Dark Dreamer (23 page)

Phoebe promptly burst into tears and wailed, “Why am I so thoughtless?”

“Hush.” Rowe wrapped her lover in her arms. “You’re not thoughtless at all. I don’t know what your sister’s problem is, but don’t take it to heart. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

Cradling her new puppy, Phoebe sobbed against Rowe’s chest. “I should have told you,” she choked out between hiccups.

 
“Told me what?”

“About Bev. About everything.”

“Who’s Bev?”

Phoebe drew back, tears streaming down her face. Thrusting Molly into Rowe’s arms, she blurted, “I was supposed to marry her,” and ran from the room.

Dazed, Rowe stared after her, then with slow deliberation, she set her eggnog down, put Molly back in her snug bed in the cart, and headed upstairs. In any soap opera, there was usually an important truth at the bottom of every bizarre plot convolution. The same was true of life’s sticky dramas. Refusing to be drawn into the
Sturm und Drang
, she knocked on Phoebe’s door and said, “Baby, let’s talk about this.”

The door opened and her lover stood in the gap, mouth trembling. “I wanted to tell you, but I thought it would ruin everything.”

“Would it help if I said I love you and nothing you say can change that?”

A wobbly smile. “I love you, too. Very much.”

“I have an idea.” Rowe wiped Phoebe’s tears away with both thumbs. “Let’s have a nice day. And tonight, after we’ve made love, you can tell me why you didn’t marry Bev. I take it she’s history.”

Phoebe clasped her hands behind Rowe’s neck. “Yes, she’s history.”

Rowe cupped her chin and kissed her with teasing sensuality. “Another option is we could make love now. But I’ve never found the smell of burning turkey an aphrodisiac.”

Phoebe gave a husky laugh. “Tonight, then. Assuming we can move after the dinner I’m cooking.”

Rowe guided her down the stairs, an arm around her slender waist.

“What about Cara?” Phoebe asked.

“Somehow I don’t see your sister sulking in the feeding barn when she could be opening fabulous Christmas presents. Do you?”

*

Cara picked hay off her parka and stared down at her Dolce & Gabbana pants. “Shit!” she cursed.

When would she ever learn? All her life she had done stupid things when she lost her temper, then regretted her haste, especially when the consequences involved ruining fine fashion garments.

Why was she allowing Phoebe’s latest fling to get under her skin? Did she want Rowe for herself? She gave that a moment’s thought. No, absolutely not. True, their neighbor was one of the more attractive women she’d met in her life. Rowe Devlin’s knowing blue eyes and lazy smile would have nailed a second glance from Cara any time. The wretched woman positively oozed a controlled sensuality that promised she’d be a whole lot of fun between the sheets.

But Rowe was not the right kind of person for Cara. She was way too traditional for a start, one of those butch types who really just wanted the little woman and the picket fence. No wonder she had fallen for Phoebe with her Martha Stewart homemaking skills, coupled with that eternal-virgin thing she had going for her. She had Rowe eating out of her hand, just like all the other schmucks.

Aggravated, Cara kicked a fodder bucket across the feeding barn. It was easy to be innocent and unworldly when you had a twin who dealt with the harsh realities of life so you didn’t have to sully your lily white hands. Well, Cara had had enough of that shit. She and Phoebe were twenty-seven years old. That meant she’d been Phoebe’s minder and interface with the world for twenty years.
Twenty years!
Enough was enough. She wanted a life of her own. Let Phoebe find out the hard way that the world was not her oyster just because she was sweet and sensitive and beautiful. In fact, the world chewed up women like her and spat them out. And let Rowe find out that Phoebe didn’t just have issues, she had a subscription.

Resolved, Cara took her cell phone from her pants pocket and called the United reservations number. She had planned to stay on Islesboro for the next couple of weeks, but the thought of seeing Phoebe and Rowe fawn all over each other the whole time made her nauseous. She was going back to L.A. on the next flight. She would party, shoot some cutaway footage she needed for her next project, and select her bedtime companions from the nightclub smorgasbord.

Phoebe and Rowe were welcome to their domestic bliss. She had some advice for them—make the most of it while it lasts.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Rowe asked, opening the ballroom.

“Of course.” Phoebe wandered to the French doors and stared out across the white canvas of the meadow. The ghosthunters were right about this room, she thought, feeling the back of her neck twitch. It was occupied.

She wondered how she could communicate with whoever was here. If she slept in the cottage, would the ghost come to her the way Iris had? She took a few paces into the room. The floorboards creaked. Rowe stared at her with a mixture of trepidation and expectancy.

“I wish I could
make
it happen,” Phoebe said, “but I can’t.”

“Would it help if I left the room? I could go upstairs and check my e-mail.”

“We could try that.” Phoebe doubted it would make any difference, but she felt self-conscious being watched, so maybe it wasn’t a bad idea.

After Rowe had gone, she moved into the center of the dance floor and tried to picture the ballroom in its heyday, softly lit, crowded with the elegant society people who had spent their summers in Maine. She imagined women with their hair up and their corsets tight, low necklines revealing pale shoulders. She thought about Juliet, standing at the windows, anxiously awaiting a horse and rider who would never arrive. How humiliating. Had she killed herself over her dashed hopes?

Phoebe paced slowly around the room, toying with the pearl at her throat. She could sense something, a potent sorrow. But that was all. There were no voices, no sudden flashes of awareness. Dismayed, she wandered out into the vestibule, wishing she had more useful information for Rowe. Her lover was barely living in the cottage now, returning only for clothes and dog supplies. Phoebe knew the choice was as much about the ghost as it was about their relationship. For Rowe’s sake, she wanted to find a solution.

Chilled, she took refuge in the front parlor where Rowe had built a fire. The room was a little more formal than its counterpart at the Temples’. Floor-length burgundy velvet drapes dressed the windows. These suited the Victorian furniture and ornate plasterwork. The walls were a dark rose shade, with broad mahogany skirting boards and chair rails. Rowe had hung the painting Phoebe gave her above the rolltop desk. It was perfect there, just as she had known it would be.

Pleased, she sank down into an armchair near the fire and contemplated the antique artwork. She had the oddest sense that it had hung in that spot before. It was not especially accomplished. The dealer had suggested it was probably painted by a guest. In those days ladies took art lessons and amused themselves by painting amateurish landscapes. It was a change of pace from embroidery and reading.

Dark Harbor Cottage still looked much the same. But instead of sticking with the cheerful summer setting most amateur artists preferred, this painter had rendered a moodier image. The cottage loomed bleak beneath a sullen sky, its windows dark and barren. In the background, the sea was the color of pounded gunmetal. Trees were losing their leaves, and the meadow was no longer lush and green. Somehow the picture embodied the brooding calm before a gale.

Phoebe supposed that was what had struck her when she first saw it—a sense that the painter was waiting for the inevitable and had snatched a few hours to record the gathering of forces that would soon transform her world. For the artist was a woman. Phoebe was certain of that. She stared into the painting and could picture a pale hand holding a brush, a ring on the index finger. Bloodstone and gold. Short nails, neatly filed. The canvas was only half finished.

A voice. Someone approaching from the cottage. Young. Anxious. A maid in a dark uniform. “Miss Juliet. You must come in now.”

A suffocating inability to draw a full breath. “I cannot.”

“Mrs. Baker insists. She wants you to read to her.”

A sharp, jarring sensation from within her belly. Sick despair. “Oh, God, Becky. What am I to do?”

“Don’t cry, miss.” A rough, warm hand encloses hers. A tiny slip of paper is pressed into her palm. Bright blue eyes stare from a pinched childlike face. “We’ll take care of this, I promise.”

“How?” The paintbrush falls.

Becky picks it up and sets it on the easel. “Don’t you worry about that. You must rest and keep up your strength.”

“When is my father due back? Is it tomorrow?” Fear clamps her throat. She places a hand to her belly. The life within responds with another kick.

“Tomorrow evening, miss.”

“He’ll know.”

“He will not. You’re not hardly showing and men are slow to these matters, my mom says. When you become big, you will take to your bed with a fever. A gentleman does not care to be in the company of sickness.”

“Yes. I will become an invalid.” She stands. They walk toward the cottage, arm in arm. “And when it is time?”

“You will come to the carriage house.”

“I fear this most terribly, Becky.”

“I’ll take care of you.”

Inside the house, the young maid squeezes her hand and leaves her standing at the bottom of the stairs, exhausted at the very thought of climbing them. She slips into the ballroom and moves along the interior wall, trailing her fingers over the wood paneling until she reaches the count of five. Fearful, she opens the note clenched in her fist.

Dear Miss Baker,

My housekeeper has apprised me of your unfortunate predicament. I am willing to assist you. Perhaps you might find a reason to call upon me in the near future that we may discuss several possibilities.

Yours truly,

Verity (Mrs. Henry) Adams

Hurriedly, she folds the note and jiggles a wood panel until it comes free. She hides the note in the recess and eases the panel back into place. A heady relief makes her head spin and she props herself against the wall, fighting her corset for air. Finally she sinks to the floor, panting, nauseous.

*

“Phoebe? Are you okay?” Rowe halted a few yards from her lover, the prospect of another black eye keeping her at a wary distance.

Phoebe stared down at the floorboards. In the waning light, her blood red velvet dress looked even darker against the pale translucence of her skin. “I’m fine.” Her voice sounded thin and discordant, but she seemed to know who Rowe was.

Immediately she sprang forward and helped Phoebe to her feet, cradling her close. “Are you going to faint, baby?”

“I think I already did.” Phoebe’s breathing was shallow and her skin felt clammy.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.” Rowe steered her toward the door, wishing she hadn’t asked her to do this. The attempt had obviously distressed her.

“No. Wait.” Phoebe stepped back. Fretfully, she moved along the wall, fingering the wood paneling as if searching for something. “That picture I gave you,” she said in a distracted tone. “Juliet painted it. She was pregnant.”

“Juliet was pregnant?” Rowe was stunned. The thought had never crossed her mind.

“Yes. And keeping it from her family. A maid called Becky was helping her.”

“Becky O’Halloran,” Rowe murmured, shocked.

Until this instant, she had harbored doubts about Phoebe’s “gift.” She had rationalized her way to a theory she could live with—that Phoebe was highly sensitive and picked up tiny pieces of information others missed. That she somehow assembled these in her sleep, resulting in unusually lucid and prescient dreams.

But there was simply no way Phoebe could have known about Becky. Rowe had never mentioned the name when she told Phoebe the little she’d learned about Juliet. She was forming a question when Phoebe gave a small triumphant cry and dislodged one of the wood panels.

“This was where she hid things. Look.”

It was hard to see anything in the dark crack. Rowe knelt and slid her hand into the gap, retrieving various objects and placing them on the floor. A wooden cigar box, several knitted baby garments chewed into holes by insects, a gold locket, a small heavy purse, and a diary.

“Oh, my God.” She grabbed Phoebe and kissed her. “I can’t believe this.”

Her mind worked overtime. If Juliet had been pregnant, that would explain so much. Her despair at being jilted, for a start. Maybe she had walked out into the snow after all. Was she still pregnant when she committed suicide? Rowe knew the answer to that question almost as soon as it crossed her mind. Of course not. The baby had to be Anne Adams, Phoebe’s great-grandmother.

Juliet had given birth and had somehow managed to get her infant daughter to Verity Adams. Becky must have taken the baby there as soon as it was born. Juliet could not have had the strength. An image flashed into Rowe’s mind: Juliet fastening her precious pearl around the neck of her newborn daughter, the one gift she could give, other than life. It made complete sense. And Becky’s mom had known the whole story. To preserve reputations, she had taken it to the grave with her.