by Clay, Verna
"No. I want Sunny to finish the task. It's only right."
Holding her breath and taking the pouch to the counter, Sunny set it down and gently eased the button clasp open. Everyone gasped when she removed a book with the word DIARY tooled into the leather binding.
Vicky sat with Gabby, Faith, and Sunny in the privacy of her third floor sitting room as she opened the fragile book to unveil its secrets. After finding the diary, Gabby had suggested that Vicky be the first to read it, but she had adamantly protested. "This diary would never have been found without the three of you. Let's meet at my place tonight and I'll read it aloud."
"Are you sure you want me there," Sunny had hesitantly asked.
Although Vicky had no intention, at least for now, of revealing that the whereabouts of the diary had been given by a ghost, she'd replied, "Yes. We want you there." And the other women had enthusiastically confirmed that.
Now, with her heart pounding, Vicky read the date on the first page.
MAY 28, 1939
BELINDA KATHRYN BEAUFORT HOPE
Vicky glanced at the women to see each of them in various states of alertness. Sunny was leaning forward, Gabby was rubbing her upper arms up and down, and Faith was twisting her hands in her lap. Gently, she turned the page and began reading.
After this night my life shall once again change. And my fervent prayer is that again I shall find happiness. But I must begin my narrative at the beginning so anyone reading this diary will understand my pain and hope for happiness.
I was born in Portland to Paul and Caroline Beaufort in the year of 1898. My parents were loving, and my childhood excellent. I was an only child, and thus, my parents doted on me. However, they did not spoil me. My father, who had a great fondness for reading, noted that I also had the same fondness, but also a love for penning my own stories. Often, I would regale my parents with short adventures, usually something about the Wild West. As I grew into womanhood, my father, who was a successful businessman with many connections in the city, contacted our local newspaper and, although I did not approve, used his influence to obtain a reporter position for me in covering the social scene. As he put it, "It's a doorway into your career as a writer." After I saw the wisdom of what he'd said, I wholeheartedly contacted those in the upper echelons of society about their social pursuits and wrote about them for the newspaper. After a time, although I had yet to reach my nineteenth birthday, I was accepted and received many invitations to parties, soirees, graduations, receptions, weddings, and the like. My ultimate goal, however, was to eventually write stories under a masculine pseudo name.
My aspiration was not realized because during my nineteenth year, I was at a parlor pianoforte performance by a debutante, and met a man in his thirties who made my heart pound. His name was Randall Hope and he said he lived south of Portland in the small town of Somewhere. He said his family had founded the town and that he was traveling and seeking investors to build a resort in the area to establish it a tourist destination. He was very articulate and so handsome he took my breath away. When he began courting me, I was awestruck, and shortly after my twentieth birthday, we married in an extravagant wedding at the largest church in Portland.
When Randall and I returned from Europe after a four month honeymoon and I moved into the house that his father had built for him several years earlier, I was overjoyed, and immediately fell in love with the town, the simple lifestyle, and, most of all, the townspeople, and they seemed to love me in return. Most days I would walk the beach creating stories in my imagination that I started to pen, and my dream of someday becoming a published author returned.
However, everything soon changed.
Vicky glanced up. Gabby blew a breath and whispered, "I think the story is about to intensify."
Sunny and Faith nodded their agreement, and with her heart in her throat, Vicky turned the page and continued reading.
21: Indebted
Vicky started toward the foyer of the museum when she heard the bell above the door tinkle. For the past hour she had been roaming the house thinking about the incredible revelations she'd read aloud from the diary the day before. Faith and Sunny had been shocked, but Gabby had been stunned. Much of what she believed about her husband's ancestors had been overturned by thirty-seven pages in a four-by-six book of handwritten revelations.
Vicky glanced at her watch. It was almost four, closing time, and the day had been super slow. Hopefully, her visitor wouldn't stay long because she wanted to stroll along the beach and chill. The constant roar of waves would lull her into a peaceful state of mind.
She entered the hallway from the dining room and stopped dead in her tracks. In the foyer, beside her desk, was her nemesis, Michael Wainwright. She squared her shoulders and marched toward him. Folding her arms over her chest she demanded, "What do you want?"
Lazily, he eyed her up and down. "I want to know if you're all right."
He surprised her into speechlessness. That was the last thing she'd expected to hear.
He explained, "You and your crew haven't shown up to protest at the last two council meetings. That's not like you. What gives?" He really did look concerned.
Vicky glanced away. She wasn't about to let him know that she'd been so involved in searching for a diary revealed by a ghost, that she'd let her civic duty slide.
He leaned his thigh against her desk and smiled. "I've missed our confrontations. Please tell me you're at least going to picket my Portland office again. If you do, I promise to have Starbucks waiting for you."
Vicky's surprise morphed into widened eyes of disbelief, and she pointed toward the door. "You are an abomination to the male race and I want you to leave!"
"Now, there's my Vicky."
To underpin her directive, she walked to the door and opened it.
Michael only lifted away from her desk and raised his hands in surrender. "I really did come here to make sure you're okay. Also, I want to show you something. It will only take twenty minutes. You can ride with me in my car."
Vicky's anger literally made her see red and she marched over to Michael and punched her index finger into his chest to emphasize her words. "I am not going anywhere–"
He grabbed her hand and held it against his chest. "Even if I say please?"
Vicky stared at his hand holding hers, and for some reason, couldn't make herself pull it away.
"My request has to do with the paintings I commissioned from you."
She jerked her gaze to his as he reached for her other hand. As always, the honey color of his eyes stole her breath.
"I'm begging you," he cajoled.
She stepped back and removed her hands from his grasp. "You have twenty minutes. Not one second longer. If I'm not back here by then…I'll…I'll call 9-1-1 to report harassment."
Michael grinned. "Fair enough. Grab your coat."
Five minutes later, Vicky was seated in Michael's Porsche as he drove south on Ocean Boulevard. About halfway to the marina he slowed and pulled into a circular driveway. She was well aware that this was Michael's home and remained fixed in her seat, even when he opened her door. He silently waited for her to step out of the car, which she finally did. He hurried up the porch steps while pulling his cell phone from his pocket and punching a code to unlock the door, and it suddenly struck Vicky how technically advanced Michael Wainwright was. In comparison, she was living in the dark ages, and the fact that she managed a Victorian museum drove that truth home.
Michael held the door open and waited for her to enter. She paused in the massive marble foyer from which she could see the great room with its wall of windows framing the Pacific Ocean. The scene was incredible.
"That's my reaction, too, every time I step through the door," said Michael.
She got her wits back. "I'm sure you didn't bring me here for the view. You have ten minutes left."
Michael chuckled. "Then I better make the most of those ten minutes." He placed a hand on her elbow and said, "Come with me."
They
entered the great room and he pointed to the wall opposite the windows. She turned around to stare at the four acrylics she had painted for him.
Quietly, he said, "Because you've been so persuasive about your paintings not hanging in my resort, I'm going to leave them in my home. And the paintings I bought from the gallery will stay at my Portland house."
Vicky felt her heartbeat accelerate, but said evenly, "Are you going to scrap the resort and find another location?"
"No. The council granted me final permission this morning."
Vicky's heart sank. "After all our protests and public awareness campaigns?" she bemoaned.
"Yes."
She turned her back on the paintings and sighed. "You can burn them for all I care. You can–" She suddenly stopped speaking.
"What?" he asked.
She met Michael's gaze. "You owe me."
Clearly taken aback, he responded, "What do you mean?"
"You tricked me into painting those pictures and if I hadn't raised such a raucous, you'd display them at your resort. Clearly, you owe me."
Michael's amber eyes studied hers and she almost stepped backward from their intensity. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip in nervousness and watched Michael follow the motion with his eyes, lingering there, before shifting his gaze back to hers. He said, "I'm waiting. What do you want from me?"
"I assume that you have investigators working for you?"
"You mean private investigators?"
"Yes. Are they good?"
"I wouldn't hire them if they weren't."
Vicky knew she'd asked a dumb question. They would be the best, of course. She forged on. "I need an investigation of someone who used to live in Somewhere."
"That shouldn't be difficult, but why do I have the feeling there's more to this."
Vicky glanced away and then back. "The woman disappeared in 1939 and no one heard from her again."
Michael's expression turned thoughtful. "Now why does that sound familiar?" He hesitated and then said, "Are you talking about the woman in the museum brochure? The one whose baby disappeared first?"
"Yes. Belinda Hope. I've come across information that reveals the city she disappeared to and I want no stone unturned in locating information about her, and, of course, I'll give you all the relevant data that I have."
"And you want me to do this because I owe you, and you can't afford an investigation of that magnitude."
"Exactly."
Michael grinned. "Ms. Patterson, you are a devious woman, and because of my own deviousness, I'd like nothing better than to repay you. After that, we'll call it even. As soon as you get me the information, I'll get my best investigator on it pronto."
Michael dropped Vicky back at the museum and thought about her request as he returned to Portland. Clearly, the disappearance of the woman and child was something dear to her heart, and he couldn't wait to see the information she had for his investigator. Was she about to solve the decades old vanishings?
Although Vicky had said she would mail her information to his Portland office, he'd waylaid that by insisting he would return in two days for it. He'd have to rearrange his schedule, but Vicky always put a smile on his face, even when she was picketing and berating him.
Inwardly groaning, he remembered how much he'd wanted to kiss her when she'd swirled her tongue over her bottom lip. He'd wanted to jerk the infuriating woman into his arms and taste that bottom lip. He'd wanted to back her against the wall and trail kisses all over her body.
He glanced at his speedometer. He was driving well over the speed limit and his heart was racing. He had a decision to make. Should he pursue Vicky or leave her alone. Although she vocally made her disdain for him known, her eyes said something different. She was as attracted to him, as he was to her.
When a patrol car passed him, he was glad he was again going the speed limit.
22: Ignored
Gabby was standing in line at the post office when Leo walked in. Their eyes met briefly before she quickly turned away. She felt like she might hyperventilate.
One of the clerks said, "Anyone here to pick up a package?"
"I am," said Leo, and stepped to the counter.
The other clerk must have called for the next customer, but Gabby didn't hear him. Mrs. Little, behind her, said, "Gabby, are you okay. Jack called you forward a couple of times."
Gabby's face flooded crimson as she stepped forward. Jack repeated Mrs. Little's question. "You okay, Gabby?"
"Oh, yes. I'd like a hundred stamps." From the corner of her eye she could see Leo beside her and wondered if he would say hello.
The clerk returned with his package and he left the post office without even glancing at her. Her heart sank. He'd meant what he said about her having to pursue him. Never!
Sunny placed a vase of flowers on the dining table that she'd cut and arranged, and decided she had a talent for creating beautiful bouquets. The front door opened and Gabby entered without seeing Sunny. When she wiped her eyes, Sunny knew she was crying, and couldn't decide whether to make her presence known.
Gabby spotted her. "Allergies. I hate them," she said before rushing toward the stairs.
Sunny had never seen Gabby suffer from allergies. She sighed. Even people with everything had bad days. She glanced at her watch. It was break time, which was something her employer insisted she never skip. Rather than take her break in the kitchen talking to J and J, she decided to stroll along the beach for a few minutes. She had a lot to think about.
The waves were strong and frothy today and it looked like a storm was blowing in. She walked along the shoreline for a few minutes and then sat on her favorite boulder. Pulling the hood of her jacket over her head, she inhaled briny air and thought about Noah. He'd come into Mama Pink's Diner again while she was there and invited himself to sit with her, and although she'd acted put upon, she hadn't been. The handsome geek had been growing on her. Again, he'd asked her to the haunted house and she'd declined, but more and more she'd been thinking about something Gabby had said during one of their heart-to-heart conversations. "It takes courage to face what we fear the most. Sometimes we have to revisit the scene."
When she'd said the words Sunny hadn't known if they were for Gabby or her, but since then, she hadn't been able to get them out of her mind. Did she need to revisit the scene of a Halloween nightmare? She shuddered remembering what had happened.
For several minutes she watched the crash of waves and the threatening sky; then reached into her pocket and speed dialed a number she had entered into her contacts, but never used. Noah answered and she said, "Okay, I'll go to the haunted house with you." And just for spite she added, "But not the Christmas Prom."
Faith lay in bed with Baxter in her cottage. He had returned from San Jose after subletting his condo and finishing the myriad tasks involved in moving from California to Oregon. She snuggled closer. After years of loneliness and sorrow caused by the death of her family, she once again felt that she could be happy, and all because of Baxter and the friends she'd made since relocating to Somewhere. But also because of the paranormal experience she and Baxter had shared when a boy who had been dead for twenty years appeared to them and asked that a message be delivered to his sister, Vicky. The message had been that his death wasn't her fault and became the turning point not only for Vicky, but Baxter and Faith, as well. It had made them realize they had an obligation to make the most of each day.
Baxter stirred and pulled her on top of him, whispering in her ear. "God, I've missed you."
"I've missed you more," she returned.
"Not likely, honey." Then he started kissing her neck.
Faith chuckled. "I need to brush my teeth."
"Not necessary." He kissed her lips.
She pushed upward. "I'm going to brush my teeth. And afterward, I have something important to tell you."
"Like you're going to move into Stone House with me?"
"No. Something else."
Baxter moved
his hands from her waist to cup her derriere. "Then I guess we'll have to get married and divide our time between Hope Hill and Hope Point."
Faith jerked her gaze to his sapphire eyes.
He laughed. "Of course, I was thinking that if you wanted, I would build you a home wherever you choose."
She was speechless.
"Sweetheart, in case you haven't realized, I'm asking you to marry me. And if you don't want me to build you a house, I'll live in the cottage with you. I'll do whatever it takes for you to become my bride."
Faith forgot about brushing her teeth and kissed him fully on the mouth. "Yes! I'll marry you!"
Two hours later Faith sat curled on the sofa in front of the fire with Baxter. They were sipping coffee and staring at the dancing flames, content and happy with their plans for a quiet, family and friends, wedding. As for where they would live, that was still undecided.
Faith inhaled. She needed to tell Baxter about the latest paranormal activity. She cleared her throat. "Baxter, something happened while you were gone and–" she hesitated and glanced up at him. "It's supernatural."
His eyes widened. "Has Owen returned?"
"No, but someone else has—Belinda Hope."
Baxter sat up straight. "What!"
Faith then shared the strange happenings Vicky had experienced and their search and eventual discovery of the diary.
23: Haunted House
Sunny woke on Halloween and glanced at her clock. She hadn't slept much and wanted to call Noah and cancel the haunted house gig that night. She rolled onto her side and tried to think of a good excuse, but then she remembered her decision to face her fear.
