Stacking the dishes in the dishwasher, she firmly put worry about Huey out of her mind. What was the difference between Spence and Cass, she wondered. Why did she respond with excitement and something akin to joy when she was with Cass?
Spence was as comfortable as an old shoe and just about as exciting. Somewhere there would be another woman for him, she fervently hoped so at least. He was too nice a guy to live the rest of his life in isolation. But he wasn't for her.
Spence was the epitome of the modern Metro-sexual Man, getting a pedicure each month, a manicure every Friday and using moisturizer at bedtime. No less of a man, but not her kind of man. While Cass, now ... Without the cigarette and cowboy hat, he was the image of the Marlboro Man. Rugged good looks, strong personality, a gentle but firm hand on the reins when needed.
The chemistry between any two people was a mystery to her. You didn't do anything to foster a relationship. It just happened. Or not. She liked and admired Spence, but she didn't want to date him. What special something was it that had linked her and Bree from the very beginning? Why not Bree and Leah? They'd all met at the same time, but she and Bree had clicked instantly and it had never changed. Later, in high school, they'd added Lily and Zoe. Cass now, Cass was another matter. He had grown on her.
Truth be told, she didn't exactly know what to do about him. And trying to sort out her feelings could possibly take on all the trappings of the assault on Iwo Jima. Not that Cass was doing the assaulting. She was her own worst enemy here. None of her defenses were fool-proof. Despite all her protestations of not getting involved, she was already involved to a certain extent, like it or not. How did that happen? She hadn't a clue.
She inhaled sharply. She had neither the mental space nor the courage to risk on love. Love took commitment and a degree of compromise, and she had neither. Not now. All her resources were being used in another direction.
And the question remained about Huey. She'd persisted in seeing him over her parents’ objections and it had ended in disaster. How could a man so physically beautiful be so totally self-centered and selfish? Ugly on the inside. And why hadn't she been able to see that if her parents could? She'd never understand.
She wondered if they would approve of Cass? There was a strong feeling that they would. If the relationship continued to grow ... But it wouldn't. It couldn't. There were reasons why she wasn't solid ground upon which to build a relationship. And it wouldn't be fair to either of them to allow whatever feelings were there, to go deeper. But, oh my, she liked him. Felt so free with him. Trusted him.
She'd told him all about Huey. All about Leah. All about her deepest fears. About her fledgling business and how important her painting was to her. She'd even called him when she couldn't get the mower to work.
Without making a decision to do so, she was trusting him with her life. With Max's life. Even her affections. God, this was pathetic. It would have to stop. At the moment she had neither the time nor the energy, nor the inclination, she told herself firmly, to give herself in a romantic way to any man. And even as she thought it, she knew she was lying. Maybe she didn't have the time or the energy, but she certainly had the inclination. Boy Howdy, did she have the inclination! She'd have to hold a rein on it, though, at least until this thing with Leah was settled. And the thing with Huey. Sheesh! How did life get so complicated? Maybe she'd call Bree in the morning and see if anything was going on at her house for the evening. Spence had been right about her not making a recent appearance at the pool. Hopefully, Ruby June would be free to baby-sit.
Making the turn in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs, she avoided looking into the mirror. She couldn't quite do it—the possibility of seeing Leah gazing back was still uppermost in her mind. Avoidance of the mirror had become a habit. Thank you Leah!
She'd like to avoid the octagonal window on the landing at the turn of the stairs as well, but there wasn't any other way to get to the bedrooms. Ever since the night of the storm when Leah had appeared, pointing her finger at Kate, there had been a cold draft emanating from the landing, as well as the scent of gardenias. Let's be honest, Kate thought. From the window. From Leah.
Kate worked hard not to let Leah's presence inhibit her from enjoying the house. It didn't always work, but she tried. Stopping on the landing, she put thoughts of Cass out of her mind and, curious, stretched out a hand to touch the glass. There was almost a brittle feel to the window, it was so cold. In the middle of summer! She sighed. Leah was still there all right. And she, Kate, was still trying to come to grips with her.
Deliberately, she waited until the chilly air swirled around her ankles and begin to rise. Clenching her teeth against a need to run, she stood quiet while it rose higher and even higher, enveloping her with its dank cold. After all, it was just Leah. Forcing herself to stand still, she stared at the frosty glass. Leah's form was still etched there, apparently forever embedded in the window. Max always went down the stairs at a dead run or by way of the banister and hadn't noticed. Or if he had, he hadn't said anything.
Still Kate waited; she wasn't sure why. It was as if she expected Leah to talk to her. To explain what was happening, the hatred in her eyes that first day, the lightning flashes of light. But there was nothing. As always, Leah never came when Kate called. She came when she, herself, wanted to come. Apparently, she didn't mind Spence's presence. Just Cass's.
And, Kate admitted, there was a difference between the two men. A big difference. Even though she tried, it was hard to look at another man and not compare him to Cass. She liked the way Cass's eyes crinkled when he laughed and somehow, the way the hair on his wrists grew was—interesting. She didn't understand why this was so. It was hard to forget the strength of his hands on her back or the gentle way he'd caressed her cheeks, her closed eyes, her hair when he'd kissed her. Remembering was easier than forgetting.
When they were in the same room, she always knew exactly where Cass was. Some invisible antennae kept her aware of his presence. She could feel his eyes on her, in the kitchen, the living room, beside Bree's pool, even before she knew that he'd entered a room. And she had a feeling that he was considering, as she was, just where the relationship was going.
What was almost as weird as Leah's ghost was how these feelings could rise so sharply and so suddenly without her even knowing they were there. How a surge of desire could come at the least appropriate times and without her wanting it at all.
She needed to sort out her own feelings, she knew. Someday. It wasn't enough to just deny what she felt. Actual knowing, deep inside, was important. For now, it was enough to know he was there for her, on the other end of the phone, by her side, and at her back if she needed him.
She had told Spence not one word about Leah, nothing about the strange happenings since she'd moved back into the house, or her fears of what they might mean. Certainly he was trustworthy, but Spence was too analytical to give honest consideration to anything supernatural. He dealt in facts and figures and she had few of either to offer. She'd need to prove something to him, and she couldn't prove anything.
And, quite honestly, as time went on and nothing dreadful happened, she relaxed somewhat. Her stomach had eased its nightly dance of nerves. Maybe whatever the problem was, with Leah, was over.
Kate took her hand away from the window. For whatever reason, Leah seemed to be content to just frighten Kate, to tease and torment. And, at this moment, allowing herself to leave the window and go on up the stairs to bed, Kate knew she could live with that.
On her bedside table lay one of the books she'd picked up from the library. A book about haunted cemeteries. If she was going to bone up on extrasensory activity, she'd better read it. All the books would be due back at the library soon. Kate slipped on her little silk gown, left the light on and propped herself up to read.
There were numerous photographs with shadowy, ghostly figures in the background, and glowing balls of light that seemed to be floating in the air. The hair on the back of Kate's neck s
tiffened. She'd seen one of those glowing balls of light, first hand. From the very place where she now sat, with her own eyes, she'd seen that light. Fighting a building sense of dread, she continued to read.
According to the author, more hauntings take place in the home of the roaming spirit than in graveyards, although popular fiction would have it otherwise. God forbid, Kate thought, maybe this guy knows what he's talking about. Up until now, she hadn't quite been able to bring herself to look at the books because it seemed as if by reading she would give credence to the belief that her house was actually haunted. She hadn't been ready to admit that. Now ... Now maybe her perception had changed.
Along with hazy photos of spectral images, the book described the separation of the body and the spirit as nothing more complicated than rising from one's recliner in front of the television. The two entities, body and chair, no longer had any relationship to each other. Generally, she read, unless some heinous act of outrage caused the spirit to seek release in the ether, some need for revenge or need to right a terrible wrong, the spirit required no excuse to become mobile.
Her heart did a queer stutter step. She read, “When the dead become violent or abusive it means they want to communicate.” An entire fleet of butterflies stirred uneasily in the pit of her stomach.
There were chapters on places that were haunted after a traumatic event. A violent death, perhaps, or unexplained accident. Chapters about evil spirits and malevolent energies. And, with growing alarm, Kate found more inexplicably horrifying experiences than she wanted to contemplate.
Thirty pages into the book, Kate softly closed the cover. "Heinous outrage." The words spun around in her head. "Need for revenge. Need to right a terrible wrong. A violent death. Evil spirits and malevolent energies. Want to communicate."
With horror she realized her relationship with Leah fit as if cut from a cast iron die! She was cold all over. Even her eyelashes felt frozen. Oh Lord. The book may have been written for her! About her! Why in the world had she thought it such a good idea to move home to Winsom in the first place?
Turning out the light and lying, shivering, in the dark, she thought bitterly she should never have chosen a book on ghosts as bedtime reading material. Not smart, Kate! Not smart at all. Think about something else.
Huey. No, not Huey. Definitely not Huey.
Max. Not good. She was still worried about whether or not it had been Leah he had been muttering about regarding the portrait.
Think about painting. The current silk, almost finished, or the one she could begin tomorrow. Not wonderful, either. She had yet to decide on a pattern, on which orchid to use next. And she couldn't do that in her current frame of mind.
Cass. Uh, no. That required concentration and an open mind, neither of which she was capable of at the moment.
An appendectomy. That might do it. Thank God, she didn't need one.
She smiled to herself and picked up the E-reader. What she needed was a mystery. Not a romance, not a suspense, definitely not a paranormal. She was living all of those. A simple, cozy mystery would do.
It was a long time before sleep came.
* * * *
By night the cemetery was forbidding, dark and ominous. Moonlight threw the tombstones into shadowy relief. An owl hooted in the distance. To the right, a concrete mausoleum loomed silent and huge, somehow threatening. Bewildered, the figure turned her head from side to side. Why was she here? She couldn't remember why she'd come. The two stones looked cold and stark in the darkness. The intertwining hearts meant nothing. There were no flowers at the sides.
To the right stood another set of headstones. Two sinister-looking stones, writhing and twisting in the night, when there ought to have been only one. Two stones, yet joined by a pair of outstretched hands. She moved closer, seeming to float ethereally over the damp grass. A wind stirred the tops of the trees, blew her gown in a swirling, filmy mass around her legs and moved on. Dried leaves rustled in the background. Somewhere a dog howled. Her eyes were riveted on the two engraved granite stones.
"Leah Louise Griffith” the first one read, “beloved daughter of...” and her birthdate and the date of her death. August 31.... Weeds obscured the year.
Beside it, connected by a statuary of hands clasped even in death, was a second stone. “Katherine Louise Griffith Foster, beloved daughter of ... and her birthdate and the date of her death. August 31.... Her fingers gently floated forward to move the weeds so that the year was visible.
The high keening wail of a lost and agonizing soul lifted from the ground and hovered overhead, wailing in grief, before echoing away into the night sky. The tombstones shivered in its wake.
The figure stood alone, bereft and quaking, as a high wind swept across the land.
* * * *
Kate awakened from the nightmare in the wee hours, sitting straight up in bed, clammy and gasping for air. A faint whiff of gardenias teased her nostrils. Her hands trembled. The dream was different than the one with Leah and the car in the water, but no less frightening.
For a second she thought there was a figure beside the bed. “Careful, Katey-did. Careful." The words echoed in her ear and were gone.
What? Who? She tried to concentrate as she fought her way up from the depths of terror. Cold sweat ran slick down her back. She was shaking. Had there really been someone there. Leah? Had Leah spoken to her, again? Or was it all part of the dream?
The tombstones. Oh God, the tombstones. The date of death on hers had been this year! This month! Had she just seen her own death foreordained? The hair on the back of her neck went stiff. Was it a warning or a promise?
She struggled for control. “It was that book,” she said aloud, ignoring the quiver in her voice. “That damn book about haunted graveyards.” With a hand still trembling, she turned on the bedside light.
The room was reassuringly normal. The dresser stood solidly where it always stood with Max's picture grinning at her from the top. The bathroom door was ajar, as usual, with a night light burning. Her slides which she'd kicked off as she crawled into bed, lay on the floor at crazy angles.
But her heart still thudded against the wall of her chest and she couldn't yet breathe all the way down. The dream was so vivid she was afraid to blink her eyes.
And then, “Mom-mie!” Max's voice speared through the dark from down the hall. Kate's heart kicked into even higher gear as she recognized the terror in his voice. “Mom-mie!"
Her feet kicked desperately at the sheets.
Eleven
Sophrolaelia ‘Psyche'
A hybrid dwarf plant growing only inches tall. Iridescent-looking clusters of pointed, exotic, bright orange-red blossoms. Sophrolaelia ‘Psyche', Laelia type, related to Cattleyas.
Max sat in bed, clutching his clown pillow, with tears sliding down his cheeks. His arms strained forward as she rounded the corner into his room. “Mommie..."
Backed into a corner, bristling as if confronting an attacking mastiff, teeth bared, Babe barked hysterically.
Kate folded herself on the bed beside Max and rocked him back and forth. “Sh-h-h. It's all right. I'm here. Sh-h-h. Babe! Hush!"
Max buried his head in her neck and gripped her in a stranglehold. “I want my ... light,” he sobbed. “Can I ... please ... have my light?"
Only then did Kate notice that Max's little baseball player lamp, always plugged into the baseboard socket, no longer gleamed in the night. Light from the hall way filtered in the door, but the little ceramic and glass baseball guy lay on the floor.
Babe had never stopped barking. The ruff of hair down his spine stood on end and he was stiff-legged, staring fixedly at something she couldn't see.
"Babe! Stop it! It's okay.” Reluctantly, the dog grumbled and with a punctuating yip, sank back on his haunches.
Max had both arms wrapped tight around Kate's neck, but with one hand she groped for the bedside lamp and flipped the switch. “There, is that better?"
He nodded weakly. “Can I sleep
with you? I don't want to stay in here."
Max hadn't slept with her in years. What in the world? True, she could hear a storm building in the west. Thunder rumbled distantly and lightning lit the windows, but it wasn't yet overhead. And, anyway, Max had never been afraid of storms. Why now? What was different?
"Max, it was only a bad dream, and it's over now. Everything is fine.” She tried to hold him away from her, but he clutched her even tighter.
"You smell better than..."
Kate went cold. “Better than what? Who?"
"Her."
"Does she have a name?” And with fear tightening her insides, “What was that about a smell?"
"She smells like flowers, but I like the way you smell better."
"Who, honey? Tell me who you're talking about.” Flowers. He'd said flowers!
"I can't.” The tears started all over again and he fumbled blindly for Lambie beside him on the bed. “It's a secret. I can't."
Kate pulled him into her lap. “Max. This is important. There are times when it's best not to keep a secret from someone who can help. I want you to tell me who you saw."
No answer.
"Who did you smell?"
No answer.
Kate closed her eyes. The ground here was a bit boggy, so she spoke carefully. “It is somebody I know?"
A slow nod, his face still buried in her chest, Lambie hugged between them.
"Is it someone we see often?"
Max's head shook an emphatic no.
"Is it a woman?” He had, after all, said “she."
Max's body didn't move. He seemed to be holding his breath.
"Aunt Bree?” Of course, it wouldn't be Bree, but...
Again, a negative shake.
"Ruby June or Pearly June?"
This time a small expulsion of breath before he said, “No."
It's time. All or nothing. “Aunt Leah?"
Dancing Ladies Page 19
