by Denise Daisy
The valet opens my door, and I step onto the driveway. Mike is quick, tossing the guy the keys to his Porsche and making his way around the car to me.
“You ready?” he asks.
The lump is back, but I’m good at swallowing. I smile and nod my head as we ascend the steps leading up to the veranda. I walk inside and hold my breath. I can still remember the way Quillan looked when he took my hand at the base of the stairs. It may have been over a hundred years ago, but to me, it was last night, and I am not sure I can handle this right now.
The front room is full of people milling about, texting, talking on their cells, reading the paper, chatting with friends, and checking in at the concierge’s desk. Everyone is enjoying the luxury of this grand hotel with no awareness of the people who once lived here.
“I’m richer than ever,” Mike tells me as we walk through the lobby. “If you like, I can make the old pretense come true and send you to Cornell. You can study hotel management and work with me. I’d put you in charge of this one since it has a special meaning to you.”
I smile, but before I can answer, one of the hotel workers summons him, needing his assistance. Mike’s a busy guy now with power and prestige, so I stand there alone as he’s whisked away.
I walk through the lobby and into the hallway. A woman wearing a black skirt and a hotel polo is chatting with some of the guests, giving a tour and a brief history of the place. Eager to hear what she is saying, I fall in line.
“As you can see by some of the earlier paintings, the Faulkner plantation was one of the few in these parts who built suitable quarters for the slaves. It’s even rumored James Faulkner actually compensated his workers, starting small accounts for them and giving them the dividends once they attained their freedom.” I smile and look at the painting, knowing full well it’s the blueprints Lunar drew up.
“This ancestral portrait is of James Faulkner’s only daughter Emily. She married one of the plantation slaves and went on to have five children. Four boys and a girl. Quillan, James Jr., John, Michael, and Averie Hope.”
I do that laugh-and-cry-at-the-same-time thing when the guide reads the names. I absolutely adore the name Averie Hope. I step in front of the painting and cry some more. Quillan looks to be about twelve years old. He’s sitting next to Emily with perfect posture. Lunar stands behind him with one hand proudly on his shoulder. The other kids are gathered around, as well, with little Averie Hope on Emily’s lap.
The guide moves the guests down the hall toward the dining room, but I hang behind to look at more paintings. There’s one of James and Elizabeth, a single portrait of Emily, and then my heart nearly stops when I see one of Quillan. He’s identical to how he was when I was with him. I want to pull the canvas from the wall and make a run for it, but I am sure it’s alarmed and I’d end up with security pouncing on me before the night is out. Maybe I’ll just ask Mike if I can have it.
“He’s handsome, isn’t he?” a woman comments, walking up behind me.
“Yes, yes he is,” I say, still gazing at the picture.
“He’s a son a mother would be proud of,” she says again, and the oddness of her statement pulls my gaze away from Quillan and to the woman. She’s beautiful, somewhere around my mother’s age. She’s smiling at me in a curious way, as if she knows something I don’t. She seems awfully familiar and, all of a sudden, I think I might be meeting one of Quillan’s ancestors. She does look a lot like Emily.
“Are you a Faulkner?” I ask.
She smiles and tilts her head. “Why, Miss Averie, I do believe you must be clairvoyant or something.”
My knees buckle, and I cover my mouth with my hand. “Emily?”
“There was a lot of cleanup to do after the night the Georgia men tried to rob us. Lunar found this on one of the men before they buried him.”
Taking my hand, she places the locket inside. Balling it inside my fist, I squeeze it tight, hold it against my chest, and cry. My precious locket.
“Do you remember the night you talked to Daddy out by the pond? The night he decided to let me be with Lunar?”
I nod my head, too overwhelmed to speak. “Well I overheard you and Mike in the garden talking about traveling back to the future. I was eavesdropping when you ran out, nearly knocking me over. I heard everything you said. Granted, I didn’t understand it all, but I never forgot it, especially after the three of you disappeared so mysteriously. Later, I found a letter you wrote to Quillan. It was lying on the floor inside of Daddy’s study near the man you shot. I read your letter over and over and finally figured it out.”
She smiles and takes my free hand, the one that isn’t gripped around my treasure.
“You saved my life, Averie. I never got the chance to thank you, so I found a way to come here tonight and tell you.”
She takes a few steps down the hall and stops at a painting I have yet to see. Smiling, she pulls on the frame and opens it just big enough to slip inside. “You know, it’s a funny thing about shooting stars, Miss Averie. If your heart is in the right place when you do your wishing, they tend to come true. Just so you know, you weren’t the only one who made a wish that night. You have five minutes before the star burns out.” With those cryptic words, she disappears behind the painting into another passage.
I don’t need five minutes. Without a second thought, I enter the corridor, closing the past behind me. It’s pitch-dark, but I’ve never seen more clearly in my entire life. Kicking off my shoes, I break into a full run, my heart racing along with me as I come to the end of the tunnel. Stepping into the tall grass, I see the silver glow of the moon reflecting off the pond, illuminating the deep gray eyes of the man standing in the garden waiting for me.
He smiles. “Welcome home, Miss Averie.”
“All I’m saying is simply this, that all life is interrelated, that somehow we’re caught in an inescapable network of mutuality tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly. We are not makers of history; rather we are made by history.”
- Martin Luther King
Meet the Author
With the debut of her New Adult thriller, One Last Time, Denise gives you a nail biting, page-turner that will have you on the edge of your seat.
Denise Daisy is described as one of the purest storytellers of all time, pulling romance, suspense, and a touch of the supernatural, all into the same piece. Born and raised in Tennessee, Denise Daisy sets her stories in the Deep South, and her natural southern style charms all her work.
In addition to writing, Denise enjoys directing for the theater and has brought to the stage many wonderful stories, from The legend of Pocahontas to Great American Tall Tales. To Denise, there is nothing more thrilling than bringing characters to life, whether on stage, behind the camera, or in the pages of her books.
In her free time, she enjoys spending time with her four daughters, watching fireflies in the evenings, dreaming up her next story, and inspiring others.
Don’t miss Ghost For Sale by Sandra Cox, coming September 29, 2015!
Ghost For Sale
Caitlin King can’t believe that her shopaholic cousin actually bought two ghosts off of eBay. But she can’t ignore the truth when she starts seeing sexy Liam O’Reilly, a teenager who’s been dead for over a hundred years. He’s a fascinating specter, and the more time Caitlin spends with him, the closer they become—sending them both spiraling into a star-crossed tailspin. No matter how desperately they long for each other, there’s just no future with a guy who’s already stopped breathing.
In order to help Liam and his twin sister, Anna, leave their earthly limbo and cross over into the light, Caitlin must find the ghost of Anna’s fiancé. But a malevolent spirit is dead set against Anna moving on. Now Caitlin will have to unravel the mystery surrounding the twins’ past lives in order to keep Liam’s spirit safe—even if it means sacrificing her heart in the process.
Learn more about Sandra at htt
p://www.kensingtonbooks.com/author.aspx/31643
Chapter 1
Brring. The shriek of the doorbell caused me to jump, interrupting my first morning jolt of caffeine, as hot liquid sloshed over the sides and burned me. “Crap.” I thumped the cup down and trotted to the door, shaking my stinging fingers.
My irritation faded when I opened the door.
A young delivery man dressed in standard tan gave me an appreciative once over. I returned the favor. “Miss VanLier?” He held a box in one hand and a clipboard and pen in the other. Lust turned my brain to mush. I reached for the clipboard and scratched my name.
“Miss King?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. But I need Miss VanLier’s signature.”
“Oops. Wait right there.” I held up a finger and walked backward till I was out of sight, then sprinted for my cousin’s bedroom. “HDM at the door, Marcy.”
“Hot delivery man?” She sat up.
“Yup. A Mr. Hottie.”
“What’s he want?”
“He’s got a box that I can’t sign for. Did you order those red stilettoes?”
She looked at me and mumbled, “They didn’t have them in my size.” Her eyes widened. “My ghosts!”
“What?”
“My ghosts. I bought two on eBay.” She jumped out of bed.
“What?”
“Caitlin, you’re repeating yourself. I bought two ghosts on eBay.”
“No. Really? How much?”
“Three thousand a piece.” She reached for the robe at the foot of her bed and threw it on.
Pressure began to build at my temples. “Why would you spend six thousand dollars for ghosts?”
“Why not?” She trotted out of the room and raced down the hall.
Good question. Marcy’s parents were richer than God. Spending a few thou on a whim was no big deal. My parents weren’t exactly poor, but their fortunes paled in comparison to my mom’s sister’s family.
I hauled butt after her. “You don’t really believe that stuff, do you?”
“Why else would I have bought them?”
Why indeed?
We made it to the door in a dead heat.
“Are you Miss VanLier?” HDM asked.
“Yes, that’s right.” She reached for the pen and clipboard. His glassy gaze traveled back and forth between the two of us, lingering on my short-shorts.
“She inherited those legs from her momma. At least that’s what Aunt always tells us,” Marcy put in helpfully as she intercepted the look.
Mr. HDM reddened, thrust the package at her, and beat a retreat.
She studied the return address. “It’s my ghosts. But the package is ripped.”
“I’ll say.” The box was busted, ripped at the seams. “We should have been paying more attention to the package and less to the delivery boy.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t wait to see my specters.” She clutched it to her breasts like a long lost child and headed to the kitchen, leaving me to shut the door. I watched the HDM drive away, then trotted after her.
“You opened it,” I said, disappointed I’d missed the reveal.
“No, the tube was cracked and the cork out. My ghost escaped somewhere between here and Florida.” She rubbed her forehead as if warding off a headache.
A chill swept down my spine. Then sanity returned. Ghost indeed.
“Jonas Bromwell is going to reimburse me for this purchase. I’m not paying three thousand for a cracked test tube. My daddy taught me the value of a dollar.” Hands splayed on her waist, she glared at the broken cylinder.
“Yeah, and I wonder if your idea of value is going to equal his.”
“Say what?”
“Nothing. What about the other one?” I pointed at the still intact tube. Her face brightened. She looked at me, grinned, and picked it up with perfectly manicured nails.
Slowly, she pulled out the cork, drawing out the moment, then pop. “Welcome to your new home, ghost.”
A current of electricity traveled along my skin and trailed down my arms in a slow, sensuous slide. Heat escalated and my arms burned. “Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.” As I flailed around, the smell of cinnamon and tart limes teased my senses. The hairs on my neck stood on end. Goose bumps roughened my skin. What the…
“Caitlin, what is wrong with you?”
“I have no idea,” I wailed. “My arms feel on fire. Do you smell that?”
Marcy dutifully lifted her nose and sniffed. “Smell what? Your arms have just gone to sleep. That’s happened to me before. Just keep shaking them and they’ll feel better in no time.”
Right. I ran to the sink, turned on the cold water, and stuck them under it. The heat disappeared as quickly as it had come. The smell was gone too. This is weird. I touched my arms, expecting heat, but they were cool from the water. My skin looked perfectly normal, no blisters.
“Are you better?”
“Yes.”
“I would have never thought about running water for a muscle cramp. I’ll remember that next time.”
I opened my mouth to correct her, then promptly shut it. What was the point?
Marcy’s attention turned back to the test tube. She waited expectantly, her eyes wide. As the minutes ticked away, the look of expectation turned to disappointment. “That thief, I’m going to ask for all my money back. He sold me empty test tubes.”
I tried to work up a “well duh.” But I couldn’t quite do it, maybe because I was shaking like a leaf.
When I didn’t respond, my cousin looked at me. The frown on her lovely features deepened. “What’s wrong with you? You’re white as a sheet and trembling.”
Not for a million bucks or a thousand pair of shoes would I admit I might have just experienced my first ghostly encounter. I croaked the first thing that came to mind. “Sugar.”
She pulled out a box of donuts, tossed them on the table, just missing an empty juice glass, and I fell into the chair.
“Want a Pepsi?”
“Please.”
“I can’t believe I got scammed. I was so sure I was buying ghosts. The seller seemed so sincere.” She pulled a can out of the fridge and handed it to me. I drank it so fast I choked, and she slapped me on the back.
“I’m fine.” I waved her away.
“Here, have a donut.”
I reached for a glazed, inhaling the yeasty confection before brushing my palms together to get the sticky icing off my fingers.
“There, you’re looking better.” She beamed, then turned and walked out.
I loved my cousin, and her abrupt mood changes were just part of her charm, but this one left me a bit off balance. Clearly, she was already over her ghost disappointment and had moved on to her next obsession.
As soon as she left, I slipped out of the room and went to the little study off my bedroom, opened my laptop, and googled paranormal activity. In moments, I was immersed. Time disappeared as I tried to find a rational explanation for the strange scent that had appeared when the top popped on the tube, along with the kilowatt voltage that had fried my skin without leaving a mark.
“I’m leaving now.” Marcy spoke from the doorway.
My breath caught and I clutched my heart. “You scared me. What time is it?” I looked at the tick-tock cat clock on my wall, disoriented. “Six o’clock,” we said in unison, me in disbelief.
“Have you been networking all this time?”
“Yeah.” I took the coward’s way out and didn’t try to explain I’d been researching paranormal activity—ghosts in particular—not chatting socially. I’d be totally humiliated if my sophisticated cousin thought I was a geek. “You look great, Marcy.” She wore faded jean capris and a crimson silk shirt over a red halter, topped off with chunky red jewelry. “I didn’t think the party was till later.”
“Cookout on the patio.”
“Gotcha. Have fun.”
“Sure you don’t want to go
?” A set of bangle bracelets jingled on her arm as she shifted her little red clutch to her other hand.
For a moment, I considered it. But I had a headache I couldn’t shake, and the nerves under my skin were twitching. “I’ll catch the next one.”
“All right. Feel better.” She gave me an airy wave of her fingers before she strolled out of the room.
“Have fun,” I called after her, then winced as it notched up my headache. I shut my laptop and stretched. Maybe a swim would clear my head. I put on my black one-piece and headed for the pool, my cork thongs clopping against the warm cement. The glistening liquid beckoned. After toeing off my footwear, I dove in.
The cold splash of water shocked me and cleared my head. I floated on my back, buoyant, mindless. The sun still had an hour before it would set, but already the sky had turned a lovely shade of red. My body went limp and my headache disappeared.
Interspersed with the smell of chlorine, a light scent drifted toward me. For a moment, I enjoyed the sensual masculine fragrance. The next instant my body went rigid. Cinnamon and tart limes! Stiff as a board, I lost my buoyancy and went under. I kicked to the surface, coughing and choking. As I dog-paddled and pushed my streaming hair out of my face, a shadow fell across the pool.
My heart gave a hard thump. “Who’s there?” I scrubbed droplets out of my eyes but couldn’t see anything.
The sky clouded and turned overcast as the wind cooled and picked up, causing the water to ripple. Goose bumps rose on my arms and legs that had nothing to do with the weather. The shadow swayed back and forth in rhythm with the wind, beginning to take shape.
My insides turned to ice, my breath coming in short, sharp pants.
The next moment, a shimmery silhouette of a man lay across the water.
With more speed than grace, I sprinted for the opposite side of the pool. Water churned as I kicked out. As soon as I reached the ladder, I grasped it and whipped around. “Who’s there?” I squeaked again. Only silence. The shadow, or whatever, was gone. The only scent the evening breeze carried was chlorine.
