by Hope Ramsay
Jenny had gone to church.
He’d forgotten about that. She had skipped church last week because of the gossip. But it was exactly like her to go off this week. He could almost imagine her with her straight little backbone facing down the snickers and the smirks armed with a basket of muffins for the fellowship hour.
He’d been in town last week to see Doc Cooper, who’d removed the cast and put him in an air brace. He’d lunched at the Kountry Kitchen, so he knew what folks were saying about Jenny and that narrow-minded preacher. It was ridiculous, but there were idiots everywhere willing to believe anything.
Of course the same folks probably wouldn’t believe that a ghost was responsible for the flying chicken and teetering china cabinet.
He hadn’t believed it himself. But you could count him among the converts.
Luke was here in the house. He’d settled down with Gabe in the back bedroom.
Gabe pushed through the kitchen door and out into the thin February sunshine, which was warmer by far than the bedroom where he spent most of his days. He sucked in the fresh air and took Bear on a little walk in the woods. It wouldn’t be long, now, before the jonquils bloomed. Already, the spear-like tops of their foliage were poking through the leaf litter and pine needles. Their tops looked so fresh and green.
So alive.
Gabe could use a little springtime, but he had a feeling that, even when the weather warmed, he’d still feel cold. This, more than any other thing, was the hardest part about being haunted.
He ought to run away. But how could he? The ghost was leading him out of his writer’s block. He was making amazing progress on a book that was easily the best thing he’d ever written. He had to stay until it was finished. Because, to be honest, Luke was the book’s co-author. And Gabe knew he wouldn’t be able to finish it without the ghost.
Staying carried a lot of risk, though. He had the feeling that staying until the book was complete might mean he could never leave again. Of course, that wouldn’t be all bad. It was peaceful here.
And there was Jenny every morning.
But the book’s ending was a problem. Even though he didn’t know exactly how to finish it, he was almost afraid of getting to the end.
The book wasn’t even the story he’d set out to write. He had planned to write a ghost story with all the usual memes and tropes and clichés. But the ghost kept deleting that book. So he started another one on the night of the toppling china cabinet about a sweet little sociopath of an innkeeper.
But the next morning, instead of the files being deleted, they were changed—entirely rewritten. And now, almost two weeks later, he found himself writing a story about a middle-aged man who had come back to the old home place, prepared to tear it down and bury it, along with the painful memories of his youth.
But his hero was unable to carry out his goal. And the longer he stayed in the old house packing things up and selling them off, the more he became trapped by the past, haunted by something inside the house, and inside himself. At the heart of the book was the man’s damaged relationship with his father. And the writing was leading Gabe to a place he didn’t want it to go, filled with nightmares and the darkness that had always been right there in the middle of Gabe’s soul.
To finish this book, he was going to have to go spelunking right into the heart of that dark place. And there was a real chance that the hero of his book was also its villain.
On Thursday morning, Jenny baked bran muffins from a recipe that didn’t have all that much sugar in it. She test-tasted one and it was okay. Nothing to write home about, but it was healthier than some of her other recipes. She needed a few healthier choices on her menu since she was likely to have guests who wanted that sort of thing.
Not to mention that something healthier might lure Gabe. So when he came in from his morning walk and took out his box of Cheerios, she found herself saying, “I made these especially for you. They’re loaded with bran and don’t have a lot of sugar in them.”
He looked up from the banana he was about to slice into his cereal. He looked tired. The skin around his eyes was bruised and dark.
“You’re not sleeping well, are you?” she said.
He lifted one shoulder and the corner of his mouth. “I’m fine.”
“Have a muffin. It won’t kill you.” She pushed the plate toward him. “Although I have to tell you that they are not my best effort. But I can attest that they have lots and lots of fiber in them and they’re gluten-free.”
He stared at the muffins as if he wanted one, but he shook his head and looked up. “Jenny, you know I stay away from food like that.”
“But why? A little taste wouldn’t hurt. I feel almost like you’re being stoic or something. You want one of these. I can tell.”
He leaned his fist on the counter, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “I should have told you this weeks ago. There’s something about me that you don’t know. You see I’m a—”
His big confession was interrupted by the newly installed doorbell, which was easily as loud as Big Ben itself. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”
She hurried down the hallway and opened the door to find a big man wearing a blue work shirt with the name “Buck” embroidered above his pocket.
“Ma’am.” He actually touched the brim of his Atlanta Braves hat. “We’ve got your furniture, and we’re all ready to unload.”
“My bedroom furniture. Really! I’ve been waiting weeks. You can put it—”
“Uh, no, ma’am, I have a load of living room furniture.”
“Living room furniture? I didn’t order any living room furniture. Yet.”
“Uh, well, we had an order to pick up some furniture at a place in Charleston yesterday and deliver it here.”
“Charleston? Where in Charleston?”
“At a private home, ma’am. Oh, and there’s also a piano.”
“A piano?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Wait right there.”
She turned and marched down the hall to the kitchen, which was now abandoned. Apparently Gabe was a coward who didn’t want to explain why he was rejecting her muffins. So she pounded on his door, ignoring the sticky note that was starting to lose some of its sticky and curling up at the edges. “Mr. Raintree, there is a man at the door who is trying to deliver furniture.”
The door opened, and he had the tiniest of smiles at the corner of his mouth. The smile raised a few lines around his eyes and softened everything about his face. That smile didn’t do one thing to slow Jenny’s suddenly racing heart. “Good,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for them to arrive.”
“So you know about this?”
“I do. You need better living room furniture, and Luke is never going to stand for more sissy stuff with velvet and marble and crap like that. Believe me. You don’t even want to try it.”
“Luke?”
He shrugged.
“So you have accepted that we have a ghost?”
“I have. And I’m trying to appease him. So before you or Luke blows a gasket, why don’t you let the men install the furniture in the living room? You might like it.”
“But it’s your furniture, not mine.”
He shrugged. “If you want to be scrupulously honest, it’s The Jonquil House’s furniture.”
“What?”
“When Grandma and Granddad shut up The Jonquil House, they put a lot of furniture into storage. And when I leased my first apartment, some of that furniture ended up in my possession.” He brushed past her and headed down the hall. The wind of his passing seemed to have some odd, titillating effect on her skin.
She followed after him, intent on stopping him.
But when she got to the door, Gabe was smiling, his eyes twinkling. He seemed altogether another, younger, happier person. And she couldn’t tell him to stop even though he was invading her space. Literally.
Wilma would tell her that to fully realize her potential as a free, independent woman she o
ught to be standing in the way of the moving men. But how could she step on Mr. Raintree’s sudden happiness? It seemed a cruel thing to do, when he often seemed so unhappy. So haunted.
Which, now that he’d just admitted to it, was exactly what was happening to him. The ghost had been quiet as far as Jenny knew, but maybe Gabe was taking the brunt of it. That would sort of make sense. She wished there was something more she could do for him. Taking in his furniture seemed like a small thing. It could be changed once he moved out.
Although the thought of him leaving gave her a little pang. She had become fond of him. He’d become a part of her life in some odd way—a part of living in this house.
So when the moving men asked her what she wanted done with Mother’s ancient furniture, she’d found herself telling them to haul it away someplace and get rid of it. The moment she gave that order, it was as if she’d jettisoned something important. Mother would be horrified by what she’d just allowed to happen. Not that Mother loved her living room—quite the opposite. But Mother would never have allowed some stranger to impose his furniture on her.
And until right at that moment, Jenny had never imagined doing any such thing either.
When the men finally hoisted the spinet piano into a spot by the front windows, she had to admit that Mr. Raintree’s furniture, while not antebellum Victorian, seemed to belong in the room. The leather sofa was undeniably masculine and carried the patina of much use. The two facing chairs were so large and deep that Jenny thought she might drown in the burgundy tweed upholstery if she ever tried one. There wasn’t an embellishment to be had in these straightforward pieces. Even the walnut end tables looked solid enough to take any abuse and still come back for more.
When the men were gone, Mr. Raintree lowered himself into one of the big armchairs and propped his injured foot on the ottoman. “Ah, this is more like home.”
“I’m sure it is,” Jenny said. “And it’s very nice furniture, but when you move out, do you plan to take your furniture with you? I’m just asking because I’ve had Sabina and Lucy on the prowl looking for pieces for this room.”
“The furniture belongs to the house. Like the bed in the back room.”
“So you’re giving it to me?”
“Why don’t we just say that the furniture is in exchange for my rent and call it even?”
“Because the piano is worth more than any rent you might have owed up to this point.”
“Yes, but it’s Luke’s piano.”
That stopped her. Because she realized that the room, in fact the entire house, seemed warmer with this furniture in place. “He wanted the furniture back, didn’t he?”
Gabe nodded.
“Have you thought that maybe giving in to him isn’t helping him?”
“Helping him?”
“Or you, for that matter. You look very tired, Gabe. I’m a little worried about you. I’m thinking maybe we should get one of those crazy preachers out here and see if we can give the ghost a little nudge. He needs to go off to wherever spirits go. You know?”
“Heaven? You must believe in Heaven. You go to church regularly.”
“Okay, so Heaven, then. Don’t you think the ghost deserves Heaven?”
He looked away, out the front window, where a bright February sun was shining down, promising an early spring.
“What if he’s supposed to go the other way?” he asked.
“Gabe, if the ghost is your brother I can’t imagine why he’d be going off to hell. He was only fifteen when he died. And from what I’ve heard, he was a sweet boy who loved animals.”
“Yeah, he was. Everyone loved Luke.”
“Well, he’s become a bit of a pain in the butt in death. But I think it’s only because he’s confused. We should do something about sending him on to where he belongs.”
Gabe shrugged, and a brooding look settled on his brow as he shifted his gaze to the piano. His entire being seemed to withdraw the more she talked about sending the ghost packing. All the joy he seemed to be feeling a minute ago had evaporated like summer rain after a shower.
He stared at the piano as if he were daring the ghost to sit down and play. Or send it hurling across the room like he’d done to Mother’s china cabinet.
“Do you play?” Gabe asked after a long moment.
“A little. I learned as a girl, but Granny’s piano was burned up in the fire that took the farmhouse. I haven’t played in years.”
“Please, don’t hold back, although I’m sure it needs tuning. I’ve called the tuner, by the way. He’s coming next Monday.”
She was about to tell him he had lost his mind when the doorbell rang again.
“Goodness, it’s as busy as a train station in here this morning.” She headed back to the center hall.
When she opened the front door, she found a woman impeccably dressed in a black worsted suit and an animal-print silk blouse. Her chic, chin-length bob displayed her long neck and chunky jewelry. She was dark-haired, olive-skinned, and so thin she looked like she needed to stand up three times to make a shadow. She had a Louis Vuitton suitcase at her side and a matching purse slung over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, but the inn isn’t open yet,” Jenny said.
“Oh? I was under the impression that Gabriel Raintree is staying here. I need to speak with him.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Barbara? Is that you?” Gabe came limping out of the living room and into the foyer.
“Gabe. Thank God. I’ve been beside myself with worry.” The woman named Barbara sailed through the door on her high heels and right into Mr. Raintree’s arms. She gave him a kiss on the lips that lasted a bit longer than was necessary, followed by a big hug.
This public display of affection chilled Jenny like a gust of icy wind. She watched it and knew herself for the biggest fool that ever breathed. She had allowed herself to think that she mattered to Mr. Raintree, even if he wasn’t pleased by her cooking, even though he was scrupulous about keeping his distance.
She had made this mistake before. And she wasn’t going to make it again.
Barbara Ianelli was all over him like a bad paint job, and all Gabe could think was that Jenny was watching this display. His first instinct was to set his editor back a few feet. But he didn’t do that. He let her rub her body up against him. He let her kiss linger. And he did it in the hope that this would discourage Jenny.
And discourage himself.
He needed to keep his distance from Jenny even though his sweet tooth and his libido were urging him in the other direction. He was wrong for her, and she was wrong for him. She was sweet and kind, and he was a failure at relationships. He didn’t know how to commit, or even to love. And he had always been happier when the world left him alone.
Which the world rarely wanted to do.
He finally managed to disengage Barb’s lips and set her away from him. “How did you find me?”
She gave him one of her sassy New York looks—the kind that involved an eye roll that pissed him off every time she did it. “C’mon, Gabe, you’re all over Facebook. What’s this business about giving a book talk on February fifteenth? You know the publisher doesn’t like you to do things without letting us know beforehand. And I’m annoyed at you for changing your phone number. I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks. You’re avoiding me.”
“I didn’t want to be reached.”
She took his cheeks in her long, cool hands and tilted her head. It was a facsimile of a caring look. Barb wanted his latest book, and maybe a little fun between the sheets, but beyond that she didn’t care. Not like Jenny.
“Oh, poor baby, are you still battling writer’s block?”
He wasn’t blocked anymore, but trying to explain how the ghost of his long-dead brother was helping him write a book would probably not go over well. Barb would think he’d gone crazy. And maybe he had. All in all, it was better to lie.
“I’m still blocked.”
“But you spend all day
in your room typing,” Jenny said. “I can hear you. Aren’t you making any progress?” She seemed so worried about him. Her concern warmed him to his core.
Barb let go of him and turned on his landlady. “And you are?”
“My landlady,” Gabe said.
“Oh, good. I need a room.”
Jenny’s forehead wrinkled, and Gabe knew what Jenny was about to say. And as much as Gabe wished he could turn his editor away, tossing Barb out on her ass would just make more trouble. So he cut Jenny off before she could explain that the inn wasn’t open for business.
“Jenny, this is my editor,” he said. “You need to give her a room. I’m not going to let her stay at the Peach Blossom Motor Court.”
Jenny put her hands on her hips and gave him a look that was one part angry and another part wounded. He was treading hard on her kindness. Hadn’t he just imposed his furniture on her living room? And now he was imposing his editor. But it couldn’t be helped. It would be better to humor Barb than to antagonize her and have her hanging around making a nuisance of herself. And besides, Barb was the best damn chaperone he could think of. Her presence would ensure that he didn’t trip and make a big mistake.
“But I haven’t yet—” Jenny began.
“She’ll pay the going rate.”
“But you don’t understand, I have to get—”
“And she’ll take the Iris Room.” He picked up Barb’s suitcase and headed up the stairs, leaving Jenny fuming in the foyer.
“Are you turning into an innkeeper instead of a writer?” Barb asked as they ascended the narrow staircase.
“No. I’m just humoring you so that you don’t say something nasty to Jenny. The inn isn’t even open.”
“But you’re staying here.”
He briefly explained the situation, his broken ankle, the fact that the inn had once belonged to his family, and the deal he’d struck with Jenny and the Last Chance Book Club. He opened the door to the Iris Room.
“Oh, how beautiful,” she said as she preceded him through the door.
“I’ll let Jenny know you like it. I think it’s a travesty. Granddad’s probably spinning in his grave over the wallpaper. He used to have a deer head right there over the hearth.” He put Barbara’s suitcase on the floor by the bed.
