Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
About the Author
Titles By The Author
Ever Near
Secret Affinity™ Series
Website: melissamacvicar.com
Email: [email protected]
Copyright © 2013 by Melissa MacVicar. All rights reserved.
Second Kindle Edition: July 2017
Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics
This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For Angus
With Love Always
Chapter 1
A cloudless sky stretches above me. Daisies clutter the field, bobbing their white and yellow heads in a soft breeze.
She strides up the path, her legs straining against the long skirt of her dress. High cheekbones, dark curls, eyes as green as spring grass. Her human face. “Finally, you are here,” she says.
She extends her arms, reaching for me. I do the same. A sense of peace fills me. She wants me. She wants me to be here with her. But just as we’re about to connect, our hands inches apart, she transforms. Her face wrinkles and cracks, chunks of flesh dropping to the ground and exposing her skull. Fear grips my throat like a giant hand. Seizing me. Unwilling to let me go even as I try to get away. To run. To move. Her face is nothing more than a skeleton now. Her pristine dress and lace bonnet shred into tattered rags and billow around a formless body. I gasp, but my lungs can’t seem to take in any air. I’m tied to a weight, sinking to the bottom of the ocean. The field and the daisies and the sky all melt away, a vanishing backdrop. I’m drowning. Lost. Gone.
“Jade—sshhh—it’s okay.”
Charlie. He’s holding me by the arms. What the hell? And then I know. The realization comes quickly. I’m at Fair-Ever. My first night in my new home. I wheeze and pant and try to bring myself back under control. Was I screaming? I must have been, and it must have been loud.
“What happened?” Charlie asks once I’ve calmed down.
“Bad dream,” I whisper. His hands are hot against my skin, so hot I think he might have a fever. Or maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m burning up with some kind of ghost-induced illness. “Sorry I woke you.”
“It’s okay. I’m a light sleeper.”
Our eyes meet, and I can see he wants to know more—like if this happens a lot and what the nightmare was about—but I’m not going to tell him any of that. Instead, I avert my eyes. Looking at Charlie for very long is a bad idea. We don’t generally look at each other in the light of day—never mind in the middle of the night in my bedroom—because locking eyes is something that could lead to kissing. That’s how it feels to me at least, and kissing would be so very wrong now that we’re going to be steps.
Wrong Wrong Wrong. I have to keep telling myself that, but right now, all my brain seems to be registering is his scent—faded cologne and soap with a tinge of sweat. Middle-of-the-night Charlie smells and looks like a good dream, nothing like the nightmare I just emerged from.
As he gazes down at me, his lips press together, and his jaw clenches. His usually tousled brown hair is extra messy, and he wears only a pair of boxers. I wish I could say I wasn’t noticing his muscular biceps hovering on either side of my prone body, but I most definitely am. And for the record, this is a much better first night moment than Lacey’s ghost-attack nightmare.
“Thanks for coming in,” I finally say, still a bit short of breath.
“Yeah. Sure. Want some water or something?”
“No. I’m good.”
“Okay.” He removes his hands from my arms, stands, and walks out the door.
Once he’s gone, I flounce back on the bed, kicking off the comforter and pulling just the quilt and sheet up to my chin. What’s happening to me? Lacey. That’s what I call the ghost in the lace bonnet living here at Fair-Ever. I knew she was here. I’ve encountered her before, but I didn’t know she could enter my dreams. I’ve never lived with a ghost before—never fallen asleep where one dwelled. Now, it’s unavoidable.
I trace the outline of a stitched circle on my quilt with my finger—the center point of one of the colorful wheels. Violet and fuchsia and chartreuse spinning in a continuous collage. For some reason, touching the bumpy lines soothes me. Grandma Irving made the quilt for me when I was little, and I’ve had it on my bed ever since. Some Grandma quilts are lame, but mine is definitely not.
And then there’s Charlie. Geesh. Half naked and touching me with his giant, hot hands. What the heck am I supposed to think about that? Where do I store that little tidbit of goodness? We learned in freshman biology that girls are programmed to want boys who are strong and tall because we’re really cave women at heart. We perceive they’ll protect us from saber-toothed tigers and make nice babies or something like that, so that’s how I rationalize my crush on Charlie. My hard-wiring renders me powerless in the face of his primal charm.
I decide I need that glass of water after all, and luckily, I don’t have to go down the hall to get it. I have my own bathroom here at Fair-Ever. Just call me a spoiled rich girl now because my room at Fair-Ever has everything a girl could ask for—a queen-sized bed, a private bathroom, central air, and wireless internet for the brand new iPad Mom and Mike gave me for my sixteenth birthday last month. If only it didn’t have the ghost clogging it up with her paranormal dysfunction.
In the bathroom, I snap on the lesser of the two lights and see myself in the mirror. Ugh. This look is not what I’d call sexy. My curly brown hair is mounted on top of my head in a very untidy bun. My usually caramel-colored skin looks yellowish, and my hazel eyes droop with sleep. Super hot, right? I shouldn’t be worried, though
, because it’s wrong-wrong-wrong to crush on your almost-stepbrother, no matter what your cavewoman brain tells you.
Frustrated, I grab the glass and let the water run. The counter of my bathroom, although less than twenty-four hours under my domain, is a mess of cosmetics and hair and skin products. The water gets cold fast because Fair-Ever has shiny new plumbing. The Dowlers spared no expense in updating the insides and restoring its historic charm on the outside before Mrs. Dowler got sick and died. Too bad they didn’t know about Lacey, or maybe they would have ousted her along with the nasty old pipes.
The fact that my stepfamily’s house has a name probably makes it seem like I’m some Brontë character who’s going to be swept across England on some gothic journey, but in reality, that couldn’t be further from the truth. Me being here in this million-dollar home on Nantucket Island is a strange twist of fate or destiny that started when my mother divorced my dad and took this soon-to-be a stepfamily turn, somewhere about the time Charlie’s mom died. My mother was one of Mrs. Dowler’s nurses in her final days. The rumor around the island is that Rebecca Dowler picked my mother for Mike, as though she wanted him to be happy and thought my mother was perfect for the job. Weird and creepy but whatever. People love to gossip.
So that’s how I ended up moving into this house today, having my dreams invaded by a nineteenth century ghost, and seeing my half-naked hottie stepbrother in the middle of the night. I guess that does sound sort of like a Brontë novel.
But when I step back into my room, all thoughts of gossip and Charlie and Brontë fly out of my head because Lacey’s waiting beside my bed.
Chapter 2
I stand perfectly still in the doorway. Getting closer to her doesn’t seem like a good idea. She’s shining right now, bright and pretty, her vibrant green eyes focused on the bed, but I know this serenity can change in an instant. The first time we met, she was both overjoyed and blistering mad, and that’s been her pattern ever since. Her ghostly mood swings are worse than me and all my friends with PMS at the same time.
“I’m sorry. Hurting you is not my intention,” Lacey says.
Her voice echoes in my head, but I hear her plain as day, and I can’t believe she’s apologizing. She crushed me in my sleep, and now she feels bad? Go figure.
I originally met Lacey at a Super Bowl party. That sounds so formal, doesn’t it? As if we were introduced. It was my first time visiting Fair-Ever, and I actually sensed her from all the way outside when we pulled up in front of the house. I’ve learned that my intuition will tell me when an encounter is coming. That little voice inside of us can be very powerful if we’re paying attention. That night, I knew right away that someone dead was still here. Lucky for me, Lacey waited to show herself until I was alone. On my way to the bathroom in the Dowler’s hall of photos, a bubble of air seemed to block my way. My pulse accelerated, goosebumps flaring up my arms. I panted a few shallow breaths as she materialized before me: smooth, glowing features; long, gray dress; and that delicate lace covering the bun in her hair.
“It’s you. You’ve come at last,” she said.
I blinked like crazy, half-hoping I was imagining her. She stretched her arms toward me, her body floating a few inches off the ground, drifting on an unseen current.
“Go. Away.” My lips barely moved as I spoke. The hall was freezing, so cold I’d already started to shake.
“Go away!” she screamed back, as if mocking me.
Instantly, I was engulfed by heat—the heat of her anger rising like the flames of hell to take me over. I lifted my arms to cover my head, cowering as she flew toward me like a fastball pitch. I awaited the blow, anticipating the impact, but the hit never came. After a few seconds, I opened my eyes to find her gone. Vanished. The fiery sheen of sweat covering my skin was the only proof that something had happened.
Now, beside my bed, Lacey starts to fade, half of her body becoming wisps of gray smoke before forming again, even brighter than the rest of her.
“I’m okay,” I tell her, because I’ll do anything to stop her from freaking out. Charlie is surely still awake, and I don’t want to start screaming again.
“You are finally here, though. And now, you’ll be staying.” Lacey smiles.
Her gleaming teeth make me think of a commercial for toothpaste. Since she has this notion that she knows me, and that apparently makes her glad, I try to play along.
“Yes, but you can’t do that again. I couldn’t breathe,” I say.
I should know better than to try to discuss things rationally with a ghost. They are not rational beings by nature. Every one of them seems to be missing that part that made them sensible. The frontal lobe? The cerebellum? Who knows? But I don’t really have much of a choice in strategies. Trying to be reasonable is in fact my only strategy, even though it doesn’t ever really work.
“You do not tell me what to do!” Her face becomes an enormous mouth, a gaping void framed by jagged teeth.
Panic rises in my throat like molten lava. “N-No… n-never. I need to sleep, though. Please?” I’m not going to be able to take it if she doesn’t listen. I’ll have to leave. Maybe I’ll run away. I’ll go to my dad’s in Colorado or to Gram and Papa Irving’s in Baltimore or even to my lushbag grandma’s in Southie. Any place not infested with dead people would be fine with me right about now.
But she disappears. Like a flashlight switching off, she’s gone. Thank God. And when I flop back on my bed, I say a little prayer. More like a wish, actually, because I’m not so sure that God is really listening. I say prayers anyway, though. My Grandma Irving taught me to pray, and I still remember kneeling on the round braided rug beside my bed at her house. I told God everything I was thankful for, and Gram was so sure he was listening. She had faith, and maybe she’s right. At this point, I really hope she is because my life would be great if God took care of Lacey for me. If he just made her go away.
Dear Mr. Fitzgerald,
I’m writing to ask you for advice on how to stop seeing ghosts. I’ve been able to see them since I was little, and it’s really kind of a problem. I know you’re into the whole specter thing, but having to see them is awful. They freak out and throw things, and now I have one attacking me in my sleep. Any advice you can give me would be helpful.
Thanks,
Anonymous
P.S. This is not a joke. Please help me.
I stare at the message on my iPad. I’ve read the words about a hundred times, and I can’t figure out a way to make them not suck. So I’ve never sent an e-mail to Martin Fitzgerald. I always chicken out or think it’s weird or lame, so I hit Delete and never Send.
Martin is a self-professed ghost hunter who lives right here in Nantucket. Because whaling and all its history are such a big deal on the island, he makes his living by giving tourists walking tours of haunted places. He dresses up in a top hat and a dark vest with tails and traipses around town, pointing out the locations where other people have purportedly seen things. He’s been known to gesticulate wildly and speak with a fake British accent when telling some particularly frightening tale.
Before tourism, back in the 1800s, Nantucket made its money whaling. At one time, the island was even considered the whaling capital of the world. Almost all of Nantucket’s men went to sea. If they didn’t actually go, they worked in some industry that supported whaling, like barrel making and boat building. Killing whales and getting the blubber for oil was everything. With no electricity, the oil was used in lamps and candles for the entire world. The men were gone for a long time, and sometimes, they never returned. The trips could take three or four years, and that’s why a lot of the old houses have roof walks. The lonely sailors’ wives would go up there to watch for their husbands’ ships.
Martin and a lot of other people are really into the whole whaling thing, but that’s not the reason I read his cheesy website. I o
nly go there for the ghosts. After I see a new ghost, I always check there to see if maybe my ghosts will be featured. My theory goes that, if other people have seen the ghosts and reported them to Martin, then maybe I can talk to these other people, and they’ll be able to help me. How that’ll work exactly, I haven’t figured out because this scenario has never played out the way I imagine it should. My ghosts are never there. However, my secret wish remains that someone else has my strange ability. My ultimate wish is to stop seeing ghosts altogether. That would be a dream come true. Then I would be just a normal person.
In my email, I left off the fact that I live in Nantucket. Martin will surely go berserk if he finds out there’s someone like me on the island—a real live person who’s seen multiple ghosts here.
This time, I end up sending the message. There’s no denying that I need help. My ghostly issues have reached a state of emergency, so to speak, and I can’t go on like this. Moving into Fair-Ever has sealed my fate. Something will have to be done about Lacey. After checking my sent items to be sure the email went through, I get up to finish my makeup. I’m applying a sheen of lipgloss when I hear Charlie and Brendan across the hall.
“But it’s my turn,” Charlie says.
“Take the Pilot.”
“But it’s my turn.”
Did I mention that I have two stepbrothers? Ugh. Plus, Brendan is nothing like Charlie. He’s my asshole stepbrother. He’s rude to me, and even worse, he’s rude to my mom. He’ll be leaving for college in August, which makes me really happy.
“I told Tori I’d have the jeep,” Brendan says.
“So?”
“So I’m taking it.”
“No. You’re not,” Charlie snaps.
A loud thump shakes the walls as the guys hit the floor or some unfortunate piece of furniture. I drop my tube of Candy Apple Delight and scamper into the hall so I can watch. Hopefully, Charlie is winning. He usually does because he’s bigger.
Ever Near (Secret Affinity Book 1) Page 1
