When the Spirit Is Willing Read online

  She was taking a large canister down from one of the upper cabinets. Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded.

  "Where is this?" he asked, picking up one of the pages.

  "The attic. I'm thinking of creating a separate apartment up there. It doesn't have any plumbing, but that could easily be taken care of. It is wired and it's extraordinarily large. I think it would add considerable resale value."

  Once again, his stomach knotted. He didn't like the casual way she talked about selling the place. Looking around, he realized for the first time that the table was now in its proper place in front of the tall windows. The wainscoting was back on the walls, the wooden floor newly refinished, "old" lighting fixtures installed. The walls had been covered with an attractive shadow-striped wallpaper.

  The whole effect was warm and… once again, homelike. It made him feel comfortable, contented. No doubt about it, Laura did wonderful work. She looked wonderful, too. She was wearing a blue-gray blouse with her narrow-legged jeans today. It suited her coloring perfectly. Her hair was loose, tucked behind her ears. She looked pretty, neat, calm and efficient. He felt he would be quite content to sit in this room watching Laura cook, for a long, long time. Maybe she could teach him to cook. He could imagine years going by in this kitchen, golden years, vintage years. He shook his head in a convulsive movement, astonished by his thoughts.

  "The kitchen looks great," he said awkwardly, wanting to escape the unsettling domestic images. "You do terrific work, Laura."

  She smiled, obviously pleased by the compliment. So far, so good. She was plugging in a fairly large white appliance into a formidable strip of outlets that edged the counter. Apparently she never did quit working.

  "You said you're afraid of what will happen when you sell? Why? You think Priscilla might cause trouble in order to keep you here?" An idea worth pursuing.

  Her forehead creased. "I read a newspaper story sometime ago about someone in New York State who unknowingly bought a house that was supposedly haunted. After hearing strange sounds and learning about the ghost from neighbors, he sued the former owner to get his down payment back. The state appeals court ruled the owner had a responsibility to inform a prospective buyer of any defects the house had, including the fact that it was haunted."

  She stared into space for a moment, her gray eyes clouded, then she began scooping flour from the canister into the top of the appliance. After adding water and an egg, she glanced at him. "I've got to make a bit of a racket now," she said.

  "A bit of a racket" didn't even come close to describing the horrendous noise that issued from the bowels of the machine. After a couple of minutes she did something to a dial on the front and it screechingly issued forth wide strips of dough.

  "Lasagna?" he guessed when she finally switched off. His ears were reverberating.

  She nodded, apparently still deep in thought.

  "The sauce smells marvelous," he said, hoping for another smile.

  "Would you like to join us?" she asked. He stared at her, surprised. She was absentmindedly picking bits of dough from the machine's interior. He wasn't quite sure she realized what she was saying, but he wasn't about to question it.

  "I'd love to," he said with feeling. "Sly's in a mood. He promised me polenta yesterday, then went to his room in a snit. So far he's refused to emerge, at least while I'm home."

  She frowned. Big mistake, bringing up Sly. He'd already blown his chance at polenta this week. Had he blown lasagna, too?

  "Did you ever find out what made him take off?" Laura asked.

  "He denies all knowledge of the black car or its owner. Says he simply wanted to entertain Jessica." Hoping to wipe the frown away, he went on to tell her of his problems with Sly's overly conscientious housekeeping. It had the desired effect of making her laugh.

  "Don't you cook?" she asked.

  "Rarely. I'm not very good at it. I usually eat out."

  She had a sympathetic expression on her face now. Sympathy was good.

  "You enjoy cooking?" he asked.

  She smiled wryly. "It's one of my favorite things to do. Unfortunately I can't indulge myself as much as I'd like to. With just the two of us…" Her voice trailed off.

  Was that why he'd been invited? So there wouldn't be so many leftovers? "Am I forgiven?" he dared to ask.

  "For what?"

  "All my transgressions. Bursting in here without invitation. Bringing a sexist gift to your daughter. Introducing you to an unreliable baby-sitter. Offending you at the museum. Being interested in a relationship with you."

  "You didn't offend me," she said, ignoring his final statement. Her back was turned now as she tossed the lasagna noodles into a huge pot of boiling water, so he couldn't be sure if she meant what she said. "You just sort of… reminded me," she added slowly after a minute's silence.

  "I guessed that," he said. "I've an idea I remind you of your late husband and that makes you sad."

  She did turn then, her shoulders slumping, her face so troubled he wished he'd kept his big fat mouth shut. She looked so forlorn he wanted to stand up and take her in his arms and pat her back very gently.

  He restrained himself.

  For a while, Laura busied herself layering the noodles and sauce and cheese in a large casserole dish. After putting it in the oven, she opened up a bottle of merlot, as efficiently as she did everything else, and set it aside to breathe. Then she gathered up her blueprints and sketches and put out three table mats. To prove he wasn't completely helpless, he took the cutlery from her and set it out.

  Looking vaguely around, as though surprised there was nothing else for her to do, Laura poured wine into two glasses and set one in front of him. Picking up the other, she sat down opposite him.

  The expression on her face told him her thoughts were still elsewhere. "You do remind me of Brady," she said at last. "Not in looks, except that he was also very…handsome. It's more a matter of your approach to life."

  He frowned. "I'm not sure I…"

  "Brady didn't take life very seriously," she said. "He liked to party. I'm more of a, well, I guess you might call me a homebody."

  "I understood you and your husband worked on remodeling houses together."

  "Oh, yes. We worked well together. Brady was always enthusiastic about ideas and plans and blueprints."

  A slight hesitation in her voice made Carter hazard a guess. "Not so good on follow-through?"

  For a minute he thought she wasn't going to answer, then she sighed. "He worked very hard until the big dramatic changes were done, but he got bored with what he called the scut work. He'd want to go play."

  There was a silence. Carter had a feeling she didn't confide in too many people. Possibly she had a need to talk about the past and he just happened to be handy. He held his glass to the light and admired the color of the wine, then took a sip and felt it slide down his throat, mellow and full-bodied.

  Should he say anything, or just wait to see if she wanted to pursue the subject? Curiosity spurred him on. "You weren't always happy about him playing?"

  The little worry wrinkle appeared on her brow. "You could say that."

  He covered her hand where it lay on the table. "I'm sorry that I arouse painful memories, Laura." He hesitated. "I'm not really such a party animal," he added. "I can see where you got the idea—I've been going to a party every time you've seen me. The fact is several of my friends have obliged by…"

  "Is dinner ready, Mom?" Jessica said from the kitchen doorway. She was wearing a pointed party hat made of cardboard covered with neon bright foil. Max trailed devotedly behind her, wearing the lace bonnet last seen on the baby doll Carter had brought. The big dog looked ridiculous. Judging by his goofy expression, he knew it, but didn't seem to care. His eyes followed Jessica adoringly as she went to lean against her mother. Removing her hand from Carter's, Laura put an arm around her daughter and glanced at the kitchen timer she'd set earlier. "Ten more minutes," she said in the especially gentle voice she kept for h
er daughter.

  Carter wanted her to speak to him like that. He wanted to hear her say his name with that same loving sound.

  Jessica had so far avoided looking at him, he realized. Obviously, she was not thrilled to see him with her mother and she'd definitely flinched when she saw him holding Laura's hand. Possibly a little well-placed bribery would help. Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out a small race car he'd dug out of an old trunk in the condo's overhead crawl space. "I brought this for you, Jess," he said. "It was mine when I was your age."

  Her pretty hazel eyes lit up as she took the little green car from him and turned it over to examine it. "Thank you, Mr. Kincaid," she said happily.

  Laura was giving him a halfway humorous "you shouldn't have done that" look, but he wasn't worried by it. Friendly exasperation was better than frostiness. "Priscilla might remember that car," he said. "We used to play with cars just as you and she do now."

  "She says you were really cute when you were little." Jessica studied his face as if she found that hard to believe.

  "I certainly was," he said, then added, "I still am."

  Which made Laura laugh and forget to scold him for spoiling her daughter.

  "I'll go show Priscilla the car," Jessica said, scooting out of the room. "Come on, Max."

  Max hadn't needed to be called. He was right behind her. "I think I've lost my dog," Carter murmured.

  Laura smiled. "Jessica obviously loves him." She sighed and was silent for several minutes. "She adored her father," she added finally. "That's probably why she's acting cool toward you. I expect she finds you… threatening. I need to explain to her that she has nothing to worry about."

  Carter wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel in the face of that last remark. Reassured? What he felt was insulted, which was ridiculous, considering his own attitude toward commitment. Jessica didn't have anything to worry about. But who wanted to be written off quite so lightly?

  Child and dog were back. "Priscilla does remember the car," Jessica said, sounding out of breath. "She wants to know if you still have the little red fire engine."

  "I may have. I'll have to look."

  Jessica followed her mother to the stove, watching as Laura opened the oven, beaming at the contents. "Oh, boy, lasagna!"

  A few minutes later, they all sat down to dinner. Carter earned points when Max immediately went to lie down on the other side of the room. "You trained him to do that?" Laura asked.

  He nodded and she smiled approvingly at him, radiating light and warmth. Max had earned extra dog biscuits tonight. The big ones he liked so well. A whole box if he wanted.

  Laura had tossed a Caesar salad, warmed homemade bread and spread it with garlic and butter. The lasagna was ambrosial. The monster machine did terrific work, at least when it was handled by a master like Laura. Conversation was general, dwelling, as might be expected, mostly on Priscilla.

  "Doesn't Priscilla come down for meals?" Carter asked.

  Jessica shook her head, making her braid swing. "Ghosts don't eat," she said with a heavy emphasis that was almost scorn. "Priscilla pretends when we have a tea party, but she doesn't need food. She's not real, you know."

  For just a moment, he was conscious again of that disturbing sense of reality intruding.

  Then Laura added, "She comes in the kitchen and smells the pots. She says it makes her feel nostalgic." She smiled.

  "She wanted to teach me to make oxtail soup, but I couldn't figure out where to get the oxtails."

  Jessica's pixy face was a picture. Laura laughed. So did Carter. After a moment, Jessica joined in. Carter felt a wave of interior warmth that was foreign to him. He was caught up in his earlier response to the kitchen and with the way Laura's gray eyes brimmed with light when she laughed and the fact that he was here with this woman and this child and it felt good to be here. He wanted to put out his arms and hold on to all of it.

  Jessica's bedtime arrived soon after the meal was over. Max went up with Laura to supervise the little girl's bath, leaving Carter alone with a cup of superb Kona-blend coffee.

  After a while, he began rinsing dishes and loading them in the dishwasher, thinking that if he made himself useful he might not be expected to leave right away. He had this curious desire to linger.

  "Not too historically accurate, having a dishwasher," he chided lightly when Laura returned.

  Laura smiled. Her face was slightly flushed. Judging by the happy sounds that had drifted down the stairs, Jessica's bathing ritual was a joyous affair. "Priscilla says if nineteenth-century women had known a dishwasher was possible they would have gone on strike until it was invented," she said. "I like my kitchens up-to-date and laborsaving. So do most women. Authenticity shouldn't be carried too far."

  Her words reminded him of the night he'd driven Tiffany to the waterfront party and he'd told her pretty much the same thing. That was the night he'd met Laura for the first time. Not too long ago, though it seemed he had wanted this woman for a long time.

  Wanted?

  Wanted.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As though he had spoken the word aloud, Laura glanced at him questioningly, then immediately averted her eyes. She lifted a pan off the stove, then set it in the sink and turned on the hot water. "It's a relief not to have to deal with leaks anymore," she said.

  Her long glossy brown hair swung forward to curtain her face as she bent over the sink. Without any self-consciousness, she flipped it back with one hand, then began scrubbing the pan with a Brillo pad.

  Closing up the dishwasher, Carter stayed where he was, once more enjoying the chance to watch her as she worked. She had rolled up the sleeves of her blue-gray blouse. It looked fairly damp. The exuberant Jessica's doing, no doubt. The damp fabric clung to her upper body. She might be slim, but she was shapely. He got an odd feeling in his throat just gazing at her and for a few minutes he was unable to speak. Not that he could think of anything to say. Except perhaps, would you like to have your way with me?

  The atmosphere of the kitchen was becoming thick with tension. Judging by the sudden jerkiness of Laura's movements and the way she avoided meeting his gaze, she was aware of it, too.

  "We have to set a time to go back to the library," he said finally. Now there was a great line. Sexy. Provocative.

  Laura frowned. "I've been thinking about that," she said slowly. "I'm not sure we should delve too deeply into Priscilla's life. What right do we have, after all?"

  "The right of two people she scared the wits out of."

  She smiled, straightening. "There is that. But I'm serious. Maybe we should just accept her as she is, let her go on living—staying—in the house as she seems fated to do."

  "Perhaps we could find out something that would set her free."

  She frowned again. "I am curious about Priscilla, I'll grant you. I've tried to get her to talk about her past, but she's very reticent. Sometimes it's better to leave the past alone."

  There was a message here for him, he felt sure. Perhaps he should dispense one of his own. "I disagree," he said. "Past traumas must be resolved before the future can be faced with confidence." He gave her a minute to think about that, then said, "How about if you and Jessica come back to the museum? I'm sure she'd like another look at the fort." A master stroke, he thought. Including the little girl surely made his intentions look innocent. "I've been meaning to go through some stuff in our library for you, anyway—there are some old records of this house and the way it looked during the boom years."

  Her eyes lit with enthusiasm, but she still wouldn't look at him. "I'd love to see pictures of the interior if you can find some. The public library has only exterior shots."

  He nodded. "I seem to remember seeing some that were taken inside. I'll try to track them down. At the same time, I could check to see if we have anything about the Burbages. If we don't, then I think we should go back to the public library. I do think we need to find out what happened to Priscilla, maybe figure out why she got left
behind."

  He hesitated, studying her averted face. "Laura, is it really that you don't want to pry into Priscilla's history, or is it that you don't want to spend time with me?"

  She gave him a startled glance, started to speak, then stopped. Abruptly she handed him the pan she'd been working on. Their hands touched. Obviously flustered, she murmured, "I'm sorry, Carter."

  Her voice was husky. And she'd called him by his first name. Softly. The tension in the room escalated.

  "I just don't want you getting any ideas," she mumbled.

  "It's too late," he said gently. Very slowly and carefully he set the pan down on the counter, then draped the towel over it.

  Laura backed up a step. "I don't think I want to know what you mean by that. I think perhaps you should—" She broke off. "It would be a mistake to…" She stopped again, unable to come up with the precise words she wanted.

  Feeling awkward, she picked up the dishtowel Carter had discarded, dried her hands, carefully mopped the area around the sink, then looked up at him again, her breath catching as she saw the expression on his lean face. His eyes were all pupil, black as night. "Carter?" she said again.

  Taking her hands in his, he looked at her steadily. He had beautiful hands. Long fingered. Graceful. She remembered him touching the fabric on the living-room sofa, stroking the banister as if he could sense the soul of the wood, just as she could.

  Lifting her hands, he kissed each one. Her hands! She was usually so self-conscious about her hands. Working as she did with chemicals and sandpaper and steel wool, it was impossible to keep them free of calluses and blemishes. Brady had often complained about the roughness of her hands. He'd wanted her to wear rubber gloves when she worked, but she just couldn't work with them on—they were always…

  She'd lost her train of thought. Carter was kissing her palms now, evidently not troubled in the least by the calluses. And then he let go of her hands and took hold of her shoulders and looked at her again and drew her closer. She didn't resist, couldn't resist.