Mrs. Browning looked up and around the ceiling. “There’s a draft, isn’t there? It’s very cold just here.” Hillary walked to where Mrs. Browning stood. She felt it, too. They looked around the room, but could find no vents, no open windows. As they looked, they were surprised by a thud, and both turned toward the mantle. The file box had fallen, its contents scattered across the floor.
“These old houses,” Mrs. Browning said with a laugh as she bent to help Hillary pick it up. “So full of drafts and what not.”
But Hillary thought that was an odd thing to have happened. When she mentioned the cold and the falling box to Matthew later, he explained to her that he’d had chimney sweeps out, and they’d felt the air from the hearth. “Probably knocked the box off, too.”
Perhaps. Hillary supposed that made sense. Sort of.
Over dinner that night, Hillary and Matthew talked together like they hadn’t done in months. They discussed plans for selling the house. The chatted about the origins of the house and the Whitstone family. “Isn’t it tragic,” Hillary said one night as they drank wine by the fire, “that the girl lost her life?”
Something came over Matthew’s face. He looked at Hillary strangely. “She died because she loved completely,” he said.
Hillary laughed. “What a strange thing to say, Mr. Sparks.”
“She died because she loved completely,” he said again.
Hillary’s smile faded. “Okay…are you all right?”
Matthew blinked. “Who, me?” He grinned and stood up, gathering the plates. “I’m great.”
“It’s just that you are usually not that sentimental. Or flowery.”
Matthew’s gaze riveted on her. “I’m not?”
She was surprised by his reaction. She smiled nervously. “No…I mean, you don’t think you are, do you?”
He looked puzzled. He put down the plates and put his hands on his hips. “I think I’m a lot of things that you don’t understand. That I don’t understand.”
Hillary sat back. “What does that mean?”
He shrugged.
“You know…we’ve been having a great week, Matthew,” she said, sensing a strange change in him. “I don’t want to mess that up. I want to keep it up, and try and get back to what we were because I…I really miss you.”
“I miss you, too, Hill. I…I miss you so much.” His voice quivered with emotion.
Hillary’s heart went out to him. He sounded lost, as if he had lost her irrevocably. She felt that way, too. She stood up and wrapped her arms around him. Sometimes she felt that way, too. “How do we get back to what we were?” she asked softly.
Matthew shook his head, as if the question confused him. “I am trying.” He kissed her tenderly. And then he left her.
Hillary watched him walk out of the kitchen with questions and desire raging through her. What kept them from each other? Why couldn’t they just reach for each other and fall into bed as they used to be able to do? What had happened to them?
***
The rain started the next morning. It was slow and steady, drenching the world around them, forming a curtain between Whitstone House and the world.
Hillary felt as if she were getting a cold—she was lightheaded, off balance. She worked in the kitchen, painting the old cabinetry while Matthew replaced some light fixtures throughout the house. She stood up to stretch and happened to look out the window. A man stood in the front drive, seemingly oblivious to the rain. He was dressed oddly, his coat to his knees. Thinking he must be one of the workers Matthew had hired, Hillary walked to the front door to let him in. But when she opened the door, no one was there.
“What’s up?” Matthew asked, walking into the hall behind her.
“There was a man standing on the drive,” she said. “I saw him out the window. And now he’s gone.”
“What guy?”
“I don’t know. Some guy in a coat,” she said absently.
Matt looked at her. “To his knees?”
“Yes! Who is that?”
Matt grimaced. “I don’t know, but I’ve seen him a couple of times now. He’s always walking around, looking. And then he just disappears.”
“Is he looking for work?”
“I don’t think so,” Matthew said. He looked down at Hillary. “This will sound crazy, but have you seen a woman wandering around?”
Hillary’s eyes widened. “I…I saw a face,” she admitted reluctantly. “In the window, looking in. But it was upstairs. I…I didn’t tell you because it sounded crazy.”
Matthew didn’t look surprised. “I’ve seen her, too,” he said grimly. “Outside, around that old oak tree.”
“When?”
“A couple of times when I’ve been out working. She stands there looking out to the orchard.”
“Matthew…” Hillary grabbed his hand. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”
“Ghosts?” He chuckled. “No, baby,” he said, and put his arms around her. “I believe it’s more likely that some locals wanting us gone for whatever reason. They are trying to scare us.”
“Scare us? But why?”
“Who knows. Anti-American, maybe.”