She’d assumed Billy and Cassandra had moved on to wherever the departed went next. But why would Cassandra bequeath her the urn, unless she was coming back?
Or, she could be wrong and nothing might happen after dark.
A chance she’d have to take.
She pulled out her cell phone. The first call she made was to the television producer. Next, she punched up Jules’s number.
The hard stuff done, she made herself comfortable on the sofa, where she could keep watch on the urn. She had a few hours to kill, and nothing better to do than map out a new life for herself. She was not driven by fear, and she was going to prove it.
“Dr. McGarry,” Jules said stiffly, standing on her front doorstep, the porch light burnishing his Armani suit. “If you’ll just hand over my grandmother’s urn, I’ll be on my way.”
She swung the door wider. “Please come in.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“I insist.”
He sighed loudly and entered her home. “I’m glad you had the decency to voluntarily turn over the urn.”
Her back stiffened, she didn’t argue. “Mrs. Jameson’s ashes belong with her family.”
Jules followed her into the living room. “This seems to be the day for everyone’s better nature to assert itself. Mancini called me shortly after you did. He’s refusing the inheritance.”
Tia froze. “What do you mean?”
Jules cast his eyes around the room, smiling when he saw the urn. “Mancini confessed everything. Said he was responsible for staging a fake haunting of your home and trying to convince my grandmother that the ghost of her dead lover had returned. I’ve agreed not to press charges in exchange for his voluntarily signing back the money. Frankly, I’d rather people not find out Grandmother was starting to lose it at the end.” He tugged on his cuffs, annoyance creasing his forehead. “Mancini also insisted I tell Richard to reinstate you on the research project. Apparently, I was mistaken about your involvement with Mancini, so I felt that was fair. I won’t be filing a grievance with the university, obviously, and you’re free to pursue your research with a grant from the Jameson Foundation.”
Tia reached for the back of the sofa, needing something solid to keep her standing. Dec had…Dec had lied for her. Lied about the existence of ghosts, gone against everything that drove his quest in life, not to mention put himself at risk of going to jail, all to save her career. All to give her what he thought she wanted.
“I…I don’t know what to say.”
Jules waved his hand. “I’d rather forget all this unpleasantness, if you don’t mind. May I have the urn now?”
The doorbell rang. “Please give me a minute. I need to talk to you about this business with Dec.”
She wasn’t going to let Dec sacrifice himself for her. As long as Cassandra put in an appearance tonight, all would be well. She hoped.
Jules sighed and seated himself in an armchair while Tia hurried to answer the door. Was Adele stopping by to check on how she was surviving her breakup? Whoever it was, she had to get rid of them fast.
She peered through the peephole, then rocked back on her heels. It was Dec.
The doorbell rang again.
“Are you going to answer that?” Jules called irritably.
Tia swung open the door. Dec stood there, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes and a somber look on his face.
They needed to talk. Had a lot of issues and emotions to process. A relationship to discuss. She had to be calm and cool and mature.
“I love you,” she said and threw herself at him. He caught her and she wrapped her legs around his waist, kissing him as though her life depended on the soft brush of their mouths again each other.
“I love you too.” He braced her back against the doorjamb and deepened the kiss.
“Jules told me everything,” she said when she came up for air. His eyes darkened and she brushed the lock of hair off his forehead. “I won’t let you do it. I already called your television producer and told him I’ll go on the show. And I’m telling Jules I won’t sign over the money. He can’t take it back without both our signatures, and I want you to have your research institute.”
His shifted his grip so he could free one hand to tangle in her hair. “No. I don’t need it. Someone reminded me my life’s work is helping people, not proving the existence of ghosts.”
A dull boom sounded from down the street. Sparks shot to the sky as a transformer blew.
A high-pitched scream echoed inside the house.
“Oh. Cassandra must have arrived.” Tia dropped to the ground.
The living room was cold and dark, but a fire danced in the grate. Jules stood in front of the hearth, hand clutched to his heart and his face slack. “Who…what are you?”
Next to him stood the apparition of a gorgeous woman in a tight blue suit with the wide shoulders and pencil skirt popular in the forties. Her brown hair shone in neat waves and her face was glowing with youth. Cassandra.
Dec laughed. “Wait’ll Billy gets a load of you.”
Cassandra made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Oh, he’s already seen me. He’s been teaching me all sorts of wonderful tricks. Watch this.”
The air shimmered and suddenly Cassandra looked exactly as she had before she died—shrunken, wrinkled, and a million years old. Except her eyes were bright with happiness.
“G-grandmother?” Jules reached out a hand, then dropped it to his side. He fell heavily into the chair behind him.
“Oh, stow it, Julian. I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
A draft of wind blew through the living room and Billy poofed into existence, perching on the arm of Jules’s chair. A whiff of leather from his bomber jacket floated in the air.
Jules threw himself out of the chair, stumbled backward into the wall. “This can’t be happening.”
Cassandra looked between Dec and Tia. “From what I hear, you two have a lot to talk about. Come along, Julian. Grab my urn. Oh, one moment.”
The air around her shimmered and Cassandra again became a vibrant, glowing twenty-one-year-old.
Tia looked closer. She was really glowing. A faint iridescent sheen lit her skin.
“That’s better,” Cassandra said briskly. “Julian, we’re going to discuss the terms of my will, and the inadvisability of going against my wishes. Billy?”
“Right behind you.”
Jules dazedly rose, picked up the urn, and followed Cassandra out of the house. Tia looked out the window. A flickering glow clung to Cassandra. Hopefully the neighbors wouldn’t notice.
Dec tugged on her arm and pulled her into his lap on the sofa. “I meant it, Tia. I want you to do the work you’re supposed to do. I don’t need Cassandra’s money.”
She traced his face with her fingertips, her heart so full she almost couldn’t speak. “I don’t want to do that dumb research anymore. I’ve had a lot of time to think, and what I really love about my job is helping people. Helping save relationships. I’m quitting teaching and going into private counseling practice.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. And you’re getting your research institute. You heard Cassandra. That’s not a ghost I’d want to cross.”
She kissed him, softly at first, then with a growing urgency, until she heard someone clear his throat.
Behind her, Uncle Billy stood grinning at them.
“Bad timing, Billy,” Dec said, a growl in his voice. “Shouldn’t you be moving on to the next plane of existence?”
“Don’t take that tone with me, young man. Cassandra and I get seventy years in this dimension, to make up for the seventy years we lost. I just got word.”
“From whom?” Dec leaned forward, tightening his grip on Tia until she squeaked.
Billy’s grin widened. “You don’t g
et to find that out for a while. I’ll come see you tomorrow. I got a ghost for you. One who wants some public recognition.”
Billy winked out of existence.
Tia smiled down at Dec. “Congratulations. You got what you wanted.”
“Yep.” He pulled her head down to kiss her. “I got you.”
About the Author
Jennifer Savalli loves all things paranormal, chocolate and Whedon. Her writing career began in the third grade when her teacher asked for one sentence on each of six pictures in a series, and she turned in a multi-page detective story. Jennifer lives in Colorado with her family where she spends her days writing about the magic and mayhem of falling in love. Find her on Twitter @JenniferSavalli and on the web at www.jennifersavalli.com
How to woo a gentleman—and weaponize dessert.
Not Quite Darcy
© 2015 Terri Meeker
Romance novel junkie Eliza Pepper always thought she was born too late, but now she really is stuck in the wrong time. Tasked with mending a tear in the timeline, she’s trying desperately to fit into 1873 London. But dang it, mucking out a fireplace while looking like the lunch lady from hell is hard.
If she can just keep from setting the floor on fire and somehow resist her growing attraction to the master of the house, she’ll be fine. All she has to do is repeat her mantra: “He’s nothing like Darcy. He’s nothing like Darcy.”
William Brown has always taken pride in his mastery of English decorum, but his new maid is a complete disaster, has thrown his household into chaos…and he finds her utterly captivating.
Though he’s willing to endure extreme physical discomfort to keep their relationship in proper perspective, her arrival has brought out a side of him he never knew existed. And Eliza has an innocently erotic knack for coaxing that decidedly ungentlemanly facet of himself out to play…
Warning: A modern girl who knows bupkis about nursing and maiding in the 19th century, a gentleman poet with a repressed wild side, and inappropriate use of a pair of pantaloons.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Not Quite Darcy:
Eliza collapsed on her bed.
Wash day sucked, big time. She’d spent most of her day in the laundry area, stuffed into the darkest corner of the smoky basement kitchen. Her hands were red and cracked from the harsh soap and her arms ached.
Her day had been occupied with wrestling armloads of damp cloth in and out of a series of large metal tubs. Then she had to smack them around with a complicated wooden device called a dolly before wringing everything out in the appropriately named wrangler. Finally, she lugged the wet mass of material upstairs to hang on the maze of line strung across the back porch.
She’d never been much of a fan of physical labor. During her brief foray into college life, she’d participated in a 5K run and afterward could barely lift a coffee cup for days. She never thought she’d never feel such pain again. If only she’d known about wash day.
After an hour of lying like a slug and staring at the ceiling, Eliza pulled herself up. With shaking arms, she reached out to open the leather-bound satchel on the floor by the foot of her bed. She emptied the small bag, then placed its meager contents into her wardrobe. Her inventory consisted of two uniforms, a dress, a nightgown, a robe and some antique toiletries.
A neatly folded bit of paper lay at the very bottom of the satchel. Something from Lancaster and York, no doubt. She unfolded it, anticipating instructions or perhaps a note of encouragement—only to be disappointed. The note simply listed three rules:
Time is short. Make it count
Form no lasting attachments
Tell no one where you are from
“Thanks for nothing, boys,” she muttered at the ceiling. She crumpled the paper into a wad and tossed it under the bed.
Darkness had nearly claimed the room, but she ached all over and didn’t have the energy to light the gas lamps. Too bone-weary to worry about changing out of her slightly damp maid’s dress, she fell back onto her bed, curled herself into a ball and willed herself to unconsciousness.
Sleep was not her friend, however. Though her muscles were exhausted, her mind was wide awake. Her head burst with questions about her mission and recriminations over her decision to come here in the first place.
A dim glow crept under her door frame. Curious, she pulled herself out of bed and slipped into the hall.
The corridor was surprisingly dark, but a wavering glow from around the corner provided enough illumination to navigate, and she went toward the source. Light spilled from the center of the three doorways lined up along front of the house. Since the door was wide open, she peered around the frame.
Eliza was delighted by what she saw. A small but comfy-looking room absolutely lined with books. A library. Well, a very small library, but full of reading material all the same. Just the thing her overly wired mind had been craving.
As she entered, she noticed another door that connected to a room to the south. A bedroom, she supposed. Since the southern door was closed, however, Eliza had this charming little hideaway all to herself. She grinned widely. Lovely shining brass gas lamps glowed warmly, illuminating the rows and rows of books lining the shelves along the walls and the floor featured a bright blue floral carpet. Against the back wall, in the center of the room, a large desk was piled with stacks of papers and ledgers.
Best of all, in one corner two bright green armchairs were tucked against an end table. The perfect spot for a restless Eliza to read a genuine Victorian romance. She forgot wet piles of laundry and aching arms in an instant. This was the nineteenth century, exactly as she imagined it.
Eliza didn’t know why this room was welcoming and brightly lit. She didn’t have the slightest clue if she should be there. But…it was. And she was. And it was time to treat herself.
She began to look through the books on the shelves. So many titles. So many names. Shakespeare, Milton, Locke, Darwin. The Browns had varied tastes to say the least. Science, poetry, novels. She snatched a volume promisingly titled Valentine by George Sand and curled up in one of the green wingbacks that had looked so appealing.
She tucked her legs up under the skirt, then perched the book on her knees. As she cracked it open the warm familiarity of falling into a book graced her with comfort few things could.
The pages were loaded with complex language, which took a bit of work to dig through. Still, with concentration, the words provided the kind of diversion she’d craved. It really wasn’t her fault, she’d reason later, that she was oblivious to someone entering the room.
“Bessie.” William’s voice shattered the silence like a brick through a window.
“Shit!” Eliza shouted, dropping the book to the floor.
His mouth fell open and his eyes widened. After a moment’s recovery, he closed the door.
“My mother is asleep in the next room,” he said, his voice low and concerned.
“Well, somebody ought to rig you up with a collar and a bell.” Eliza’s unclenched her fists and took a steadying breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was just saying that you surprised me.”
“May I ask what you are doing here?” He bit his bottom lip, then continued. “That is, I mean to say, are you feeling unwell?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know this room was off limits. I thought I’d read, you know, a book.”
“Off limits?” he repeated, seeming stunned. Then he looked at her, his tone incredulous. “You read?”
“Well yes, I was reading. Until you came in here and scared the living snot out of me.” She was in a strange state—a combination of exhaustion and fright. It appeared that her ability to speak in a Victorian style was the first thing to go. A properly subservient attitude also seemed to have abandoned ship. Not that either of these were too firmly entrenched to begin with.
Wi
lliam shook his head. “It’s most surprising that someone of your station reads.”
“I can also pat my head and rub my stomach at the same time. It’s a real show stopper.” She was far too tired to keep pretending to be someone else. Tired of being talked down to, and mucking out laundry and getting skeptical looks every time she spoke. But—damn her mouth—she really ought to …
“I beg your pardon?” he asked. His face was a mask of puzzlement.
“I should go to bed, Will—Mr. Brown.” She stood on shaking legs.
“No, Bessie, please I…” He hesitated. “I meant no disrespect to you at all. I do not intend to offend, I assure you. I simply was unaware that you had the ability to read. I think it most impressive.”
Should she bow? Toss him another curtsy? This was exhausting. She opted for a nod and moved toward the doorway. “Thank you, Mr. Brown.”
He leaned down to retrieve the book she’d dropped. His eyes widened in surprise. “Valentine, is it? And how do you find George Sand?”
“Oh, I found him pretty easily. Right over there in the massive poetry section. At the beginning of the ‘S’ authors.”
“I mean to say, do you enjoy Sand’s work?” He tilted his head toward her.
Eliza made a conscious effort to use words that didn’t sound quite so twenty-first century. “Well, I’ve not read much of him and the language can be a little bit of work to get around, but yes, I like him. He seems to be a bit of a rebel.”
“Indeed.” William chuckled. “Mr. Sand was a pen name for a most scandalous woman by the name of Armandine Dupin. Most females object to the works on moral grounds.”
“Well, you didn’t seem to mind either. It was in your library.”
“Point taken.” William handed the book back to her, briefly meeting her eyes.
“Someone’s pretty fond of poetry. Is it you, Mr. Brown?” When the conversation turned to being obsessed with a genre of books, Eliza felt on much more solid ground.
“Oh, yes!” William plucked a slim red volume from the shelf. “Library is a bit poetry-heavy, I’ll confess. I adore the writings of Elizabeth Browning. She wrote a poem about George Sand, actually. Are you familiar with Browning?”
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