chandelier hanging in the middle of the parlor, leaned against the glass beads suspended at its center, and watched the lady work.
For seven days he’d spied on her. For seven days he’d done a fairly good job buttoning his mouth. Somehow, he’d kept his hands to himself, too. Oh, he’d played a trick or two, but keeping an eye on her was much more fun than haunting had ever been.
She moved kind of nice and graceful around every room, polishing mirrors and wood, sweeping away dirt and cobwebs. She’d even cleaned his favorite chandelier. It sparkled like new, and he knew if he could smell, the scent would remind him of the lemon cleaner Amanda had often used, the sweet scent that had lingered long into the evenings and was often on her hand when he had kissed it goodnight.
Amanda .
Alex sighed deeply and remembered the way his pretty lady had floated from one room to another, polishing this, dusting that. She’d had servants, of course—a dozen or more. But Amanda was never one to sit back and let others do all the work.
She could cook, too. And bake. And he thought back to that church social when Mr. Dalton had auctioned off cakes and pastries the ladies had made. Amanda had tried out a new recipe for berry pie, crimped the edges to look like ruffled lace, and cut two entwined A’s—her first initial and his—into the flaky crust. Alex had doubled every bid, captured his prize, and enjoyed every morsel of pie while Amanda had talked of plans for their future.
They’d have had a great future, too.
If his life hadn’t come to such an abrupt end.
He felt tears forming in his eyes—tears he knew didn’t really exist. But the heartache was real. The loneliness overwhelming.
He didn’t want to watch the lady in his house anymore. Not right now. He swooped out of the chandelier and up the stairs to the attic room, to the window where he liked to stand and look out at the big stone house on the hill that should have been his.
The home he should have shared all his life—with Amanda.
Jon couldn’t remember a longer week. When he was gone, he thought about what he should or shouldn’t do as far as catching Matt was concerned. Thinking of that made him think of Elizabeth, and what he should or shouldn’t do about her, too. He’d damned himself again and again for his actions her first night in town.
He’d been hot about the poaching, and the thought of Sapphire growing and prospering hadn’t set well, either. But he didn’t have any proof she was involved with the first, and as to the second, if she was able to attract a few visitors to Sapphire, what did it matter? They wouldn’t stay long; there was nothing to do in town. On top of that, that old hotel would creak and moan, and if there was a ghost, it would send her guests packing—fast.
But Elizabeth had been there a week and nothing had made her leave. Not his arrogance; not a phantom.
Which proved she was strong enough to stand up to anything—which he liked—and that a ghost didn’t exist, just as the psychiatrist had told him all those years ago.
That meant there was nothing but the animosity he’d built up between himself and Elizabeth to keep him from going back to the hotel and helping her out.
She’d asked for help. She’d need it, too. That place was too big, too old, too run-down for her to do everything on her own. And no one else was going to assist.
He should have told her the truth about why she couldn’t get help. He should have told her that the rumors about a ghost might be just crazy old stories, but they’d long kept the place uninhabited and long kept anyone from venturing into the hotel. He might be the only one with guts enough to go inside—since he’d been there so many times before. But she’d told him to stay away; she didn’t want his help.
That’s why he kept his distance, and when he wasn’t out of town, he sat in his studio and remembered the pretty lady he’d hurt so badly.
The Rubenesque
For seven days he’d spied on her. For seven days he’d done a fairly good job buttoning his mouth. Somehow, he’d kept his hands to himself, too. Oh, he’d played a trick or two, but keeping an eye on her was much more fun than haunting had ever been.
She moved kind of nice and graceful around every room, polishing mirrors and wood, sweeping away dirt and cobwebs. She’d even cleaned his favorite chandelier. It sparkled like new, and he knew if he could smell, the scent would remind him of the lemon cleaner Amanda had often used, the sweet scent that had lingered long into the evenings and was often on her hand when he had kissed it goodnight.
Amanda .
Alex sighed deeply and remembered the way his pretty lady had floated from one room to another, polishing this, dusting that. She’d had servants, of course—a dozen or more. But Amanda was never one to sit back and let others do all the work.
She could cook, too. And bake. And he thought back to that church social when Mr. Dalton had auctioned off cakes and pastries the ladies had made. Amanda had tried out a new recipe for berry pie, crimped the edges to look like ruffled lace, and cut two entwined A’s—her first initial and his—into the flaky crust. Alex had doubled every bid, captured his prize, and enjoyed every morsel of pie while Amanda had talked of plans for their future.
They’d have had a great future, too.
If his life hadn’t come to such an abrupt end.
He felt tears forming in his eyes—tears he knew didn’t really exist. But the heartache was real. The loneliness overwhelming.
He didn’t want to watch the lady in his house anymore. Not right now. He swooped out of the chandelier and up the stairs to the attic room, to the window where he liked to stand and look out at the big stone house on the hill that should have been his.
The home he should have shared all his life—with Amanda.
Jon couldn’t remember a longer week. When he was gone, he thought about what he should or shouldn’t do as far as catching Matt was concerned. Thinking of that made him think of Elizabeth, and what he should or shouldn’t do about her, too. He’d damned himself again and again for his actions her first night in town.
He’d been hot about the poaching, and the thought of Sapphire growing and prospering hadn’t set well, either. But he didn’t have any proof she was involved with the first, and as to the second, if she was able to attract a few visitors to Sapphire, what did it matter? They wouldn’t stay long; there was nothing to do in town. On top of that, that old hotel would creak and moan, and if there was a ghost, it would send her guests packing—fast.
But Elizabeth had been there a week and nothing had made her leave. Not his arrogance; not a phantom.
Which proved she was strong enough to stand up to anything—which he liked—and that a ghost didn’t exist, just as the psychiatrist had told him all those years ago.
That meant there was nothing but the animosity he’d built up between himself and Elizabeth to keep him from going back to the hotel and helping her out.
She’d asked for help. She’d need it, too. That place was too big, too old, too run-down for her to do everything on her own. And no one else was going to assist.
He should have told her the truth about why she couldn’t get help. He should have told her that the rumors about a ghost might be just crazy old stories, but they’d long kept the place uninhabited and long kept anyone from venturing into the hotel. He might be the only one with guts enough to go inside—since he’d been there so many times before. But she’d told him to stay away; she didn’t want his help.
That’s why he kept his distance, and when he wasn’t out of town, he sat in his studio and remembered the pretty lady he’d hurt so badly.
The Rubenesque
Similar Books
