It was Justin who broke the silence. “You aren't the nervous type, are you?”
Laura turned her head to look at him, the fireglow catching in her hair. “Should I be?”
“Most women would have been at least a little afraid of the wind and lightning.”
“I can't say I enjoyed the wind. As for lightning, it doesn't bother me particularly, as long as I'm inside.”
“That's something else. There are people, men and women alike, who would just as soon be out in the rain as to stay here in the dark with this house and its ghosts.”
She shook her head with a smile. “Surely you don't believe in ghosts?”
“I don't know about that. It was Longfellow, I think, who said: ‘All houses wherein men have lived and died; Are haunted houses.'”
“Are you trying to frighten me?” she asked, tilting her head to one side. Hard upon her words there came a creak from the direction of the staircase in the hallway behind them.
“Could I, I wonder?”
“It would be easy,” Laura said frankly. “I'm half inclined to people the house with its former occupants anyway.”
“I suspected as much, but surely you don't think they would harm you?”
“No, not really. I don't see how they could, even if they would. Whatever passion or anger moved them no longer has meaning, or at least none that has anything to do with me. And there's something a little forlorn about spirits watching from the shadows, spying on the living for any other reason.”
“Maybe they don't spy? Maybe they go about their own business, repeating the same scenes over and over that made them happy or sad.”
“Life on another plane? Time as an unstructured thing that might flow backward as well as forward, or even stack up in layers that sometimes overlap? I don't quite buy that.”
“And yet?”
“And yet so many people, for so many hundreds of years, couldn't all have been victims of overactive imaginations, could they?”
“So if there are spirits, you expect them to be benevolent, or at the very least, harmless?”
“Something like that,” she agreed, then sent him an expressive glance. “I'm not the one who's going to be taking up residence with the spirits here.”
“I won't bother them, if they don't bother me,” he declared. “The nearest thing I've seen to a ghost was you, that first evening.”
She stared at him, an uncertain light in her violet eyes. “You must be joking.”
“I assure you I'm not.”
“But I was wearing jeans, the best I remember, and you accused me of being a teenage vandal.”
“That was later. As to what you were wearing, I noticed, finally. But there for a split second I saw only your long hair floating around you, and the expression on your face, as if I were the intruder in your domain.”
Laura did not know what to say. There was an odd undercurrent in his voice, as if there was more he could have said if he had been willing. “You were angry.”
“Was I?” he asked, a smile rising to his eyes. “I must have known even then what a problem you were going to be.”
“A problem?”
“Exactly. My life was sensible and well-ordered, like a financial statement with the assets and liabilities in balance.”
“That sounds a little dull.” She slanted him a quick glance from the corners of her eyes.
“Yes,” he said, turning toward her, the timbre of his voice deepening. “I'm beginning to realize that.”
It was the expression in his dark gaze that held her, one compounded of doubt and self-derision overlaid by desire. The firelight caught in the pupils of his eyes, burning like small twin flames. Slowly, he leaned to slip his arm around her waist, drawing her to him.
He tasted her lips, exploring their sweet and gentle curves, his own warm and sure against them. The muscles of his arm tightened, and Laura felt herself turned, settled across his lap. His right hand touched the soft, shining silk of her hair, smoothing the windblown waves, pushing through them to rest at the nape of her neck. His kiss deepened, becoming more urgent. Laura felt her senses expand. Her heartbeat quickened. She spread the fingers of one hand wide, pressing her palm against the muscled hardness of his chest. She felt disoriented by the sudden onslaught of emotion that gripped her. She was drowning in a perilous lassitude where nothing existed except the two of them and the heat in their blood fired by the compelling attraction that had brought them together.
“Laura,” Justin whispered, a ragged sound. His lips brushed her eyelids, moving along the tender curve of her cheek to the moist and sensitive corner of her mouth.
It was then that the flare of automobile headlights ran around the room, holding steady on the far wall. A car's horn blasted the night, coming from the end of the drive.
With stiff reluctance, Justin released her, helping her to a sitting position. They stared at each other in the combined glow of firelight and the reflection of headlamps coming through the windows. His face was grim, his expression shuttered. Laura lifted a slightly shaking hand to her hair, pushing it behind her shoulders. For some reason, she was suddenly afraid.
Justin got to his feet, holding out his hand to help her up before he bent to pick up the flashlight. Without a word, they turned toward the door, moving across the room and out into the hall. Motioning for Laura to stand back, Justin opened the door, turning the beam of the flashlight down the drive, before he sent it playing across the lawn.
It picked up the figure of a man, bulky in a tan raincoat. The rain fell heavily still, and he came toward them at a run, his footsteps squelching on the sodden grass. He looked up as he caught the flashlight's gleam. Hatless, smiling in triumph and relief as he caught sight of them both in the open door, Russ waved.
The bathroom of the Nichols mansion contained an old-fashioned tub with a rolled rim, porcelain knobs, and ball-and-claw feet. It was longer and deeper than its modern counterpart; made with comfort in mind rather than utility, it had a slanted back that was perfect for soaking at ease.
Laura, her hair piled on top of her head, stepped into steaming water scented with roses and jasmine. As she lay down, she allowed a long sigh to escape her. She hadn't realized how chilled she was until this moment. The outside temperature had dropped fifteen degrees in the last two hours. Then there had been the wait in the drafty hall while the fire was doused and the doors and windows checked once more. That wasn't all of it. She had also gotten damp at Crapemyrtle, on the run from the house to Russ's car. He had offered her his raincoat, but she had refused. In the car, the heater had been on, but even then the atmosphere had not been very warming.
Oh, there had been no overt hostility. Russ had talked in a near-normal tone, telling them how he had arrived back in town earlier, decided to call Laura, and been told that she had not yet returned from Crapemyrtle, Mrs. Nichols had been thinking of setting out in the antique shop's panel truck to look for her, and Russ had volunteered to run out to the house instead. Laura had made an attempt to keep the conversation going, saying how glad she was to see Russ, explaining about the storm and the fallen tree as she sat between the two men. Justin had added his bit, saying they must have caught the outside edge of the tornado rather than its full force, asking about local contractors who might be called in early the next morning to remove the downed oak. He would stay overnight at his motor hotel, he said, but he needed to drive back into Baton Rouge as soon as it could be arranged in the morning.
Still, beneath it all, there was a sense of questions unasked, unanswered. Russ, Laura thought, would have been glad to know just what she and Justin had been doing at the house alone, why they had been taking no positive action toward relieving their predicament, and why they seemed less than ecstatic about being rescued. Justin seemed disinclined to offer explanations. Laura thought of attempting to set matters straight herself, but as she ran the story she might tell through her mind, she abandoned the idea. In spite of her knowledge of how reasonable it was, it so
unded too lame.
Russ had dropped Laura off at her home before taking Justin on to where he was staying. He had brushed away her thanks, saying only that he would call her. Justin's good-bye had been abrupt, his expression grim as he stepped out into the rain, holding the car door for her while she slid across the seat and got out. For a brief instant, their eyes had met while she straightened, but his manner had been so withdrawn that Laura had divided a quiet good night between both men and moved swiftly toward the house.
It was still raining. It drummed on the roof above her as Laura lay in the hot, steaming water. The frown between her brows deepened as she contemplated the small white islands of lather floating around her. What was Justin Roman trying to do? Was he the kind of man who never missed an opportunity to make love to a girl if it arose? He didn't seem the type, but it wasn't always possible to tell, and he had given no indication of any other reason for his interest. He had not mentioned love, for instance. In fact, there had been few words of any kind to give an indication of how he felt about her. It would be more to the point, she told herself ruefully, if she could decide how she felt herself. His touch, his physical presence affected her as no other man's ever had. The way he regarded Crapemyrtle, both as a house and as a heritage, was so in tune with her own ideas on the subject that she could not help but find it an added attraction. Perhaps there was more than she realized to that line of thought. Perhaps it was her feelings for Crapemyrtle that colored her relationship with the man who owned it. She saw him as its savior, someone with the same interest in it, the same appreciation. It was no wonder she was becoming infatuated with the thought of him belonging there, a link between the past and the present.
Having recognized her danger, it was now up to her to decide what she was going to do about it. For one thing, it would be much better if she was not alone with Justin again. She would return their relationship to a businesslike footing and keep it there. She would finish the decoration and furnishing of his home the way he had asked, and that would be the end of it.
Her mother had been worried this evening. She had not said much about it, giving Laura only a brief hug when she came in, insisting that she get out of her damp things and into a warm bathrobe before she sat down to a bowl of fresh homemade soup. As they ate, Mrs. Nichols had listened to a bare account of what had taken place out at the old house, then sent Laura off to a hot soak in the tub and then to bed. Regardless, there had been a shadow of concern in her eyes, a hesitation in her manner, as though she realized everything was not as it should be. She would leave Laura to work it out for herself, or else to decide on her own to talk about it and to ask for help if she needed it. She had always been good that way. Still, eventually her concern would drive her to try to find out what was wrong and to lend a sympathetic ear. With any luck, by that time it would all be over—the house project, Justin and Myra's wedding, everything. Laura could tell her about it all, and they could laugh over the devious way people's minds played tricks on them.
Sitting up abruptly, Laura soaped herself, rinsed off, then got to her feet and stepped out of the tub. She dried with a thick towel, fluffed on bath powder, and slipped on a long gown of pink nylon in the Empire style. With efficiency, she brushed her teeth, then dragged a hairbrush through the long strands of her hair, bringing order to its tangled mass. That done, she went along the hall to her bedroom with its spool furniture and chintz prints. She knelt to turn out the space heater, then threw back the covers on her bed and moved to flick off the lights. Sliding between the covers, she pulled the sheet and blankets up to her chin and with determination closed her eyes.
Despite her preparations, sleep did not come. Her mind would not stop turning, going over and over the events of the evening: Justin's arrival at Crapemyrtle, their easy camaraderie over the items her mother had bought for the house, his request for her to furnish his home, his assertion that he had thought her a ghost when he first saw her. This last disturbed her. It seemed out of character somehow, a little like the time when he had been so drawn to the portrait of Lorinda, her great-great-grandmother. Was there some connection? She could not see how it was possible. To her knowledge, he had not known that either of them, Lorinda or herself, had existed until after he had bought the house.
Why did he want her to choose the thousand and one different pieces that would go into his house? Was it as he said, no more than hiring any other skilled professional to see that the interior of Crapemyrtle was completed as it should be? Was it, perhaps, a salute to her knowledge of period design, an endorsement of her taste? Or was it something more? Did he require her personal mark upon the place?
It was likely that, whether he required it or not, he would get it. She did not know how else to approach the job.
The rain had stopped, the sky was clear, and the sun was shining when Laura awoke. It seemed as if she had been asleep only a few moments. Her eyes burned with the feeling of sand under the lids from staring into the dark. Wincing a little, she turned her head to look at the clock.
With a gasp, she came upright, flinging back the covers. It was after nine. She should have been out at Crapemyrtle an hour ago! Today of all days to oversleep, when she would have to coax her mother into leaving the shop to drive her out to the house in the shop truck. Surely by the time the day was over, the tree would be removed and she could drive her own car home again.
She need not have worried. The oak obstructing the drive was gone. All that remained was a scattering of sawdust where it had been cut into sections, a few broken limbs, and a great hole in the lawn where its roots had been torn from the ground.
Justin's car was not in sight. Apparently, he had already come for it and gone again. The usual collection of painters’ and carpenters’ trucks were parked on the gravel. The only jarring note was the sight of Myra's red sports car pulled onto the grass that fronted the house between the steps and the beginning of the double line of oaks.
Laura thanked her mother and jumped down from the truck with a quick wave. As the older woman put the truck in reverse and began to back down the drive, she turned toward the house. It looked bright and new this morning, untouched by the storm. The air was fresh, as if it had been washed clean, and the sun sparkled on the droplets of water that still clung to the leaves of the oaks and the fresh greenery of the shrubs. The water that had been nearly ankle-deep the night before had drained away. The only thing that remained to tell of the fury that had burst over the house was the debris of twigs and broken bits of leaves that lay against the walls of the house under the overhanging gallery.
Laura moved down the hallway inside, glancing into the rooms. They were empty. The men were at work putting the finishing touches on the kitchen wing today. She turned into the dining room, crossing to the connecting pantry with its pass-through, shelves for silver and china, and small sink. Stepping through its narrow width, she came out in the kitchen, her rubber-soled sneakers making only a slight sound on the brick floor. The men looked up, greeting her with easy friendliness. There was a question of where the wrought-iron strap hinges and pulls should be placed on the cypress cabinets when the glaze they were applying had dried. When the question had been answered, she retraced her footsteps back to the hallway.
It was then that Myra came down the stairs from the upper floor. One hand was pushed into the pocket of her mink jacket, the other clutching the strap of her shoulder bag. Her red lips were set in a straight line, and the look in her green eyes was hard.
“Good morning,” Laura said in an attempt at pleasantness. “Justin has already gone.”
“I know,” the other woman replied, an edge to her tone. “I drove him out here myself, so he could pick up his car. I was a little worried when he didn't come back to town last night or answer my ring, so I ran down this morning to see what was the problem.”
“Is there something I can do for you, then?”
“As a matter of fact, there is,” Myra said, rounding the newel post and sauntering toward her.
“I've been refreshing my memory of the layout of the bedrooms, particularly the master bedroom, and waiting for you. I was beginning to think you weren't coming, but then, you had a somewhat tiring evening, I understand.”
“If you mean the storm, I don't think it was tiring, exactly,” Laura said, her tone wary.
“Exciting, then, or maybe a little frightening?”
“Not really.”
“Of coarse not, how silly of me,” Myra exclaimed. “You had Justin with you, didn't you? I wonder how you managed that?”
“I didn't manage it at all. It just—happened.”
“You were looking at the antiques, weren't you, and failed to see the storm come up. Funny, I didn't see anything that interesting about them.”
“It all depends on your outlook, I expect.”
“Possibly. Or how good you are at pretending.”
Laura stared at the other woman. “What are you suggesting?”
“Oh, I'm not suggesting anything,” Myra said with a careless shrug. “I'm only trying to understand how it came about that you spent half the night with my fiancé here in the dark.”
“It wasn't half the night. It was only two or three hours at the most. As for how it happened, surely Justin told you.”
“He did, yes, but I would like to hear what you have to say.”
Anger stirred inside Laura. She pushed her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “Why? Don't you trust him?”
The other woman flushed, a sparkle of rage in her eyes. “I think you know the answer to that one, but I'll tell you anyway. It's you I don't trust!”
“I'm sorry about that, but there's nothing I can do. I'm only trying to do my job and complete it in the least possible amount of time.”
“That's something I can applaud anyway,” Myra snapped.
“Fine. Then, if you don't mind, I will get on with it.”
April of Enchantment Page 10
