Hawthorne

HAWTHORNE

by Sarah Ballance

Published by Sarah Ballance

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and

events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual

events and persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any

trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are

assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used

only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these

terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of

this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically,

constitutes a copyright violation.

HAWTHORNE

Second Edition

Copyright © 2014 SARAH BALLANCE

ISBN
978-0-9889995-1-0

Cover Art Designed By Elaina Lee

Edited By Nikki London

Special Thanks to
Melissa MacKinnon for Proofreading

Dedication

For Karen Cherubino,
who became a friend because of this very book.

The car slowed to a stop and a decade's worth of memories tumbled onto the sun-blanched asphalt.

Hawthorne Manor
.

The
hand-painted sign hadn't changed in years. Despite the thick stew of humid air filling the Louisiana landscape, the wood display remained inexplicably unaffected. There it sat—every meticulously scripted letter as crisp and clean as the stark white walls of the manor it lauded, oblivious to the passage of time.

Emma Hawthorn
e tensed in the seat of the Mustang convertible and stared at her past. Uncertainty churned into unease, the effects of which sent terror flailing in her gut. Anywhere else, the view would have been gorgeous. The drive, lined on both sides with live oak laden with Spanish moss, was the South personified. At the end, Hawthorne Manor held court. Pristine, proud, the boastful antebellum home beamed, lording over its acreage.

But it
harbored the unspeakable. No amount of time could erase what happened to her on the other side of the expanse of green lawn. Nothing could change what she'd seen there. Some might say she was crazy — that she'd imagined or invented the whole ordeal — but her scars were all the proof she needed. Whether the shadows lurking behind the façade of the picturesque plantation were real or born of an overactive imagination, there was no way she was going back into that house.

Especially not for a dead woman.

Sparing a glance in the rearview mirror, Emma steeled herself against a trembling in her hands that threatened to overtake her body. She released a pent-up breath, her heart settling into a less acrobatic rhythm at the thought of leaving. She didn't have to stay here.

Let the South win this one
. She was going home.

A
split second later, something caught her eye. She blinked, trying to see through the swaying canopy of leaves and moss, certain a figure stood atop the widow's walk straddling the roofline of the house. But no one—

Something brushed the car, rocking it
. Swallowing panic, Emma tried to tear her focus from Hawthorne Manor, but fear kept her from looking anywhere else. Time and distance hadn't done her any favors; she was a fool for coming anywhere near this place, much less with the ragtop down.

The car rocked harder
. The something refused to be ignored.

Panic tightened her throat. Fighting it
— fighting the remnants of her past that beckoned and taunted from the walls of the manor home — Emma forced herself to look away from the house, toward the intrusion over her left shoulder.

The first thing she saw was a
n aged set of gnarled fingers resting on the door, blue automotive paint showing through an ugly translucence.

The second was the face
— withered, centurion, and expressionless. Haunting.

Familiar.

Her
.

Emma screamed.

***

It couldn't be
her.

Noah Garret
t tore down the drive, slapping through a muggy afternoon haze comprised of mosquitoes and humidity. He
couldn't
know that scream, but he felt the connection the moment the sound of her fear pierced the thick air.

Emma Grace.

The one reason he allowed himself to stagnate on the old plantation, long after life and reason moved on without him. Long after
she
had.

A blue Mustang sat at the end of t
he driveway. He wondered if it could be hers — even as he knew it impossible — but she was nowhere in sight.

He slowed to a trot
. The sprint left him drenched with sweat and not entirely disappointed his imagination had gotten away from him. His decade-old longing for another chance to see Emma Grace had never included himself as a dripping mess. He wiped the moisture from his brow, fast concluding the car must belong to a tourist. They often parked at the end of the drive and took pictures of the condescending mansion most thought beautiful. He assumed the intrusion seemed small to their frequent guests, but the constant ding of the hidden bell announcing a visitor could drive a man to the edge.

As if losing Emma Grace hadn't already accomplished that.

Noah closed in on the convertible, giving the nearby grounds a cursory look. The lawn was meticulous, the beds overflowing with sprays of purple garden phlox which trailed around the bend in the road and disappeared. A riot of white and rust-red irises backed the smaller purple flowers, their leaves deep green and glossy. Overhead, Spanish moss swayed only occasionally atop a maze of live oak, more likely a result of a passing swarm of insects than an actual air current. The land was still. If there were tourists snapping photos of the historic plantation — or doing anything else — he didn't see them. But
someone
had been there. The car was certainly real, even if that too-familiar scream had been a figment of his imagination.

Wasn’t
it always?

Resigned to another night alon
e with his memories, Noah pivoted.

And found himself
nose to nose with Emma Grace.

Astounded, he opened his mouth, then closed it
. He wanted to reach for her, but his arms refused the notion; they hung uselessly by his sides, the effort futile. His mouth wasn't much on cooperation, either. Finally, he found his tongue. "Em—"

Her expression cut him off
. Green eyes wide, skin pale, her small frame shaking, she spoke. "I saw her, Noah. She's back." The words, nearly soundless, seemed to catch in the thick air. Lingering. Threatening.

And r
ipping the heart from his chest.

Noah's
fingers methodically caressed the condensation from his water glass, leaving Emma almost as mesmerized by the way the water dribbled and pooled on the polished tabletop as she was by the sight of his hands. Work-roughened even before the passage of an unforgiving decade, they'd always set electricity coursing through her. So many memories between them, so many touches. What she wouldn't give for the simple pleasure just to lace her fingers through his one more time.

But she couldn't reach for him
now. The distance was too great. Surely he'd moved on after all of these years. Regardless, she'd given up her claim on his heart the moment she left without saying goodbye. Finding him here, still under the shadow of their past, nearly broke her heart.

"Are you sure you saw her?
" Noah wasn't a worrier, but the strain in his voice conveyed his torment.

Emma
met his eyes. He knew the answer to his own question. To see her sitting in the chair across from his was evidence enough of the improbable.

"She's here
for the same reason I am… because of Grandmother's death. I can't explain why or how I know, but that's why she's here."

For ten years she'd been content to stay away, but with the news of her grandmother's death she had been so compelled t
o get to the mansion she'd thought of little else since. Margaret Hawthorne had been like a mother. Emma's mother had died when Emma was too young to remember her. The majority of Emma's memories revolved around the portrait of her mother in the grand hall of Hawthorne rather than with the woman herself. Still, her grandmother had told a few stories that had seeped into Emma's heart over the years, eventually becoming part of her own recollections.

Emma never knew anything about her father
— only that he died before she was born — so her grandfather filled the paternal role for much of her childhood until he, too, was gone. Her grandparents hadn't been the warm and fuzzy type, but they'd been there. It was unbelievable Margaret Hawthorne could be anywhere else. Emma needed to see it for herself, which is as good a reason as any she could come up with for going home again.

Noah's chin lifted a notch
. The tense, white shock that descended over his face when their eyes first met had been replaced by mixed amounts of curiosity and something she couldn't quite read — warmth? Melancholy? Maybe both. His fingertips still worked the water glass as he said, "Her will is missing."

Emma
studied his expression, still trying to read his emotions. "Missing? What happened to her high-priced attorney? Franklin something?"

Noah nodded
. "Randy Franklin. He was found dead in his office sometime between your grandmother's passing and the scheduled reading of the will. Needless to say, the will remains unread in light of the missing documents. They suspect it was his heart, and no one has made any noise about foul play. Nor does anyone know what happened to the papers."

"And the contents
?"

He sighed
. "Well, after you… left—" Noah stopped, his eyes downcast, but not before she read the dark edge of his sorrow. Swallowing, he continued. "There were no other heirs. Supposedly she granted the estate to me."

Emma's jaw slackened
. The idea of the hallowed plantation leaving the coffers of generations of well-heeled Hawthorne upper crust to be relegated to the caretaker's son was almost funny. Not because
she
thought any less of Noah, but because there'd been no secret her grandmother had. Margaret believed the servants had their place, and it did not include crossing the archaic lines of class to socialize with the wellborn, let alone to be gifted the deed to the property.

Or so Emma thought.

"She was a different woman after your accident." Noah spoke in a low tone, as if he could read the insult playing through her mind. "I wouldn't call her friendly, but there was some respect there. She came up with excuse after excuse for me to be in the house — silly stuff, like rearranging cabinets. I think it was because she missed you, and maybe… maybe she felt a little closer to you when I was around."

The
longing in his eyes transcended the years that kept them apart. Under the renewed intensity of a lover's gaze, she once again felt the seduction of being seventeen under a gaping moon, the light bathing the moment in perfection. Noah had coaxed his calloused fingers through her hair, holding her face tenderly as he pressed kisses to her swollen lips. Hidden in the gardens in the shelter of a gazebo, he'd captured her young heart — owned it — and made himself a part of her. For as long as she could remember, Noah Garrett had been just that.

Hers.

But what had come between them couldn’t be undone. Maybe if she could figure out how to let him go, she could move on.

Maybe then
he
would.

Emma cleared her throat
. "Have you seen her?" She didn't have to say who. The way her voice broke on
her
provided all of the explanation he'd ever need.

His finger came to an abrupt stop, abandoning its trek across the wet glass
. He hesitated. "No. Not since that night."

That night
. The night of her accident. The night everything changed. But a dive off a roof would do that to a person. She shuddered, remembering the incredulous moment of free fall followed by the agonizing pain of hitting the shingles, the skin sloughing away with every impact.

She left in an ambulance without any desire to come back
. Not after what she'd seen that night.

Then she remembered the figure
she'd seen on the apex of the house at her arrival. "Were you up there? Today, I mean. I saw someone."

She didn't have to tell him where
. The widow's walk — a prominent feature on the ubiquitous Hawthorne Manor skyline — had been one of their favorite spots. As kids, they'd dared one another to cross the rails, sometimes leaning over them, others climbing across to sit atop the roof of the two story mansion. She'd culled bravery from the sheer force of the adrenaline required to stare down a forty-foot drop — albeit an interrupted one, thanks to the maze of rooflines — without backing away.

Noah had never been af
raid. At least not until the night everything changed.

"No
—"

The door echoed with a sharp rapping
, interrupting him. "Misteh Garrett? Sorry to interrupt you in there."

She glanced over
from her spot at the table to see a weathered old man with a voice borne from years of tobacco use. The old guy didn't so much as glance in Emma's direction. Instead, he spoke through the screen, addressing Noah, his voice heavy with the sound of Cajun.

"I called
on the Mustang," he said. "The tow truck’ll be here in a spell. Don't know what happened to the owners. I dug in the glove box. The car belongs to a couple from Alabama. No trace of ‘em."

"Okay, Gil," Noah said
, his brow raised. "I'll go meet the truck." He waited for Gil to shuffle off before addressing Emma. "That's Gil Conrad, the last groundskeeper your grandmother hired on. Not your car, huh?" To his credit, he didn't sound shocked.

She took a great deal of interest in her fingernails
. "No, I sort of borrowed it."

"Your grandmother is probably rollin
g in her grave," he said, a glint of humor lighting his eyes. Margaret Gray Hawthorne was above everything
but
the law. She'd be so appalled at the notion of "borrowing" a car, she'd likely worry a hole through the lid of her coffin in an attempt to scold from the great beyond. "But it's just like yours, though."

The softness in his voice startled her
. The car
was
just like the one she had when she lived at Hawthorne; that was why she'd chosen it. Somehow showing up in her old ride erased some of the loss — took her back to a familiar place. She opened her mouth, but his sad smile caused her thought to flee.

He stood, pushing the chair from the table as he rose
.

H
is muscles worked under the damp shirt, and energy tingled through her fingertips at the thought of drawing heated trails across his well-formed abs.

Noah
took a handful of strides toward the back door, pausing with his palm flat against the wood. "The woman," he said, looking over his shoulder. "I think I know who she is."

Emma froze, her attention drawn back to the safety of the water glass
. Hawthorne Manor had secrets — ones the old house would never release. They'd all die inside those walls before the truth would come out. But Emma had already given up so much. At minimum, she could learn why.

"Who?" she asked, looking up when she summoned the words, afraid of what he might say to unveil her own sordid past.

But she didn't get her answers.

Noah was gone.

***

The walk down the driveway did little to
right the sense of vertigo which settled over Noah the moment he laid eyes on Emma Grace again. For ten long years she'd existed for him only in his heart, in an aching, gnawing kind of way that put a formidable kink in his plans for moving on. Things between them were unfinished, but she'd left him without a way to run her down to make things right. Rather than moving on, he'd been left to wait for what he thought impossible — the chance to see her again, to put the past behind them.

But not so they could be together
. All he could hope this time was for the opportunity to say goodbye. Problem was, now that he'd stared into those luminous green eyes he didn't know how he'd ever pull off that particular feat — at least not without giving her yet another piece of himself he'd never get back.

Several yards ahead, a tow truck backed
into the driveway. Orange lights flashed and a grating
beep beep
echoed through the humid air.

Noah let out a breath, and with it went the tension he hadn't realized he held in
the muscles of his arms and back. Not having to wait for the truck meant less time wondering if Emma Grace would be there when he returned to the house… or whether he'd just imagined her to begin with. But his heart knew better, flip-flopping at the notion that, for the first time in ten years, he would walk through the back door and his first love would be waiting for him.

Noah finished with the tow truck driver and returned to the house, only to find
himself alone in the kitchen. His gaze slid around the fully modernized room. A stone cooking oven still lorded over an entire wall, shelves built like stair steps in the brick artistry, but the rest of the room gleamed with gourmet conveniences unheard of when the structure was originally constructed in the first half of the nineteenth century. The oddities with Hawthorne Manor had existed even then, as the home had been built with a kitchen in the main house to supplement the customary outbuilding used for cooking. Before the advent of air conditioning, any cooking indoors surely set the house to sweltering temperatures in the torrid summers. But the kitchen wasn't the only thing to set Hawthorne apart. The most notable to the rest of the world was the tumbling roofline, full of gables and varying pitches uncommon to local period architecture.

The distinction
Noah remembered, however, would always be its ghosts.

T
he occasional spirit didn't make Hawthorne different; indeed, most of the historic plantations lounging along the Mississippi River were rumored to play host to a few uninvited guests. As for Hawthorne Manor, Noah had witnessed plenty of questionable events, but one night left him with an unmistakable impression — one he'd likely spend the rest of his life revisiting. And regretting. The image of the decaying old woman, her clothing hanging in dark tatters from her frail limbs, who had sent Emma Grace tumbling over the railing of the widow's walk.

Noah rubbed his eyes, trying to block the rerun from happening
. But the memory came. It always did, and the only thing more devastating than the vision of the semi-transparent figure pushing closer to Emma Grace was the sight of her falling. The sound of her screams still tore through his nightmares. The odd roofline saved her from a straight plunge to the ground, but nothing could save
him
from the utter horror of watching her fall… or from the split second it took for everything to change.

He found her in the foyer
— Margaret called it the grand hall — staring at an ancestral portrait. His heart chose a jittery tempo, the sight of her flowing, sun-reddened hair sending jolts of awareness throughout bits of him that had long stagnated without her.

She pivoted
as if she sensed his presence. "I feel like a stranger here," she said, her gaze following a trail from his feet to his face, where they seemed to linger on his mouth. "I know I'm in my own house, but it's just been so long."

Thoroughly warmed under her appraisal, Noah joined her under the painting of her grandfather, Doyle
. Photographs may have largely replaced oil for recording the faces of familial history in most homes, but the modern generations of Hawthorne ancestors sat for paintings nonetheless. Only Emma Grace was missing from the wall; she was to have her portrait added for her eighteenth birthday, but she'd left before the day arrived.