Hawthorne (3 page)

The humid attic took on a sickly chill
. "Can you imagine losing your wife and your unborn baby in such a horrible accident, both at once?"
And why was it kept a secret?
In the seventeen years she lived in Hawthorne Manor, not once had she heard of Alma or her grandfather's unborn baby. Or, stranger yet, the accident. Even if the family chose not to discuss the incident, it was quite odd for the servants not to talk — especially about a death with suspected foul play. "Anything on how she died?"

He shook his head
. "Not in the papers." Fishing through newsprint, he added, "Mostly just the standard announcement stuff. Your grandparents' marriage. Your mother's birth." He paused and glanced at Emma, then returned his attention to the paper in his hand. "Her death. Did you know your grandparents had a little boy? Your mom’s baby brother."

"Yes.
" Even on the lone syllable, Emma's voice shook. The deaths — aside of Alma's — weren't news to her. The Hawthorne family had more than their share of tragic endings of late. With both of her grandparents gone and no surviving children, Emma truly was the last of the family line — a fact which no doubt made her absence over the last few years especially difficult for her grandmother. Without Emma, Margaret Gray Hawthorne had been quite literally alone in the world, save for the company of her servants. What Emma wouldn't give to go back and change everything — to have a second chance to be with her grandmother and with Noah.

He
caught her eye. "Well, brace yourself." Longing filled his expression — as if he wanted to hold her, to gather her close and keep the words from coming to his lips — but instead of reaching for her, he simply stacked the books into a neat pile and wound the purple ribbon into place. "Somehow, Emma Grace, I don't think you'll expect to hear this next part."

Emma's temperature rose a degree or two hearing her name roll off his lip
s, but his tone did little to settle the unease threading the room. The cold spot in the attic dissipated into the oppression of humidity, then the heat of fire. The pressure in the room nearly killed her, but Noah sat calmly — studying her — his face traipsing with mild concern, if not indifference. The heat… didn't he feel it?

His mouth moved, but a distant buzzing kept the words at bay
. A movement in the corner of her eye had Emma's attention darting to the shadows.

In a single horrifying second, she was certain
they held the face of the old woman. Noah's words came back to her:
I think I know who she is
.

He was still talking
. Emma tried to hear him, but the translucent figure in the corner — there, but lurking just out of focus — swept the sound from the space.

Then
, as suddenly as she appeared, she was gone. As if someone flipped a switch, through muffled, muted airwaves, finally Noah's words broke through.

"Rumors…
reported… your grandmother killed Alma."

For the most part Noah had corralled
his disbelief over seeing Emma Grace again, figuring he'd tuck it away for now and maybe examine it when she left, for he knew she would. In the meantime, he'd just enjoy the moment. He'd revel in the way those soft waves of reddish-brown hair caressed her back, leading his mind back to the days when his fingertips made the same trails over her bare skin. He'd let his heart lounge in the nearness of her and let the warmth of what they once had — and what still lived within him — linger inside, strengthening his soul for whatever would come of this whole situation.

Emma
Grace hadn't said anything when he told of the rumors swirling about Margaret's involvement in Alma's death. Of course, one bit of hearsay didn't make for an absolute truth, but Margaret's hand-written rundown of the grapevine gossip did nothing to dispel his curiosity. But he couldn't speak for what Emma Grace thought, and at this point neither had she. She'd merely exited the stuffy attic, leaving behind the warm scent of honeysuckle and a longing within him for the way things used to be. Her departure filled his heart with a panic that she might keep right on going, taking the last pieces of him with her.

It wasn't a matter of if but when
.

Still,
him facing those particular demons would be no less difficult than Emma Grace facing her own — of that he was certain. Death had such a way about it.

Noah remained in the attic after she left,
unsure of where she'd go, but giving her a good head start to wherever it was. He sensed she might need it. Finding out a grandparent had been accused of murder — let alone to think the accusations might be true — would derail almost anyone. Even though the past was long buried and the truth, whatever it may be, lacked any real impact on the present, it had to shake up Emma Grace a little to hear her family wasn't what she thought. She had no one else in the world. Her mother had died when Emma Grace was just a toddler, marking another tragic accident in the history of Hawthorne — a history which got a bit darker with each envelope he breached in search of any clues to Margaret's missing documents.

But a
s powerful as the need grew in his throat to escape the plantation home and its dark secrets — in particular before he had the misfortune of joining the ranks of its victims — Noah couldn't walk away without doing one last thing for the place: offering it the closure he'd spent the last decade so desperately wanting for himself.

Although Hawthorne was the only home he'd ever known, h
e wasn't attached. More of the fondness and sense of responsibility he held for the place vacated his conscience with every secret unfurled, but the fact remained that the greater part of Noah left when Emma Grace did. Anything he had left in Hawthorne, he didn’t want. He just didn't want anything else, either, so he stayed.

As for the missing will and the
rumors of his inheritance, he couldn't deny his curiosity but no amount of supposition would change one thing: he didn't desire the house. He didn't want its ghosts or its tragedies, and he didn't want to carry the weight of its sordid past on his shoulders. He'd rather play host to the good memories, even though they weren't enough to keep the myth of the majestic Hawthorne alive — at least not in his mind. He'd probably never drive by and admire the gleaming white façade with the tunnel of live oaks and the fingers of Spanish moss like the tourists so often did. Not without thinking of a blue Mustang, anyway.

Nor would he ooh and a
ah over the sprawling staircase. Instead, he'd see it and remember the thrill of sailing down the banister after Emma Grace. Other folks might see the grandeur of the front hall, but he was much more likely to remember the string of profanity forced on his young ears when Margaret realized they'd oiled the rail to make the slide faster — not with the expensive English oil she preferred. Rather, they'd used cooking oil from the kitchen, spurring Margaret to use the broom to chase them in a most unladylike manner clear across the yard, shouting threats and obscenities he'd yet to forget.

H
e treasured those memories — survived on them day in and day out — but Noah didn't want to own Hawthorne. What he wanted was to put the house to rest in his past. If the rumors were true and Margaret had left the estate to him, he knew he could sell it to an organization or a person who would appreciate its history. In doing so, he'd be able to give his dad and Gil and Abigail something with which to walk away — a way to restart away from the shadows of the manor. If the will was never found, and without Emma Grace's claim as the last Hawthorne heir, the state would take over the house and they'd all be free of it, but such a resolution would do little to settle the questions rumbling about in his gut. Noah wanted closure, and he knew the same desire was the reason behind Emma Grace's reappearance.

Not a beginning, but an end.

Restless, he paced the bland circle of light offered by the dust-coated bulb dangling overhead. He'd been in the attic a few times, but he hadn't ventured far from where he stood. The space was huge, and the variances in the rooflines and pitches left plenty of avenues unexplored. He didn't know why in the world Margaret would stash a will in the attic, but the idea had become cliché for a reason — it must have happened before. But, he reasoned, most folks weren't afraid of an old woman — a ghost, of all things — lurking in the shadows of their attics.

Noah
was.

He made a move to kill the light, but before he touched it a flicker
on the outskirts of his forty-watt island caught his eye. He tipped his head to examine the bulb, wondering if it had somehow moved, but his fingers had yet to find purchase on the pull. He tried to study his surroundings, but a cursory examination of the area proved difficult thanks to the spots marking his vision, leading him to the rather predictable conclusion that staring at a light bulb had not been in his best interest. But whatever compelled him to look past the merger of light and shadow into the dark corner was stronger than his fear — stronger, even, than common sense — so he eased into the darkness.

And saw
her
face.

Indefinable p
ain exploded through his skull and wracked his body, bringing him to his knees. Through the power of tunnel vision, he was rocketed back ten years in time. There he stood in a nervous sweat, seventeen years of courage all gathered and reserved for the moment he'd ask her for the world. Weeks of planning had come down to a single act: the caretaker's son palming a dime store ring intended for an heiress.

Emma Grace was his
.

H
e was close enough to reach for her — to revel in the flirtatious, come-hither grin she wore as she backed away from him on the roof, her hair blazing under the kind of moonlight that set the world on fire. He'd touched his lips to hers, and the weight of a decade had yet to fade the light pressure of her hand stroking his cheek as she fell into his arms. They'd shared their last kiss; it was a reality he never saw coming, and yet he wouldn't change a thing if he had known. Things were like that with them — always perfect.

Until the moment she'd caught
his lip between her teeth in a playful nibble that still drew an intimate surge through him when he thought of it. Then she'd run the length of the walkway, hair flying, bare feet smacking the wood. Two rails stood between them and nothing, and the world was theirs.

Then
he blinked.

In the
infinitesimal moment of darkness Emma Grace screamed, and Noah watched from a helpless distance in disbelief as the form of an old woman appeared between them. The leering, decaying figure carried the scent of swamp rot — a horrific stench on a gentle breeze — and pressed relentlessly closer to Emma Grace. She'd scrambled, running backward, and before he could say
stop
, before the word forced itself from his brain to his mouth, she'd taken one step too far and plummeted over the railing. The sound of her sliding —
screaming
— echoed through every
why
and
what if
he'd collected over the years, as if any amount of wishing could change a thing.

Before the echo of Emma Grace's cries had died in his ears,
the woman twisted and sneered — a lurid, heartless upturn of her face. It was the last thing Noah remembered before he blew right through her, running in terror to the edge which had taken Emma Grace, as if he could somehow catch her and make things right.

Then he was on his knees, begging
to wake up from the nightmare that had just played before him.

And that was it.

The attic grew cold, the brittle air sucking Noah from his past. He blinked, his unfocused eyes settling on a murky disturbance of air. Had he seen the woman at all? Glancing around, he was startled to find himself kneeling on the plank flooring in a deep recess of the attic, far from the relative safety of the light. Then confusion gave way to the cold. Terror crept into his bones, and was left with one simple thought.

He had to get to Emma Grace.

***

Was it the scene of her grandmother's
crime? Emma tried to laugh to herself, but it came as little more than a nervous stutter. The widow's walk atop the roof of Hawthorne Manor may have made lasting repercussions on Emma's own life — to say nothing of Alma's — but it was Emma's favorite spot in the entire state of Louisiana. With the roof dropping from underfoot on both sides, the velvet sky seemed to surround her. She used to try to count the stars with Noah, but their attempts to touch the dark always ended with their fingers twined together. There was always a moment where their quiet laughter drifted to an end, and in its place was the kind of awareness which came with falling in love. And oh, how she loved him. And this night… the sound of it took her back and changed her all over again.

Truthfully, she had no intention of revisiting the spot of her fall
. Even as she climbed the winding stairs into the cupola which led to the widow's walk, she resisted the trip. She'd regain nothing but any hard edges time had scoured from her memories. Be they good or bad, the hurt and loss of her recollections would be real.

But to her surprise
— and in spite of her inner protests — Emma's first steps on the walkway in a decade were light, her heart oddly free. Even when her thoughts went to Noah, they came with peace and no trace of the regret she'd harbored for so long.

Enjoying the sensation, she sank into the familiarity of her home and
stared over the railing at the sprawling plantation. In the distance, moonlight skated across the ruddy surface of the Mississippi, the small ripples of waves lobbing on a distinct course to the south.

She was home.

Alma
.

Alma's home
. Alma, who met her end in that precise spot. Could the irony exist?

Alma!

The apparition grew from a shimmer — a mere blip in the atmosphere — to a fully embodied spirit, all in the space of time required for Emma's jaw to drop. The instinct to run kicked in, and with it the terror of her fall came back to her.

But she didn't run
. Emma's spine steeled. She would not back off. Not this time.

The silence was awkward
, Emma unsure. But Alma didn't chase Emma. Instead, she seemed to beckon her.

Emma took a hesitant
step in Alma's direction.

Then another.

Alma retreated, matching Emma's distance with some of her own.

Where was Alma taking her?

Their cadence took them to the cupola and the entry to the widow's walk.

"Emma Grace!
" Noah's voice cut through from a great distance, frantic. "
Emma Grace
!"

From the corner of her eye, she spied him on the lawn
. But she didn't dare look away from Alma, as if she could keep the specter from disappearing by holding the woman's form captive in her gaze.
I won't fall, Noah
, she thought, hoping he'd somehow feel her words.

Alma gat
hered her skirts and faded through the small doorway. Literally — she was gone.

Emma passed through the
threshold with caution, finding herself alone in the eight-sided structure. The glass and wood shut out the sounds of the night, and she could no longer hear Noah calling her name. Just dead silence.

Then, inexplicably, she saw it.

***

Noah had never run so fast in his life
. Not even the night Emma Grace tumbled off the rooftop. In those moments, his legs had been concrete. Now, he flew, his feet thunderous on the two-hundred-year-old staircase, his arms tearing at the woodwork as he skidded through doorways trying to get to her. If he stopped to think about what he was doing, he might slow down, but it was as if his body demanded this second chance to get to her in time.

The crude wooden ladder to the cupola had been replaced at some point with a spiral metal staircase
. When he reached it, he grabbed the wrought iron railing and used his own momentum to fling himself around the center pole. The clanging of his shoes in the bare space was deafening, but nothing slowed him. This time he'd save Emma Grace or he'd die trying.