“Louisa?” The single word traveled stealthily across the still garden.
The creaking of the swing continued, a confirmation of sorts. She was trying to tell me something with her presence—something that had nothing to do with the children.
I heard the back door open and shut, the sound of two men arguing while moving toward the cistern, dropping f-bombs more profusely than palmetto bugs laid their eggs. I didn’t turn around, recognizing Harvey’s and Marc’s voices and resenting them for disturbing the quiet of my garden.
The swing spun in a sudden circle, twisting and twisting until the ropes were coiled tight like a snake waiting to strike. I waited with held breath while the swing was let go by unseen hands, bumping drunkenly into the trunk of the tree as it unfurled. I watched it until it had straightened, its movements accountable only to the gentle breeze.
I looked toward the arguing men, finally understanding what Louisa was trying to tell me. This house had become part of the family I had gathered under its roof. Just as it had once been for Louisa. It was our job to protect it and the people living in it. I had never considered my “gift” to be anything more than an annoyance, but for the first time, I was beginning to see the possibilities.
I took a deep breath, the air full of fragrance, and considered all of my promises to Jack and my dedication to being a better me. But Jack had left to go think, to figure something out by himself. I didn’t resent that. Hadn’t he on more than one occasion said two minds were better than one? Couldn’t we fix our shared problem with two different approaches? We could work together but separately. This was our family and our home we were fighting for from our different corners. The outcome was the only thing that mattered, not the means.
I looked up into the branches of the tree that Louisa had once stood under while pushing her little boy in his swing. “Thank you,” I whispered into the night air as the leaves rustled in the breeze like tiny clapping hands.
I strode across the garden toward the house, pulling back my shoulders as I prepared for battle. Goose bumps tickled the back of my neck, making me pause as I neared the now-covered cistern. Someone—or something—was watching me from the shadows. It didn’t seem menacing, just . . . curious. I remembered the footprints in the snow and what Meghan Black had found in the dirt near the cistern. How she’d thought it might have come from a grave.
I didn’t turn my head, not willing to acknowledge—or engage with—whatever it was. I had no doubt that I’d be forced to deal with it at some point, but not now. I had more pressing problems I needed to deal with. Like saving my marriage and restoring peace and tranquility to our family home and all who lived within its ancient and troubled walls. And wreak havoc on Marc Longo for all of the pain and suffering he’d caused Jack and me. Yes, we’d signed a contract. But he wasn’t the only one who could play dirty.
I began walking forward again, not sure if the feeling of gentle hands pushing me forward was just a figment of my imagination.
CHAPTER 11
I sat curled up in the chaise longue in the guest room, waiting for Jack. I was tempted to lie down on his empty bed, but I didn’t want to give either one of us any ideas. To stay awake I’d been listening to Beau Ryan’s podcast on my iPhone. With the titillating title Bumps in the Night and Other Improbabilities, it had done its job of keeping me awake, but not because I’d been scared. I closed my screen and sat in the dark, the room lit only by the night-light from the hall, my thoughts moving between my worry over Jack and what I’d been listening to.
I was still shaking with agitation when I heard the grandfather clock downstairs chime three times, followed by the sound of footsteps on the stairs announcing Jack’s return. My shoulders and neck softened with relief as I listened to Jack climb the steps, following his progress. I’d memorized each creak in the relatively short time I’d lived in the house. I wondered if that meant we were truly bonded now, like a mother recognizing her baby’s cries in a room full of crying babies.
His footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs as if he was considering which way he should turn. Eventually his slow tread headed toward the guest room. He paused in the doorway, his tall, lean form backlit by the hallway night-light. “Mellie?”
I hadn’t said anything or moved; I had even held my breath. But he’d known I was here. Even he couldn’t deny the pull that existed between us, the parts of him and the parts of me that were incomplete without those of the other. Like two puzzle pieces with slots and grooves in all the right places.
I listened as his hand brushed the wall in search of the light switch. The room flooded with light as the two bedside lamps and the ancient porcelain ceiling fixture flicked on. Jack’s eyes settled on me huddled in the chaise, his expression difficult to read.
“Jack.” I wanted to stand and throw my arms around him but managed to remain seated. Instead, I said with an impressively calm voice, “Where have you been? I was worried.”
I was pinioned by his steady blue gaze, making me forget my own question.
“Sorry. I would have called, but I thought you’d be asleep by now and I didn’t want to wake you.” Jack closed the door behind him, then shrugged out of his jacket, the scent of leather and crisp winter air clinging to him. He dropped the jacket on the desk chair, and my hands instinctively clenched. I resisted the impulse to jump up and hang it properly.