had a close encounter with a ghost, and so he had always been able to view the matter with detached objectivity.
Until now. And, even now, he tried to consider the possibility objectively.
Had
Josie really seen Luke Westbrook last night? Logic said it was unlikely, even absurd. There were no such things as ghosts, and besides, if Luke had been haunting the house all this time, why hadn’t anyone else seen him? As far as Marc knew—and he was pretty sure he would have known if it were otherwise—in the fifty years since his death, nobody had so much as caught a glimpse of Luke. So why suddenly would a complete stranger to the family be the audience of his belated appearance?
Logically, it was doubtful that Josie had really seen the ghost of Luke Westbrook.
Marc was, however, not so wedded to logic that he wasn’t willing to suspend his disbelief—provided he saw old Luke himself. Until then, until he was presented with something his own eyes could verify, he knew he wouldn’t be able to pretend a belief he didn’t feel.
But why had she reacted so strongly to his doubts? Any rational person would expect to face skepticism on the subject of ghostly visitations, after all, and he was reasonably sure Josie was a rational person. Reasonably sure.
So why had she frozen up on him? Why had her reaction been so…extreme? He had enough experience dealing with people to feel sure there was a reason; people’s strongest reactions tended to spring from the hurts they carried around with them, and those hurts rarely existed without cause. So what—or who—had hurt Josie Douglas?
It was Marc’s nature to seek the solution to a puzzle, but with this one he felt an unusual sense of urgency. He hadn’t liked being frozen out by Josie, he hadn’t liked it at all, and he had no intention of allowing her to go on freezing him out. He told himself it was simply because he disliked being on bad terms with his neighbor/tenant, especially when she was a lovely woman with unusual eyes and a smile that had mysteriously found its way into his dreams last night….
He sat there for a few moments longer gazing toward the big house, frowning. He had the distinct feeling that Josie wasn’t going to confide in him and would probably, in fact, continue to freeze him out unless he found a way past that protective shell. Without her help. So…how?
He certainly couldn’t get into the house while she was gone and look through her stuff for his answers—that would be an inexcusable and unforgivable intrusion even if he could bring himself to do it, which he couldn’t.
Marc got up and headed toward the cottage, vaguely aware that Pendragon was accompanying him. His right leg was aching a bit, and he rubbed the upper thigh with the heel of his right hand absently. It was going to rain soon. His doctor—and good friend—had told him that people who’d had bones broken could often literally feel in those bones changes in the weather, and he certainly could.
There was probably some scientific explanation, of course, like the pin in his thigh reacting to a change in barometric pressure or something. Broken bones never knit
precisely
, and the asymmetry probably had something to do with it as well….
Marc shook his head and went into the cottage, automatically holding the door so that the big black cat could come in. Pendragon had already chosen a favorite chair close to the fireplace, and he went immediately to make himself comfortable there. Marc got the portable phone and sat down on the couch. He didn’t have to concentrate to remember the number, because it was a familiar one.
“Tucker? Marc.”
“Hey, shyster, how’re the bones knitting?” Tucker Mackenzie had played cops-and-robbers with Marc when the two had been boys in Richmond, and they were such close friends that any casual listener might have thought them enemies.
“They’re knitting just fine, thanks to Neil—and no thanks to you. That jigsaw puzzle you sent
Until now. And, even now, he tried to consider the possibility objectively.
Had
Josie really seen Luke Westbrook last night? Logic said it was unlikely, even absurd. There were no such things as ghosts, and besides, if Luke had been haunting the house all this time, why hadn’t anyone else seen him? As far as Marc knew—and he was pretty sure he would have known if it were otherwise—in the fifty years since his death, nobody had so much as caught a glimpse of Luke. So why suddenly would a complete stranger to the family be the audience of his belated appearance?
Logically, it was doubtful that Josie had really seen the ghost of Luke Westbrook.
Marc was, however, not so wedded to logic that he wasn’t willing to suspend his disbelief—provided he saw old Luke himself. Until then, until he was presented with something his own eyes could verify, he knew he wouldn’t be able to pretend a belief he didn’t feel.
But why had she reacted so strongly to his doubts? Any rational person would expect to face skepticism on the subject of ghostly visitations, after all, and he was reasonably sure Josie was a rational person. Reasonably sure.
So why had she frozen up on him? Why had her reaction been so…extreme? He had enough experience dealing with people to feel sure there was a reason; people’s strongest reactions tended to spring from the hurts they carried around with them, and those hurts rarely existed without cause. So what—or who—had hurt Josie Douglas?
It was Marc’s nature to seek the solution to a puzzle, but with this one he felt an unusual sense of urgency. He hadn’t liked being frozen out by Josie, he hadn’t liked it at all, and he had no intention of allowing her to go on freezing him out. He told himself it was simply because he disliked being on bad terms with his neighbor/tenant, especially when she was a lovely woman with unusual eyes and a smile that had mysteriously found its way into his dreams last night….
He sat there for a few moments longer gazing toward the big house, frowning. He had the distinct feeling that Josie wasn’t going to confide in him and would probably, in fact, continue to freeze him out unless he found a way past that protective shell. Without her help. So…how?
He certainly couldn’t get into the house while she was gone and look through her stuff for his answers—that would be an inexcusable and unforgivable intrusion even if he could bring himself to do it, which he couldn’t.
Marc got up and headed toward the cottage, vaguely aware that Pendragon was accompanying him. His right leg was aching a bit, and he rubbed the upper thigh with the heel of his right hand absently. It was going to rain soon. His doctor—and good friend—had told him that people who’d had bones broken could often literally feel in those bones changes in the weather, and he certainly could.
There was probably some scientific explanation, of course, like the pin in his thigh reacting to a change in barometric pressure or something. Broken bones never knit
precisely
, and the asymmetry probably had something to do with it as well….
Marc shook his head and went into the cottage, automatically holding the door so that the big black cat could come in. Pendragon had already chosen a favorite chair close to the fireplace, and he went immediately to make himself comfortable there. Marc got the portable phone and sat down on the couch. He didn’t have to concentrate to remember the number, because it was a familiar one.
“Tucker? Marc.”
“Hey, shyster, how’re the bones knitting?” Tucker Mackenzie had played cops-and-robbers with Marc when the two had been boys in Richmond, and they were such close friends that any casual listener might have thought them enemies.
“They’re knitting just fine, thanks to Neil—and no thanks to you. That jigsaw puzzle you sent
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