frame to Bradley. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind before settlement? With renovations you’d get a good price for it.”

  The young man’s scowl returned. “My uncle just wants me out of his house as soon as possible. Seems the land is worth more than the house.” He glanced toward the living area. “And he wants the settlement to go through before I go.”

  Jack sighed, wishing again he could buy the property before settlement took place next week. He was sure he’d never convince the new owners to renovate when they were bent on building new homes.

  He tucked the photo into his jacket to protect it, then offered his hand to Bradley. “Sorry to disturb you then. Good luck with your gig on the coast.”

  Bradley broke into a wide smile. “Thanks, dude. Sorry you came out for nothing.” He escorted Jack onto the porch.

  “Oh, no,” Jack said, patting the photo to be sure it was secure. “I didn’t come for nothing.”

  Chapter Two

  Jack stared at the television screen, but his brain didn’t connect to the program. His thoughts strayed to the Victorian house. The idea of it being demolished to make way for new homes grated on his nerves. He’d racked his brain earlier this evening, trying to figure a way to borrow enough cash to make a down payment. But even if he did, then what? He simply didn’t earn enough to get a mortgage.

  The photo he’d taken from the house sat propped on his desk beside his PC monitor. Even in the subdued lamplight, he could make out the woman’s features. Her hair of a light, indeterminate color piled on her head, a few delicate tendrils framed her face.

  What intrigued him so about this woman? She was long dead, a ghost. His latest girlfriend had left him six months before. She’d lived with him about a year, then decided she had to go to California to find herself. She hadn’t asked him to go with her. Not that he would’ve. Their relationship had fizzled out the last few months. When she talked to him, it had been to complain about his lack of ambition. She didn’t understand why he was satisfied with his underling job and why he was content to sit home night after night. She worked as a waitress, but her dream was to be an actress.

  Weeks before she broke the news, he’d already moved on in his mind and had the feeling she’d already found another man to replace him. They’d said goodbye, and she was gone from his apartment, his life, and his dreams.

  He clicked the remote to turn off the TV, then padded into the bathroom for a quick shower. Afterward, he opened the futon, preparing to jump into bed, but he needed to look at the photo one more time.

  “If only I could meet someone like you,” he told the picture. “But you’re from another world, a simpler time.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Now I’m talking to photos. Go to sleep, Jack.” He carefully propped the picture back on his desk and settled on the bed, reaching over to set the alarm for the morning.

  He drifted to sleep with the image of the woman seated on a bench in a Victorian garden.

  “Jack?”

  He glanced up into the most incredible blue eyes. Like sapphires.

  “Excuse me?”

  The woman shook her head, the large blue flowers atop her hat bobbing. “You promised me a tour of our house.” Her full lips quirked upward.

  He swallowed. This was the woman in the photo, but instead of a black and white tintype, he was gazing at a beautiful, flesh and blood woman. Her reddish-gold hair was piled up under her hat, a few loose tendrils curled past her ears. A high-necked gown draped over her legs, completely covering her toes. Seated in an outdoor gazebo, she watched him intently.

  “I’ve been waiting so long to see it finished.” She reached out a gloved hand and motioned for him to sit.

  Her eyes so mesmerized him, he brushed against the gazebo pillar, nearly losing his balance. Her bright smile drew a grin from him.

  Before he sat, he glanced over his shoulder. This was the house! The one being demolished, but it was new.

  “Where am I?” he demanded of the woman. “And who are you?”

  “Jack, are you quite all right?” Her smile faded into a frown. “I’m Amanda. I rescued you.”

  “Huh?”

  A loud buzz pulled him away. He jerked upright.

  “What the hell?” He rubbed his face. His subconscious had mixed the photo and the house into a crazy dream.

  Collapsing onto the bed, he groaned. He glanced toward the window, noting the sky was still dark, the streetlights still on. The last thing he felt like doing was going back to work on a remodel of a supermarket, but he needed the paycheck. Bad.

  He pushed himself off the bed and grabbed a shirt to slip over his head. On the way to the bathroom, he clicked on the lamp, and his gaze fell on the photo of the woman. The woman in the dream said her name was Amanda. Maybe after work, he’d do a little investigating to see if he could find out who had lived in the house prior to the twentieth century.

  As he washed his face, his pulse raced. He stared into the mirror. Waiting until the workday was done would be practical, but he realized he had to know now. He had to go back to the house, before it was torn down.

  He grabbed his phone and punched in his boss’s number. “Hey, Ron,” he said when the man picked up. “I’m really sick. Don’t think I can make it in today.”

  Ron sighed. “Okay. You feel that bad, I think we can make do.”

  Jack held back his sigh of relief. He wouldn’t be happy with a short paycheck next week, but he had to go to the house today. He couldn’t explain it.

  “Thanks, Ron.”

  “If you don’t think you can make it tomorrow, call me tonight, so I can find a few temp helpers to add to the work crew.”

  “Okay, I will. Thanks again.” Jack closed his cell and leaned against the wall, still not sure why he’d felt impelled to call out.

  He stepped to the counter and rinsed his coffee pot in the sink. After a cup of coffee and whatever he could find in the fridge to eat, he’d drive to the house and have a look around.

  After gulping the last mouthful of coffee, he stepped toward his desk and the photo of the young woman. On impulse, he stuffed the picture into his inside jacket pocket.

  An hour later, he walked up to the porch of the house on the corner of Wendover Street. He glanced up and down the block. The few people strolling by took no notice of him. He knocked, but was sure Shane Bradley wasn’t around this early in the morning. Problem was, he couldn’t gain access to the inside if the man wasn’t in. After a few minutes, he heaved a sigh and turned to go. He had Bradley’s cell number. Maybe he could call him.

  But an intuitive hunch made him spin back to the door. He tried the knob, and the door creaked open. He glanced around once again to be sure no one watched him. The last thing he needed was cops showing up to arrest him for trespassing.

  The door opened inward, inviting him to enter. Slipping through the threshold, he gently closed the door and leaned against it.

  What the hell am I doing?

  He crept into the living area, careful not to let his boots echo in the empty house. The nearest neighbor shouldn’t be close enough to hear, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

  As if drawn along on a rope, he approached the stairs and planted his hand on the empty spot where the photo had hung. Vibrations shot up his arm. He snatched his hand away, his heart racing.

  A vision of the woman in the photo, the one from his dream, sent his pulse hammering. He imagined pulling the hat from her head, freeing her red-gold hair, and running his fingers through the silken strands, while she sighed with pleasure.

  “This is nuts!” He continued up the stairs, careful not to make more than a slight creak as he moved steadily upward. If he
were caught in here, he’d end up in jail for sure. And who would bail him out?

  At the upstairs landing, he stepped from the window, careful not to expose himself. If anyone outside saw him, they’d likely think he was the owner or a workman, but why take a chance? He’d have a quick look around, then get the hell out of here.

  He opened the door to one of the rooms. It was large, completely empty. The master bedroom. He stepped down the hall, opening the next door. Another empty room. A door a foot down opened into a bathroom. That left one more at the end of the hall, the rear of the house.

  Before he reached for the knob, the handle turned. The door opened inward. Jack’s heart thundered. He jumped back, expecting to be ambushed.

  After a long moment of silence, he crept to the doorway.

  “Anyone here?” he asked. “I won’t give you any trouble. I’m just looking the house over.” A vagrant squatter might panic and rush him to get away.

  He eased himself through the doorway. “I won’t hurt you or force you out. I swear.”

  Nothing but silence. His breath caught, and the back of his neck prickled in the eerie quiet. He raised his hands but wondered if he shouldn’t just get the hell out of here.

  Forcing himself to breathe, he crept into the room, fully prepared to ward off any attack. But none came. He checked every corner of the room. No built-in closets to hide in, so who opened the door?

  He stepped to the window and gazed out. Too high for someone to have escaped this way. He glanced back at the door, half expecting it to slam shut, trapping him inside.

  He rubbed his arms. A sudden chill gripped him.

  Must be nerves.

  He circled the empty room, running his hand along the walls. In spots, the wallpaper and plaster had literally rotted away, exposing rotted wood beams. If only he’d had the chance to restore this house. He’d have done Mrs. Grayson proud.

  “Enough self-pity,” he said aloud. “Time to go.”

  He stepped to the doorway, but a creak followed by a groaning and a loud crack, stayed him.

  Something hard and heavy clipped his head. Pain radiated like a white-hot light, and he fell.

  ****

  April 6, 1881

  By day’s end, Amanda begged off Randolph’s invitation, claiming a headache. In truth, after he’d given away the coveted assignment, she couldn’t abide sitting for hours across the table from the man.

  When he grasped her hand, she tried her best not to recoil.

  “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, my dear. Perhaps another time. But I do want to tell you about my surprise, if you could sit for just a minute, then I’ll see you home.”

  Amanda gritted her teeth but slid into the seat he indicated at the side of his desk. “Randolph, I really don’t think—”

  He cut her off. “I’m building a home on Wendover Street. It’s nearly complete.”

  “A—a home?” Amanda didn’t understand why he thought this important to her, but then it dawned like a brick wall falling on her head.

  “I plan to speak to your father.” He lifted her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles. Amanda’s breath quickened, but not with desire. She wanted to snatch her hand back, escape his office this minute.

  “I’d like to show it to you tomorrow, if it’s all right,” he continued. “I’ll see you home then call on you before lunch.”

  “I—I’m not sure how I’ll be feeling by morning.”

  He patted her hand. “I’ll put in a few hours at the office then come to see how you’re doing.”

  She nodded, although she had the urge to shout at him. Her father would be at the bank, though, so Randolph would have no chance to converse with him at least. He obviously wanted to ask Father for her hand.

  All she wanted for now was to get home and crawl into bed. She didn’t want to speak to anyone, even her own family about her boss’s interest toward her. Although she knew her stepmother would be sympathetic to her plight, her father would likely deem this a fortuitous match for his daughter. But she wasn’t sure someone as old-fashioned as Randolph was what she wanted for a husband. She longed for a forward-thinking man like her father, who treated women as equals, not property. He’d always allowed her stepmother to speak her mind.

  Amanda aspired to be just like her.

  Randolph insisted on walking her home, but as they reached the door, she thanked him and said goodbye.

  “But,” he protested, “I should see you inside at least.”

  She patted his wool clad arm. “I just want to go right to bed. I think a good night’s sleep will help me get rid of my headache.”

  He frowned. “If you insist. I would never force my way into your home…but—”

  She grasped the knob and opened the door, stopping his protests with a smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  Once inside, she gently closed the door in his face and leaned her back against it. Footsteps outside told her he’d left. She stepped to the window and peered through the gauze curtain, staying back, so he wouldn’t see her watching.

  He descended the porch steps and eased out the front gate, looking back once. She ducked back, then took a quick peek. He strode down the road.

  Amanda let out the breath she’d been holding and stepped to the kitchen. Despite her claim of a headache, what she really wanted was something in her stomach.

  She found no one in the large room full of comforting cooking smells. Her father and brother were likely still at the bank, and Mrs. O’Leary hadn’t arrived to start dinner. She wasn’t sure where her stepmother was, likely out and about at this hour.

  Amanda discovered a few biscuits left over from lunch or breakfast in a crock and stuffed them into her mouth. The snack would hold her for now. She really didn’t want to speak to either of her parents tonight. She’d take a book to her room and turn in early. Curiosity caused a sudden urge to find Randolph’s house in the morning before he had a chance to call on her.

  The front door creaked open as she reached the stairs. Her stepmother stood at the threshold holding a sack. She smiled at Amanda as she set the bag down. Pulling out a hat pin, she removed her felt hat revealing her red-gold hair, so like Amanda’s own hair color.

  “Amanda,” she said, “I didn’t expect anyone to be home yet. I told Mrs. O’Leary not to start dinner until six, since your father and brother won’t be home until seven.”

  “I’m not feeling well, Mother. I have a bit of a headache.” She held up the book she planned to read. “I’ll just read for a while, then go to sleep.”

  Her stepmother strode forward and placed her palm on Amanda’s brow.

  “Mother,” she protested, “I don’t have a fever, just a headache. I’ll be perfectly fine after a good night’s sleep.”

  “Go ahead.” She waved her arm for Amanda to proceed up the stairs. “I’ll check on you after dinner and see if you’d like something to eat.”

  “Thank you.” Amanda nodded.

  Once her stepmother turned toward the kitchen, Amanda ascended the stairs. After a few hours of reading, Amanda’s eyes refused to stay open. She prepared for bed and climbed under the covers.

  Although tired, Amanda tossed, not able keep the image of Randolph’s face from her mind. Her door opened, Erin’s lavender scent drifting into the room, but Amanda relaxed, keeping her eyes closed and breathing even. The door closed again. She punched her pillow and rolled over, finally drifting into an uneasy sleep.

  She woke to sunlight bleeding through the drawn curtains. The clock showed nine. Sighing, she rose and quickly dressed, wishing she’d awakened earlier. She’d not allow Randolph to call on her before she made her escape to see the house on her own.

  She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Voices rose from the kitchen, likely her family finishing breakfast. She strode to the door and pinned her hat on and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.

  Slipping out the door, she hurried down the path, hoping her family wouldn’t catch sight of her and inquire as to
where she was going. Today was her regular day off from the newspaper office. If they found her missing, they’d likely think she’d gone shopping.

  She inhaled the fresh spring air on this sunny, cloudless day. Fragrant tree buds stood out on the oaks lining the streets. Daffodils and tulips decorated gardens and flower boxes. Sparrows chattered in the trees overhead.

  Wendover Street lay a few blocks from her home. As she strolled down the sidewalk, she looked for any homes under new construction. Finally at the corner of the street, she found it, a three story home with a wraparound porch. The clapboard siding had yet to be painted, and the grounds, void of landscaping, contained mounds of dirt and patches of missing grass. Big windows with hand-blown glass appeared naked without any curtains or shades. This must be it. She sauntered past, studying the house. No sounds of hammers or saws rose from inside, nor did she hear voices. Maybe the workmen weren’t working today or hadn’t yet arrived.

  She drew close to the porch, straining her ears for any sound. The last thing she wanted to do was run into a disgruntled workman or, worse, Randolph.

  Glancing up and down the street to be sure no one saw her, she drew in a breath and turned the door knob. The door opened inward. She stepped inside, inhaling the inviting scent of fresh cut wood. She didn’t want to announce her presence for fear of being sent away. Something about this house beckoned to her.

  She stepped through the foyer into a short hall with a staircase on the right side. Again, she strained her ears, alert to any sound. Setting one foot on the stairs, she decided them to be sound and climbed. In the hall, she hesitated, wondering why the urge to explore so compelled her. If anyone caught her, she’d just tell them Randolph had invited her to see the house but hadn’t yet arrived.

  Emboldened by the idea, she stepped down the hall, poking her head into a large room. None of the rooms had attached doors yet. This, likely, was the master bedroom. She suppressed a shudder, knowing Randolph held intentions of sharing it with her.

  Another room in the center of the hall lay unoccupied as well. She stepped toward the back room. Through the doorway, she noted parts of the inner wall yet unfinished, and the floor didn’t appear entirely stable. She’d take a quick look then leave before Randolph even knew she’d been here.