When the Spirit Is Willing Read online

  When the Spirit Is Willing

  By

  Margaret Chittenden

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  "You never said you were a ghost."

  "I'm sorry, poppet. I could not risk you telling anyone there was a ghost in the house. As long as your mother thought I was your imaginary friend, I was safe." She sternly looked at Laura. "I do hope you won't do anything foolish, like summoning the gentlemen of the fourth estate."

  "The fourth… Oh, the newspapers. Good Lord, no. I wouldn't want… They'd think I was crazy" Laura sputtered.

  "I have learned to be cautious. Several years ago—" Priscilla squinted into the middle distance "—1933, I believe it was—I made the mistake of revealing myself to an adult. It was a great mistake. The woman immediately summoned a preacher and asked him to exorcise me. Have you any idea how painful an exorcism can be?"

  Dear Reader,

  We're wrapping up the holiday season for you with four romantic delights!

  Our final Women Who Dare title for 1993 is by Sharon Brandos. In Doc Wyoming, Dr. Dixie Sheldon is enthusiastic about opening her new medical office in the small community of Seaside, Wyoming… until she meets the taciturn local sheriff, Hal Blane. Blane seems determined to prevent her from doing her job. And he especially doesn't want Dixie treating his mother, for fear she'll unearth family secrets he'd prefer to keep buried.

  Longtime favorite author Margaret Chittenden has penned a charming tale of a haunted house and a friendly spirit in When the Spirit is Willing. Laura Daniels, needing to start over after the death of her husband, moves to picturesque Port Dudley to raise her daughter in peace. But peace eludes her when she discovers that her new home is haunted, and the resident ghost appears to be an aggressive matchmaker!

  Two of our December Superromance titles will evoke the sort of emotions the holidays are all about. The moving Angels in the Light, by Margot Dalton, focuses on Abby Malone, who is decidedly unenthusiastic about her latest story assignment. She absolutely does not believe in near-death experiences. But she has no idea how to explain the new Brad Carmichael. He is no longer the selfish, immature boy who'd simply taken off when she'd needed him most, but a sensitive, gentle man who wants Abby to believe anything is possible.

  New author Maggie Simpson will charm you with Baby Bonus. Susan Montgomery's life is turned upside down from the moment Andrew Bradley knocks on her door to inform her that she has a grandson to care for—courtesy of her runaway daughter and his irresponsible son. Even worse, Andrew is determined to stick around to make sure the baby is raised according to the Andrew Bradley School of Grandparenting!

  In January, Lynn Erickson, Peg Sutherland, Judith Arnold and Risa Kirk will take you to the Caribbean, North Carolina, Boston and Rodeo Drive! Be sure to come along for the ride!

  Holiday Greetings!

  Marsha Zinberg,

  Senior Editor

  ISBN 0-373-70575-1

  WHEN THE SPIRIT IS WILLING

  Copyright © 1993 by Margaret Chittenden.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  "I've always loved light, entertaining ghost stories," writes author Margaret Chittenden. "It seemed to me, though, that ghosts in books and movies don't always behave as logically as they should. So, I thought, why don't I write my own ghost story? And I did." This prolific writer lives in Washington State with her husband.

  Books by Margaret Chittenden

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  16—THIS DARK ENCHANTMENT

  40—SONG OF DESIRE

  91—SUCH SWEET MAGIC

  123—LOVE ME TOMORROW

  175—TO TOUCH THE MOON

  214—CLOSE TO HOME

  310—THE MOON GATE

  366—UNTIL OCTOBER

  444—THE SCENT OF MAGIC

  531—DOUBLE TAKE

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  183—THE WAINWRIGHT SECRET

  242—SHADOW OF A DOUBT

  For Peg and Larry McCool, who give new meaning to the words "generous" and "friend".

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was hot that day, sweltering hot, which wasn't all that unusual for Washington State on July 4, but definitely out of the ordinary for Port Dudley. Traditionally, local people didn't bother installing air-conditioning. "Just open a window half an inch," they would say with pride. "The breeze off the Strait of Juan de Fuca will do the job for you."

  Lying on her back, wriggling her head and shoulders into the cabinet under the kitchen sink, Laura wished the former owners of her old Victorian house had bucked tradition. Her cotton T-shirt was sticking to her ribs, and wisps of hair were clinging to her forehead and neck.

  She picked up her flashlight, then hesitated. There it was again—that odd, spine-tingling sensation that made her feel as if someone was watching her. She'd felt it several times a day since she'd moved into the house on Humboldt Street. Sometimes there were other weird sensations—a whisper of air on the staircase, a movement caught out of the corner of her eye, a patch of heat or cold in an otherwise temperate room.

  It was all imagination, of course. This was a very large house, with many large rooms. All old houses, expanding during the heat of noon, cooled and settled with creaks and groans later in the day. Walls developed cracks through which the wind whistled. Ill-fitting doors admitted drafts. There was no one in the kitchen but Laura Daniel, and she had work to do.

  Aiming her flashlight at the waste-water pipe, she groaned. Just as she'd suspected, water was oozing around the joint again. Fumbling in the wooden tool carrier beside her, she rummaged around for the smaller of her two pipe wrenches and cursed under her breath when she couldn't find it. The larger wrench was more unwieldy, but she managed to raise it awkwardly and clamp it in place. Ignoring the itch in her nose, she turned the connection a fraction, blinking as flakes of rust showered onto her face like gritty confetti.

  It was at that precise moment that the television in the den shrieked to life with the theme song from Gilligan's Island.

  Lifting her head too quickly, she cracked it on the P-trap and swore again, using a word that would have made her mother threaten to wash her mouth out with soap. "Jessica!" she yelled as she scrambled out of the cabinet. But of course Jessica couldn't possibly hear her over the TV.

  "How many times do I have to ask you to—" Laura broke off as she entered the den. On TV, the skipper was flailing Gilligan with his cap—but the room was unoccupied.

  Switching off the set and wilting momentarily in the blessed relief of silence, Laura threw back her head and shouted again. Almost immediately she heard Jessica clattering down the uncarpeted staircase.

  "What's the matter, Mom?"

  Taking a deep breath, Laura gazed down at her five-year-old daughter, biting back the smile that threatened, as always, at the sight of the wiry, diminutive pigtailed figure in her overalls and T-shirt. Jessica's hazel eyes—Brady's eyes-gazed back at Laura from a street-urchin face that was obviously innocent of any wrongdoing. Too obviously.

  "Honey, you did it again," Laura said gently. It was always impossible to be angry with Jess. Just as it had been impossible to stay angry with her father. "You turned the TV
on and left the room. It almost blew me out of the kitchen."

  Jessica took a moment to consider the complaint solemnly, then shook her head, her towheaded braid swinging. "Not me, Mom. I was in my bedroom, making a new racetrack." Her face brightened. "Can I borrow some big books from the shelves over there? I need another hill for the tracks to go over."

  "Yes, you can borrow the books. But Jess, the TV didn't switch itself on."

  Looking furtively around the paneled room, Jessica tugged at the lobe of her right ear, something she frequently did under stress. "I guess Priscilla turned it on, then," she mumbled.

  "Jessica!"

  Jessica's round chin lifted and her mouth set in a mutinous line that was again reminiscent of her father. Laura sighed. How would she ever get over Brady's death when Jessica presented constant reminders? "Honey, I thought we agreed you weren't going to blame Priscilla anymore."

  "But Mom, you asked about the TV. I didn't do it and you didn't do it, so it had to be Priscilla."

  Pushing sweat-damp hair back from her forehead, Laura sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs and reached for her daughter, pulling her against her knee. Jessica's wiry body was stiff with indignation. Laura was tempted to sweep her up onto her lap and into a bear hug. But discipline was important and Laura couldn't let her get away with lying.

  "Have you seen my smaller pipe wrench?" Laura asked. She hoped that delaying the lecture she had to give might provide her brain time to produce a few grains of wisdom. She held up the tool she'd been using. "It looks like this, only shorter."

  Jessica's forehead bunched up in a frown. "I might have seen it," she said at last.

  "Could you come up with a possible place?"

  "Priscilla might have put something like that under the sofa cushion."

  Priscilla again.

  "Would you get it for me, please?"

  Jessica nodded, went to the sofa and lifted a cushion. Sure enough, there was the pipe wrench, along with a claw hammer and a screwdriver, both of which had been missing for several days.

  "Thank you," Laura said as Jessica handed the tools to her. Jessica leaned against Laura's knee again, her body now warm and pliant.

  Yesterday, "Priscilla" had investigated the contents of Laura's cosmetic bag, not for the first time. "Priscilla" had emptied the bag onto the top of the dressing table, opened the lipstick and then capped it clumsily, squishing a third of it into an unusable glob. "Priscilla" had also scattered perfumed body powder all over the dressing table's linen runner and dropped an opened tube of mascara on the beige duvet cover. The problem was—Priscilla existed only in Jessica's imagination. Had Dr. Spock ever covered the subject of imaginary friends? Laura wondered. When would she ever have time to check?

  Jessica had been saying "Priscilla did it" for the past five months, ever since they'd moved into The Willows. Obviously the trauma of Brady's sudden death eighteen months ago was still affecting her. She had loved him. So had Laura. He had been a lovable guy. Irresistible.

  "Honey, remember I told you it was all right for you to have your…invisible friend Priscilla if it made you feel good? I mean, if you feel you need company and you don't want to be with me particularly. But if you do something naughty, I just can't let you get away with—"

  Eyes blazing, Jessica pulled abruptly away. Hands thrusting into overall pockets, chin raised belligerently, she said firmly, "I didn't turn on the TV. I didn't hide your stupid tools and I didn't get into your stupid makeup. It was Priscilla. It's always Priscilla. I've told you and told you, Mom. She just likes to get into stuff."

  "I think you'd better go back up to your room," Laura said, barely holding on to her temper. There was a real problem developing here and getting into a shouting match with her daughter wasn't going to solve it.

  "It's the Fourth of July, Mom," Jessica wailed. "You promised we'd watch the fireworks from the attic. You promised, Mom."

  "I didn't say you had to go to bed. I just want you to think about all this for a while and see if you can't come up with a better story. Maybe even the true story."

  Face reddening, Jessica turned on her heel, then raced out of the room and clattered back up the stairs. "Priscilla did it," she yelled from the landing.

  Laura was tempted to lean back in the down-soft chair and let her weariness wrap around her. The hot weather had sapped her energy. But she'd promised herself she'd work until seven.

  Determinedly, she hauled herself to her feet. As long as she'd emptied all the boxes and bottles out of the sink cabinet, she might as well clear out the rest of the cupboards and start removing screws and toggle bolts. If by some miracle the plumbers arrived tomorrow, the cabinets would be already pulled out of the way.

  She had the uneasy feeling she wasn't handling Jessica's problem in the best possible way. She certainly wasn't coming up with any brilliant ideas. She hated to admit it, but it really did seem that Jessica might need professional help.

  Jessica slammed her bedroom door and immediately wished she hadn't. Her mom had worked a long time on all the doors, stripping off all the yucky paint until she got down to this golden brown color. All the same, though, she was getting sick of her mom yelling at her for something that wasn't her fault.

  "You got me in trouble again, Priscilla," she grumbled, throwing herself down on the bed.

  She heard the creak of the nearby rocking chair. "I'm sorry, Jessica," Priscilla said. "It was time for Gilligan, so I turned the TV on. I didn't realize it was so loud until your mom came storming in." She paused. "She sounded upset."

  "She's always crabby lately," Jessica complained.

  There was a gentle stirring of the air as Priscilla sighed. "She's lonely. She needs a man in her life."

  Jessica felt her stomach tighten into a knot. "Mom won't ever get married again," she said firmly. "She loved Daddy a lot. She couldn't love anybody else that way. Daddy used to laugh all the time," she added with a little catch in her voice.

  "Perhaps you should take a nap," Priscilla suggested softly.

  "I don't want to miss the fireworks."

  "I'll wake you when it gets dark."

  Jessica let her eyes drift shut. It was too early for a big girl of five to go to sleep, of course, but she always felt cozy and safe when Priscilla was nearby. Priscilla was her friend.

  Carter Kincaid loved his hometown. He'd never wanted to live anywhere else. Backed by the rugged Olympic Mountains, Port Dudley was a nineteenth-century town of well-preserved houses and quiet streets situated at the northeast tip of the Olympic Peninsula on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. like its nearest neighbor, Port Townsend, it relied mainly on the tourist trade for income and was home to art galleries, antique and gift shops and charming bed-and-breakfast inns, as well as Italianate villas, French-provincial mansions and some marvelous Victorian gingerbread houses.

  This evening, Carter was on his way to the annual waterfront Independence Day costume party. He was not, however, as contented as usual as he drove his new and much-loved Jeep Cherokee through the wide tree-lined streets. He had been conned into taking Tiffany Starling, the nineteen-year-old niece of his closest friend, banker "Rusty" Parker, to the street party. Rusty had strategically come down with "flu."

  Tiffany, a University of Washington student visiting her uncle for the summer, was red-haired, green-eyed and built like a showgirl. Her chosen costume for the evening was a Yankee Doodle outfit that revealed much more than it concealed. As befitted a museum curator, Carter was dressed more soberly—as Abraham Lincoln. Honest Abe would have been just as embarrassed to be seen in public with this long-legged nymphet, Carter assured himself.

  "Isn't this a long way around to the waterfront?" Tiffany asked.

  "I want to drive along Humboldt Street," Carter explained.

  She was holding his stovepipe hat in her lap, stroking it as if it were a kitten. "Why?"

  She smelled wonderful. Obsession? Chloe? Poison? One of those designer perfumes. She'd applied just enough to stir his sense
s. And though normally he had no objection to having his senses stirred by females who looked like Tiffany, he certainly didn't want them messed with by a girl who was young enough to be his daughter. Almost young enough. If he'd been a randy sixteen-year-old. Which, come to think of it, he had.

  "There's a wonderful old Queen Anne-style Victorian house there I used to live in when I was a boy," he explained, not caring if he sounded stuffy. Museum curators were supposed to be stuffy. And this particular museum curator needed all the protection he could dredge up. "It's called The Willows. It changed hands a few months ago— sold to a widow named Laura Daniel. From San Francisco. She's been doing a lot of remodeling. I like to check on the house every few days, see how it's coming along."

  "The party will be over before we get there," Tiffany grumbled.

  "That's the idea," Carter muttered.

  Tiffany studied him from under her absurdly long lashes. "Uncle Rusty showed me a picture of you yesterday," she said. "I didn't believe you were a museum curator. You didn't look dusty enough. Now I'm not so sure."

  Carter laughed. "Thank you. I think."

  "Gosh, I didn't mean that the way it came out." She shook her head in apparent confusion, red curls bouncing. "You're really quite a hunk, but you're sort of old-fashioned, you know? Especially in that costume. Is that weird-looking beard real?"

  "It is. I grew it just for tonight, along with my hair. But I'm not gray, if that's what you're wondering. I combed in some white stuff to make me look more dignified."

  "What about your bushy eyebrows?"

  "Altogether false."

  "Really?" Reaching across his face, she stroked one of the eyebrows in question with one long red lacquered fingernail. Her movement not only dangerously impaired his vision, but brought her face far too close to his own. "It doesn't feel false."