Brad blinked, his eyes wide, when he was distracted by the chandelier to the right of them. It started swirling, faster and faster in a wild dance, spinning in a dazzling array of lights, sparkling in a circular motion, looking like a Catherine wheel. Bright arcs of light were spat from the many branches, hissing as they struck the walls, hitting with the rapidness of a machine gun. Brad ducked, a blast sizzling across his shoulder blades, ripping his shirt and leaving a smoking trail behind it. The pop of the lightbulbs shattered the silence. Brad flew out of Tessa’s ghostly embrace to land on the floor, rolling toward the stairs.
“Nooooo. You sent them to torture me, Gerald. I hate you.”
Brad heard a female scream as a burst of electricity found him like a heat-seeking missile, creasing the skin above his ear, pushing his head into the wall with a loud thwack. Stars exploded inside his head, and he knew nothing more.
Tessa roared with frustration, her semitransparent form shrinking until it disappeared into nothingness. Blackness descended on the landing to surround the unconscious Brad. It hovered over him, obliterating all light and sound. Slowly, two human shapes formed, one bending over the prone man, a long white finger touching his face.
“You were too rough.” The voice was in a frequency so high only a dog would hear it.
“He’s a big boy.” The other being shrugged. It was tall, with a shock of pure white hair. The eyes were a laser blue in its almost transparent face. It wavered, fading in, and grew stronger, becoming more solid.
“Are you going to do anything?” The other form was definitely female, with the same white hair in a neat bun. She was almost as tall as the male. They wore iridescent suits that reflected the weak sunlight. She bent over and caressed Brad’s slack face. He groaned, and she rose, hiding her hand behind her thin back.
“We won’t have to. He’ll remember nothing. We have to go. He can’t see us.”
“We can’t just leave him like this. What if Tessa comes back?”
The male cocked his head. “Gerald is consoling her.” He laughed, his bright eyes luminous.
“You frightened her,” the female admonished. “You’re not supposed to.”
“It’s what I do best. Come, we must leave. Look, he wakes. He will go to the attic now.”
“I think not. He’s bruised. You hurt him.”
“He has to go into the attic, Marum. Don’t interfere.”
Marum huffed, walking through the banister to disappear into the woodwork of the opposite wall.
Her companion shook his head and muttered, “Women.”
Brad rose on all fours, his nose running, his eyes tearing. He touched the ripped corner of his shirt, feeling the raw skin where the spark had singed him. He looked around, shook his head with disbelief, stood up, and gripped the banister as he weaved just a bit. His phone broke the silence, Julie’s face lighting the screen. He pressed ignore and walked toward the stairs to the attic.
Chapter 8
Julie stared glumly at the computer screen, idly looking at pictures of Victorian homes.
“You OK?” Dulcie slid into her seat, a cup of coffee in one hand, a plate with a doughnut in the other. “Want?” She held up the plate.
Julie shook her head. “I had my quota of cake yesterday.” A faint smile came as the memory of their Tom Jones eating frenzy flashed through her mind. “I feel like I’m missing something.” Julie sighed. She pressed Brad’s number again and got his voice mail. “No. Nothing. I think Brad is mad at me.”
“Why?”
“He’s so testy. Every time I call him, he has no patience for me. He’s not even answering my call now.”
Dulcie ripped apart the doughnut, considering it. “Stop running after him. The more you push, the more he’ll pull. Don’t call him fifty times a day.”
“I don’t call him that much.” Julie stood, outraged.
“Oh yes, you do, and more. I don’t call Carlos but once a day, girl. You got to make them miss you.” She looked at Julie, her dark eyes dancing. “You got to play hard to get. You too easy.”
Julie shrugged. “I hate playing games.”
Dulcie smiled, revealing even white teeth. “Isn’t he playing games by not answering you?”
“Huh!” Julie huffed, considering what Dulcie had said.
Her intercom buzzed with the annoying tenacity of a droning bee, interrupting their conversation. She depressed the button to hear orders rapped out in rapid succession. Go to human resources, get the Bailse contracts, stop by supplies, get a new stapler. Julie took a pen, recording the list so she wouldn’t forget anything. With a sigh, she rose, looking at Dulcie for sympathy.
“Better you than me is all I have to say. I got him breakfast, and they put the eggs on the wrong side of his plate.” She laughed. “I got him a new plate, but it had more than eggs on it when I gave it to him.”
“Eeeew. That’s disgusting, Dulce.”
“He deserves it. You can’t treat people like scum and not pay for it.” She harrumphed and turned, her nose in the air, to type the requisition order she had been working on.
Julie giggled and headed off, taking the elevator to her first stop. In the supply room, she found a box to hold all the things Mr. Wilson had demanded. She juggled a heavy stapler, a box of staples, a ruler, pens, and a cord for the new phone. She became aware that someone was in the room but, not feeling threatened, didn’t look up to identify the intruder. A hand caressed her bottom and she gasped, pushing away. Strong arms grabbed her from the front, one pushing its way down her blouse.
“Julie.” She felt his hot breath heat the back of her neck.
“Mr. Wilson!” She wriggled away from him. He was a short man with a wide belly. Surely, he couldn’t be doing this to her. “Stop! What are you doing?” His pasty bald head gleamed with sweat.
“Julie, Julie, Julie.” He pressed his groin against her. She felt him poking her, and she used her elbow to break his embrace. “Don’t you feel the tension between us? Dump that pretty boy. We could do great things together.” His glasses were askew on his face, his lips wet with drool, his eyelids at half-mast in what she guessed was his bedroom look.
A giggle bubbled up hysterically from her throat. “Stop that this instant!” she shouted, as his hands groped to separate her white shirt from her skirt.
“I know you want it. Just think of what I can give you. Julie, I can make life very easy for you.”
“I’m married,” she said sternly, slapping his hand away. The box of supplies was crushed between them, some of its contents falling out the sides.
“I…want…you…now!” he spat. “I always get what I want.” His hot eyes devoured her.
Julie looked at his pursed lips and his unfocused gaze and yelled, “I am not interested! I said stop it!” When he didn’t respond, she reached for the ruler between them and slapped him on his fleshy cheek, drawing blood.
Mr. Wilson gasped, his pudgy hand going to his cheek. His face crumpled.
“Oh!” She dropped the ruler. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but she wouldn’t let him take advantage of her. “Oh!”
“I thought you wanted it.” Her boss backed away. “You always wear such short skirts. You bend in front of me.”
“You keep dropping things,” Julie defended herself. “Mr. Wilson, I don’t think I can be here anymore.”
“Neither do I. Are you going to lodge a complaint? Because if you do, I will say that you asked for it.”
“Asked for it! I don’t know what you are talking about. You’re despicable, Mr. Wilson. I thought of you as a father figure.”
“Me?” he asked with a laugh. “A father figure? I could have any girl I want.” He stalked to the door. “You make trouble, and I will make sure you never see another construction loan from the bank again.”
Julie put the supplies on a shelf, walked to her desk, and emptied the drawers.
“Where you going?” Dulcie looked up from her screen.
“I got a better offer. S
ee you, Dulcie. I’m leaving, and I won’t be back.”
Chapter 9
Brad climbed the steep stairs into the overheated attic. He felt the bruise over his ear. It was tender to the touch, but nothing worse. He had blacked out for a minute. Well, Julie had warned him not to go into the attic alone. The last time, he had fallen ten feet and broken his leg in two places. It was a bitch of an injury. Four years in the heat and danger of Afghanistan without a scratch, but in one of his first flips, he almost incapacitated himself. No Purple Heart in flipping houses. He rubbed the permanent bump in his shin, wincing at its tenderness. Maybe he should listen to her, maybe not. It was stifling up there, with the acrid smell of dry wood and insects. Using his phone as a flashlight, he lit a path, his mouth open with wonder. It was a treasure trove of furniture, bronzes, boxes of dishes, Majolica ware, Wedgwood china, and rows and rows of belongings from different eras. Brad smiled; this could be life changing.
He wove between the aisles, opening a box here, moving a painting there, knowing it was going to take weeks to go through and catalog all the material. Pulling up an old cracked leather campaign chair that probably dated from the War of 1812, he randomly picked a box and started to go through it. He pulled out a yellow satin gown, wrapped in crisp paper, the folds releasing a faint scent of roses. Something dropped; Brad bent over to pick it up. It was a delicate fan made from bamboo and chicken skin, with a painted scene of graceful Asian ladies covering its surface.
“Oh, Gerald,” Tessa sighed. “It’s my fan. I thought I’d never see it again. I almost threw it away, and then, when…you know.” She paused, her big eyes watching him. She waltzed elegantly around the room, humming, her face dreamy. She stopped to look at her companion and told him, “When you disappeared, I decided to keep it. I packed it away and then couldn’t find it. I thought it was lost. He’s found it.”
“It was never lost,” Gerald replied softly.
Chapter 10
1862
“La, Gerry, get me some more punch. I swear I am parched.” Tessa directed a tall blond man in the crowd surrounding her to fetch the refreshment.
Gerald rolled his eyes, hating to leave her with four other admirers, but he still went to get her a drink.
The room was filled with soldiers, their blue uniforms with shiny brass buttons reflecting the warm glow from the gas chandeliers. He nodded to his cousin, a Union captain, who was caught up in a conversation with Tessa’s father. He was a railroad man, Frank Hemmings. Rich as Croesus, smart as a fox, at the turn of the century he had started a ferry business from Long Island to Connecticut, making a fortune that had led to an even bigger one when his trains opened up the West. Gerald knew all the details, as his family financed most of Hemmings’s business ventures. He had recently left his safe bank position to join up. It had caused a huge fight. Only the agreement that he would work in Washington on the general’s staff quieted his father’s opposition. He hoped that Tessa would notice him now that he was dressed in blue. Though only a lowly lieutenant, he had the important job of being adjunct to General McClellan. It was an easy appointment that his neighbor, Frank Hemmings, had been able to secure for him. The general had worked with Hemmings at the Illinois Central Railroad. When Lincoln appointed him general-in-chief of all the Union armies, Gerald volunteered and was given a position in Washington to help move supplies to the troops. Though he was horse mad, he was in no hurry to get himself killed. Let Lewis run around playing soldier on the front lines. He was content doing his share in Washington, coming home for brief visits and keeping his eye on Tessa. She didn’t know she was going to be his wife. Let her enjoy her flirtations, the attention of all her admirers. As long as they ended up together, he didn’t much care about the rest.
Nothing but the best for Frank Hemmings. A string quartet played in the corner of the vast parlor. Silver dishes and trays held steaming food. The punch bowl, a family heirloom made by Paul Revere himself, rested in the center of the giant buffet, fruit floating on the surface of the iced punch.
“She is beautiful.” Lewis came up next to him, watching their hostess. He had a black handlebar mustache, lean cheeks, and fierce eyes. He raised his silver cup to salute her with an appreciative grin.
“Hands off, cousin. Mine,” Gerald snarled.
Lewis was both older and taller, with an air of sophistication that always turned a lady’s head. Long hair skimmed his collar; he stood at ease, a faint smile on his thin lips.
“You haven’t declared yourself yet, Gerry. As far as I’m concerned, it’s open season.”
Gerald pulled a eight-inch object from his pocket. He opened it, making sure the fan was still as perfect as when he had purchased it. “Don’t poach on my preserve, Lewis. I believe I’ve made my intentions clear.”
“To everyone but the lady, it seems.” Lewis laughed, as he gestured toward the retreating back of Tessa, who was leaving the room to walk in the gardens with another man. “Hunting season has just started.” Pulling a flask from his breast pocket, Lewis offered his cousin a sip. Gerald declined, leaving both Lewis and the punch at the buffet.
Gerald bit the end of a Spanish cigar as he leaned against the frame of the French doors leading out to the garden. Jasmine perfumed the air; strains of the violins seeped out into the night air. It was chilly, and he wondered if Tessa had her wrap. He sucked hard on his cigar, the glowing tip the only evidence of his presence. He heard a giggle followed by a smothered gasp. She was being kissed. He felt his face redden with embarrassment. She was supposed to be his; they had an informal agreement. He ground his cigar purposefully into a planter, leaving only a taste of bitterness in his mouth. His cousin’s smile mocked him from across the room. Gerald’s collar felt too tight. He ran a finger around the inside, knowing everybody was watching him with a mixture of curiosity and pity. What was she thinking? They were promised to each other, yet she took every opportunity to tease and flirt with other men. He joined the army for her to notice him, and his uniform brought nothing but contemptuous remarks from her. He was only a lieutenant; he wouldn’t see action; how was she supposed to brag to the other ladies?
Tessa’s companion, her mousy governess, peered through the darkness, looking for her charge. “She’s over there.” He pointed to the rustling bushes. “You’d better get her out of there before you have to explain where she’s been to her father.” He spun on his polished heel and stalked away from the spot.
Tessa’s mother introduced Gerald to Lady Pamela Winters, the duke of Eversham’s daughter. Tessa had inherited her mother’s good looks as well as her titian hair. Mrs. Hemmings was busty but not as tall as her daughter. She trilled when she put Lady Pamela’s gloved hand in Gerald’s and pushed them onto the dance floor. The duke’s daughter was visiting—quite a coup for the Hemmings family—and in need of a husband. Preferably a wealthy one to trade an old titled family name in exchange for a cash infusion. Gerald listened to her inane chatter as they glided on the polished parquet floor, his eyes never leaving the French doors.
Tessa slipped in, her hair mussed, her fingers adjusting her dress. Their eyes met; a brittle smile graced her lips, her eyes were bright in her flushed face. Gerald sighed deeply. She was so beautiful. She was a jade, a flirt, but he just couldn’t get himself to care. It bothered both his parents, but Gerald knew his own mind, and the only woman on it was Tessa. He had known her for years; their families celebrated yearly events together as the premier social scions of the area. It seemed she always turned to him, using him for excuses to her parents when she broke the rules. Gerald sensed when she would need his protection and somehow always managed to be at the right place to bail her out. She was as mischievous as a kitten, as daring as a lion, and the only person in the world who touched his heart. He loved her to distraction, and though he knew she used him shamelessly, it didn’t diminish the fierceness he felt for her.
He handed Lady Pamela off to Kurt Hemmings, Tessa’s older brother and perhaps the lady’s future. Kurt bowed o
ver her hand, his long auburn hair curling charmingly around his pale face. He was a poet, with brooding eyes coupled with a practiced air of ennui that drove females mad. Gerald looked at Lady Pamela’s faintly bovine face, noticing the vacant look, and wondered when she’d start to drool over the son of the house. A match made in heaven, they would have poetic, chesty, mildly bored children with cow-like eyes and placid personalities. He wondered what kind of offspring he would have with Tessa—if only she would hold still long enough for him to make her realize that he would make her happy.
A firm slap on his back returned him to the present. Frank Hemmings squeezed his shoulder. He was mildly drunk, his bloodshot eyes watching his son with distaste.
“How is the general treating you, m’boy?” he inquired.
Gerald turned to see the naked disdain on Hemmings’s face as he watched his son take out a handkerchief and wave it around as he recited one of his many poems.
“Little Napoleon?” Gerald smiled, calling the general by his nickname. “He’s an interesting man.”
“Do you call him that to his face? Didn’t think so. Graduated top of his class. Organized the Illinois for me.”
“He is a great leader. The men like him.”
“When do you return?”
“Monday next. I report to Washington.”
“Proud of you, son. Right proud. You could have taken the easy way out, like some,” he sneered. “Chose to represent your house like a man.” He harrumphed. “What do you make of my boy?”
“He’s young yet, Frank.”
They stood in silence. Hemmings watched his son. Gerald stared at Tessa.
The Flip Page 6
