When the Spirit Is Willing Read online

  He jerked his head back and straightened his spine—literally and metaphorically.

  Unfazed by his reaction, she continued studying him. "I do like tall men," she said. "Being so tall myself."

  She batted her eyelashes, something he hadn't thought a contemporary woman would dream of doing.

  "Uncle Rusty says you run and lift weights," she added, fitting a hand around his upper arm.

  "Not at the same time." He wished he could run now. Right away from the delectable and flirtatious Tiffany Starling. Her laughter had a sexy undercurrent that increased his nervousness.

  Squeezing his biceps gently, she leaned in for a closer look at his face. "You don't have any moles. Didn't Abe Lincoln have moles?"

  "There's a limit to what I'll do for the sake of historical accuracy."

  She chuckled again. "I'm glad you're taking me to the party, Carter," she purred, putting one hand on his thigh. "We're going to have a lot of fun tonight."

  "Here's Humboldt Street," Carter said hastily.

  Tiffany sat back and looked out her window. "Which house did you live in?"

  "The big gray-and-white one, three from the end. The one with the round tower. The new owner's had some work done on the porch since I last checked. Look at that spindle work!"

  "It is old, isn't it?" Tiffany murmured as they drew closer to the house. Suddenly, she screamed. So did Carter. With good reason. A woman in a long green dress had suddenly appeared right in front of the car.

  Swerving violently, Carter slammed on his brakes so hard he was thrown over the steering wheel.

  He hadn't noticed anybody on the street when he'd looked at the house. And then, out of the blue, he'd caught a flash of jade green as the young woman had jumped in front of the car. He had no idea how he'd managed to avoid hitting her.

  Shaken, he could only stare after her, as she lifted her long skirts and scooted back to the sidewalk, then ran along the footpath and up the steps to The Willows wraparound porch.

  Carter fumbled with his seat belt, his fingers feeling like useless rubber tubes. "I could have killed the stupid woman," he said shakily. "D'you suppose that's the widow? Mrs. Daniel? What the hell possessed her to run into the street like that?"

  "What's that costume she's wearing?" Tiffany asked as he finally released the seat-belt catch.

  What the hell did that matter? "Something nineteenth century, I guess. It has a bustle. She must be dressed up for the street party. Dammit, she scared me half to death." He opened the car door.

  "Where are you going?" Tiffany demanded.

  "After her, of course." He looked toward the Victorian house. The woman was standing in the open doorway, and hard as it was to believe, she was smiling and waving at him in a beckoning manner. And what was more, there was something vaguely familiar about her.

  He dashed up the footpath and onto the porch. But the woman was gone by the time he'd reached the top step. What kind of game was she playing?

  Determined to give her a piece of his mind, he sailed right on into the house, pausing involuntarily to admire the restoration job on the circular foyer and the magnificent staircase. The central chandelier's soft light gleamed on mellow golden wood and brought to vivid life the stained-glass window on the landing. The ratty old linoleum that had covered the floor the last time he was in here had been removed to reveal glowing parquet.

  There was no one around, though he had the feeling someone was watching him.

  Creaking sounds were issuing from the back of the house. The kitchen? Reminded of his mission, he hurried along the hall, flung open the kitchen door and shouted, "Don't you realize I could have killed you?"

  A short woman in baggy overalls and a grimy yellow T-shirt was doing something to the wainscoting at the back of the large, empty room. She had a red-and-white bandanna tied over her hair. Before he had time to realize she wasn't the right young woman, she threw whatever she had in her hand at him. He heard it whistle through the air and ducked instinctively. The missile missed his head by a hairbreadth and landed with a clunk against the wall, then clattered to the floor. Swiveling his head, he looked at the object. A crowbar. Why the hell would she throw a crowbar at him?

  One look at the woman gave him his answer. She'd pressed herself back against the kitchen wall as if expecting the firing squad to let loose at any minute. She was staring at him, eyes wide with disbelief. "Abraham Lincoln?" she whispered.

  He took a couple of steps forward, meaning to reassure her. Big mistake. She raised her right hand, palm outward.

  "Back off," she shouted.

  She looked scared, tired and very vulnerable, but she was going to fight to the last ditch. He admired that.

  "It's okay," he said lamely. "It was the woman in green I was after. I guess you must be Mrs. Daniel."

  "How do you know my name?" she demanded.

  "This is a small town. Word gets around."

  There was a wooden tool carrier on the counter next to her. He saw her glance at it. "I'm sorry I frightened you," he said hastily. "I'm really an upright citizen. Name's Carter Kincaid. It's a well-known name here. Ask anyone. The Carter side of the family goes back a long time—it's in all the history books. I'm the curator of the Kincaid Museum on Front Street. You've probably seen it. I'm on my way to the waterfront now," he added, indicating his frock coat and waistcoat. "There's a costume party, sponsored by the local historical society."

  Her color was coming back. She was much younger than the image he'd had of what a "widow" should be. Late twenties maybe? Her baggy overalls had seen better days, and there were smudges on her face. Her hair was pulled up under the kerchief in a knot and her eyes were wide, the irises a stormy gray. She was rather plain, he thought.

  She finally let go of the wall and took a step forward. Carter suddenly remembered why he was there. "Where did the other woman go?" he demanded.

  "Get out of my house this minute," she said. "How did you get in, anyway?"

  "The front door was open," Carter assured her. "The woman in green waved at me and I took it as an invitation. Stupid woman ran in front of my car. I almost hit her. Then she dashed in here. I've heard of hit-and-run, but it's not supposed to be the victim who runs." She was staring blankly at him again.

  "Are you drunk?" she asked.

  "I am not."

  "Mommy?" he heard a small quavery voice say behind him. He turned to see a little towheaded girl, dressed in a T-shirt and overalls like her mother's, staring up at him with wide eyes. Great, he was frightening little kids now.

  "Let's start over, shall we?" he said in a cajoling tone as the child edged past him and ran to join her mother. "I was driving by, on my way to a party, admiring your house— you're doing a very good job on it, by the way."

  "Thank you." Mrs. Daniel shook her head in a dazed way as though she couldn't believe she was being polite to an intruder.

  "So then this woman dashed out of here and ran in front of my car. I somehow managed to avoid hitting her. I don't know how. She ran up the footpath, waved at me from the porch and ran back into the house."

  "This house?"

  Maybe she was slow on the uptake. Gentling his voice, Carter said, "Naturally I followed, but I didn't know where she went. I heard sounds back here, so I… came in."

  She still looked dazed. "I don't mean to be obnoxious about this," he said briskly, "but I do think I should talk to the woman." Maybe some humor would help. "I should at least have the right to yell at her, don't you think?"

  "I'm the only woman in this house."

  "You and your daughter live in this huge house alone?"

  She hesitated. Okay. Stupid question. Naturally she wouldn't admit a thing like that to a stranger. Especially a stranger who'd raced into her kitchen without warning or invitation. A stranger dressed like Abe Lincoln.

  He couldn't have made a mistake, surely. The woman in green had come into The Willows. A horrible thought struck him. Did the woman in green live somewhere else? Had she popped i
n here to throw him off the scent, then run off again as soon as he was out of the way? Why would she do that? But hell, why would she have run in front of his car in the first place?

  "I know who you are," the little girl piped up. "You're Abraham Lincoln. I've seen you on a penny. I thought you were dead." She hesitated. "My daddy's dead," she added.

  "Jessica," Laura said gently. Then she looked carefully at Carter Kincaid. The man seemed rational enough now, thank heavens, and his voice sounded educated, cultured. Though he didn't appear so with those ragged chin whiskers and peculiar eyebrows.

  All the same, she couldn't let down her guard. The man had definitely been distraught when he'd come in, and he really did seem convinced he'd followed a woman into her house.

  "Could you have imagined this other woman?" she asked.

  It was his turn to stare blankly. Then he gave a short bark of laughter. "If so, I've a vivid imagination. She was young and short, like you, but plumper, wearing a nineteenth-century dress of jade green. A bustle. Black boots. And a hat that was also green, with droopy feathers."

  Laura shook her head.

  "I know who that is, too," Jessica said. "That's my friend Priscilla."

  "Priscilla?" he echoed. His whole body seemed to sag as though someone had punched all the wind out of him. For a long moment he stared at Jessica, apparently struck speechless. Then he repeated the name, his voice rising. "Priscilla?"

  Laura's hands closed spasmodically and protectively over her daughter's shoulders. "Priscilla is Jessica's imaginary friend," she explained hastily.

  "Carter, honey." A very young woman in a red-and-white striped leotard had wandered into the kitchen. She was tall and shapely, with tanned legs that went on forever. A top hat covered with stars and stripes was perched on her curly red hair.

  Laura closed her eyes, then opened them again. Either she was mad or her visitors were. How many more of them were out there? The young woman was carrying a black top hat, which she handed to the man.

  "Carter," she repeated in a breathy purr. "Aren't we ever going to get to that party?"

  For a second Carter Kincaid stared at her as if he'd never seen her before, then he seemed to shake himself slightly. "Yes," he said. "Of course, Tiffany. I'm sorry I kept you waiting." Looking down at the hat she'd handed him, he put it on his head and gave Laura a quaint half bow, as if he'd assumed Lincoln's manners along with his hat. Then he looked searchingly at Jessica. "Priscilla?" he said again.

  She nodded.

  Turning, he started out of the kitchen, the young woman ahead of him. In the doorway, he looked back at Laura. "I really can't figure out—I'll call you," he said in a dazed-sounding voice.

  A minute later she heard the front door close.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was a full minute before Laura was able to move. Then she shot out of the kitchen and ran to the front door, locking the dead bolt and setting the chain in place. Turning around, she leaned back against the door, letting out a long breath.

  Carter Kincaid. She had heard his name before, she realized abruptly. And she had noticed the museum on Front Street. She had also read about the historical society's waterfront party in the Port Dudley Gazette and she'd even considered going to it, for Jessica's sake. But, after some thought, she'd decided she had too much work to do. As usual.

  So okay, maybe Carter Kincaid wasn't totally insane. He'd had a legitimate reason for dressing up as Abraham Lincoln, just as his date had for dressing up as whoever she was supposed to be. But why would he imagine a woman running in front of his car and entering The Willows?

  A party before the party? That was the likeliest explanation. Though he hadn't sounded drunk. Or looked it. And how had he opened her front door? It had been locked. She was certain of that.

  One thing was for sure, she decided. Carter Kincaid was a cradle snatcher. "Carter, honey," Miss Teenage America had purred sexily. And judging by the gray in his beard, straggly hair and out-of-control eyebrows, "Carter, honey" had to be at least fifty. Tiffany yet. All she'd needed was a pom-pom and she could have led the cheers at any high-school football game.

  "Mom?"

  Jessica had seated herself on the bottom stair. Her voice sounded a little shaky. Which was hardly surprising. Her small hands were clasped tightly between her knees. "It's okay, honey," Laura said, forcing confident amusement into her voice. "I guess in every town there's someone who doesn't have both oars in the water. I'm sure that man won't bother us again."

  "But he was mad at Priscilla…"

  Laura held up a hand to forestall further discussion of Priscilla. She knew she was going to have to face up to some facts here; if Jess was going to start blaming other people's accidents on her imaginary friend, the time had come to call in an expert. But right now, she wasn't up to dealing with the problem.

  Pulling the kerchief from her head and letting her brown hair tumble past her shoulders, she crossed the foyer to sit beside her daughter, putting an arm around her thin shoulders. "Tell you what, Jester," she said, deliberately using Brady's nickname for his daughter. "How about I finish pulling off the piece of wainscoting I was working on, then I'll take a shower and we'll make some popcorn to watch the fireworks by?"

  Jessica's small face lit up. "All right!"

  "Get ready to take a shower, too, okay?"

  Her face fell. "But, Mom, I didn't sweat or dig in the dirt all day."

  Laura ignored the familiar protest. "We'll put on our nighties and robes, okay? So we'll be ready to pop into bed as soon as the fireworks are over."

  "O-kay." Jessica had two ways of saying "okay." One way was accepting; the other had lots of emphasis on the last syllable so that there could be no doubt of how long-suffering she was. This was the latter kind, but at least she gave Laura a hug before stomping up the stairs.

  Laura called after her. "Remember, honey, it's probably not a good idea to mention your friend Priscilla to strangers. They might not understand she isn't real."

  "Yes, Mom," Jessica replied. In her room, she grabbed her blue terry robe from its hook on the back of the door and looked over at the rocking chair. "Mom says you're not real," she said.

  "She's quite right," Priscilla said.

  Jessica sighed. "Grown-ups are really peculiar sometimes. I don't think I'll ever understand them."

  "Don't try," Priscilla advised.

  Pulling her T-shirt over her head, Jessica asked, "Why did you run in front of that man's car?"

  "It's all part of a larger plan," Priscilla said ambiguously. Then she chuckled. "Carter made a pretty good Abraham Lincoln, didn't he? He looked quite old, though, with that gray beard and those funny eyebrows. Wait until your mom sees him as he really is."

  "You're awfully quiet," Tiffany said.

  "I'm thinking." Driving down the hill to the waterfront, Carter was trying to pull himself together. He'd suffered one hell of a shock. Not so much from the near accident, though that had shaken him considerably, but from hearing about Jessica's imaginary friend. The name Priscilla kept reverberating in his memory like an echo in an abandoned mine.

  In a forgotten corner of his mind, he remembered having a friend named Priscilla. But Laura Daniel had said Priscilla was her daughter's imaginary friend. How could that be?

  Laura. For a moment, he became distracted. He liked the name and it suited the new owner of The Willows. "Laura" had something to do with laurel leaves—a wreath or a crown, be believed. Although Laura Daniel was fairly short and somewhat plain, she'd drawn herself regally up against that wall, ready to protect her home and family with her bare hands.

  He chuckled as he rounded the corner onto Front Street. Then groaned. The street was a solid mass of people. If he'd had his wits about him, he'd have come down Emerson to Second and turned in behind the museum. Now he'd have to maneuver through the crowd to get there.

  His mind wandered back to Priscilla. As he was only six when he left The Willows, his memory of Priscilla was fairly hazy, but he had an im
pression of frizzed bangs and a chignon worn low—a short, fairly plump woman, dressed in clothing that was always soft and sort of billowy. No doubt about it though, his Priscilla had been a real person, whereas Jessica's was supposedly…

  "Good God!" Braking abruptly for a couple of languid lovers crossing the street, arms twined around each other, he stared blankly ahead as shock immobilized him. The description of his Priscilla matched the woman who had run in front of his car on Humboldt Street.

  How could that be? The Priscilla he remembered had been in her twenties. Which meant she'd be in her fifties now. The woman he'd almost run down had been young.

  "Is something wrong?" Tiffany asked. Carter realized that the young couple had meandered on their romantic way some time ago. He grunted and drove on, half of his mind alert to the merrymakers trekking back and forth across the street, the other half still squirreling around the question of the woman in green. She must be older than she'd looked. He'd had no more than a passing glimpse of her, after all. And that under stress. If she was older, then she could be his Priscilla, too. His Priscilla. He remembered, vaguely, that his Priscilla had gotten him into trouble from time to time. But the memory wouldn't crystallize.

  None of this explained why Laura Daniel had said Priscilla was Jessica's imaginary friend, he realized. Nor did it tell him where the woman in green had come from, where she had gone to or why she'd reacted so cavalierly to being almost run over.

  Dammit! He'd passed the museum. Now he'd have to go to the end of the street before he could turn around. "Sorry, Tiffany," he murmured.

  "Are you okay?" she asked. "You've been mumbling."

  He shrugged, barely hearing her. He hated puzzles. He was going to solve this one if it killed him. There had to be a logical answer somewhere.

  Priscilla might have been his parents' neighbor. Maybe she still lived next door to The Willows. Maybe Jessica had met her and her mother hadn't. Most likely, his first guess had been correct and she'd been in costume for the waterfront party. In which case, he might see her tonight.