The Dead Room (19 page)

As he booted up the computer, he picked up the sleazy magazine with the story about Genevieve. It was one of those articles that began by praising a person, then started tearing her down inch by inch. He'd never heard of the scandal before, but the article hinted of some affair around the time of Genevieve's birth, and talked about her father's coldly autocratic treatment of her. It was skillfully written, implying without directly saying anything that Genevieve might be the result of her mother's affair with another man. He leaned back. He'd read the article many times already, but he felt as if he were missing something. He started to read it one more time.

 

Joe's place was warm and inviting. The furniture was solid and the wood was polished. She had a feeling he enjoyed spending time at home, but also that he didn't fuss over it. She assumed he had someone in to clean—there wasn't much dust.

She wandered over to the cabinet and started going through Joe's CDs. As she did, she noticed movement behind her and turned.

A man in a New York Regimental uniform was sitting on the sofa; he looked as if he had belonged to some kind of Irish brigade.

He was intent, frowning, concentrating, as he stared at her.

“You can see me,” he said after a moment.

“Yes.”

“You can see me,” he repeated, almost in awe.

“Yes,” she said again.

“And you're not scared? You're not going to start screaming?”

She smiled. “No. I mean, you don't intend me any harm, do you?”

“Harm to a lady?” He sounded outraged.

“I'm sorry, I meant no offense.”

He was about thirty-five, she thought, gaunt, and his face was prematurely wrinkled; he looked old for his age. But then, she imagined, war could easily do that to a man. His hair was sandy, and he had a small mustache and neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were a soft brown, emphasized by flyaway brows.

He still seemed to be in awe. Then he rose, smiling. “Forgive me,” he said anxiously. He looked a little uncomfortable and rubbed his leg. “Picked up some shell at Shiloh,” he explained. “Please, sit.”

She realized that he wouldn't sit again unless she did, so she perched on the edge of the chair, and he took a seat again. He continued to stare at her.

“All these years…kids coming, growing up, moving on…no one has ever seen me.”

She hesitated, speaking carefully. She was becoming more comfortable with her gift, and thanks to Nikki and Adam Harrison, she knew that all apparitions were different, that they often interacted with the living in different ways. Most of them wanted, or needed, something.

“I see you,” she said. Then she asked, “Why are you here?”

“I can't leave the music,” he told her.

“Pardon?” He couldn't be talking about Joe's CD collection.

“I had a march published, just before the war. And then an étude. But…there was so much more. I didn't know if I was coming back or not—no man did.” A frown creased his brow again. “You're from the South,” he said suddenly.

“Originally. I've lived in New York many years.” She didn't have an accent, or at least only a very slight one, so how had he known?

He was looking at her warily now.

“I'm glad to say that we're all one nation now,” she said. How could she explain to him just how much had changed since the Civil War? Or that even now there were still remnants of that struggle that needed to be healed?

“Very glad,” she continued earnestly. “As one nation, we're strong.”

“I hid my music, but when I came back…I wanted so badly to see more of it published. But I was always ill…my niece looked after me. When I died, she met a fine young lad. He'd lost a leg at Gettysburg, but he was still a fine man, a whole man, even minus a limb. I was glad to watch them here. To see their children grow.” He stopped reminiscing and looked at her again. “May I tell you about my music?”

“Of course,” she said.

 

Joe set the article down, thinking he would pick it up again later. Whatever it said that he hadn't seen before, he wasn't getting it now, either. He'd have to try again, with fresh eyes.

He ran through his e-mail, but as he'd expected, it didn't contain anything useful. He went into the bathroom that connected the office to his bedroom and quickly showered, shaved and threw on a change of clothes, then walked out to the living room.

Leslie didn't notice him at first. She had moved to the chair and was looking animatedly at the sofa. If he hadn't known it was empty, he would have sworn she was deep in conversation with someone sitting there.

“Leslie?”

“Oh!” Startled, she turned toward him.

“Are you all right?”

“Sure.”

Puzzled, he pressed on. “Was…someone here?”

“Don't be ridiculous. I'd never let anyone into your house.”

He took a seat on the sofa, directly opposite her. She wasn't sitting back in the chair but was perched on the edge, the way she would have been if she'd been talking to someone sitting exactly where he was now. He reached for her hands. “Leslie…”

“I'm fine,” she said very softly, then pulled one hand away and touched his cheek. He felt his heart flutter. She was close. Her scent was alluring. The light in her eyes was enchanting. The dip of her scoop-neck knit dress was arousing.

And she was Matt's woman.

But Matt was dead.

And she was touching him.

He caught her hand. It was a delicate hand, with long, elegant fingers, clean and soft despite the fact that she spent her days digging in old earth. He held her palm against his face, feeling the thunder of both his heart and his libido.

It would be easy, so easy, to draw her to him, hold her close. Kiss her lips, feel the silk of her tongue. Touch her. Know her naked flesh. He'd known his share of women over the years. If Nancy had lived, he would have stayed in love all his life, he thought. But she hadn't. There had been times after that when he would meet a woman, and he wouldn't really want to know her name, but he would learn it, anyway, just for the sake of decency. Then there had been the years when he hadn't been quite as much of an asshole, but there had never—until now—been a time when he had wanted someone the way he was discovering he wanted Leslie, wanted her with every carnal impulse he possessed, with a longing to know not just her face but her soul, the way she thought and everything she felt….

He inhaled. She was close, and coming closer. Her fingers moved over his cheek.

He threaded his own fingers through her hair as they leaned closer, both of them perched on the edge of their seats. His lips touched hers. They were soft, pliant and molding. Her mouth was sweet fire. She knew how to kiss, how to move her lips, teeth…tongue. Hot, wet, closer…it was the kind of kiss that set the blood to raging, filling the mind with visions of each step that should follow.

And then…

They broke apart. Moved back. He didn't know which of them had realized first that they were going too fast.

She began to apologize. “I…wow, I'm sorry. I'm not ready—”

“No.
I'm
sorry. I look too much like Matt. But I'm not Matt. I'm Joe. And I want…but not…not until you're ready.”

She rose abruptly, walking to the media cabinet. “What if…what if I'm never ready?” she whispered, and the words sounded so pained that he rose and, fighting every sexual instinct within himself, set his hands on her shoulders and drew her against him.

“You will be,” he told her. “You will be. Although maybe it won't be with me.”
Hell, it had better be with him.
He wasn't half as decent as he was trying to pretend, he thought, mocking himself. “Time…well, time has to pass.”

“I've seen widows start dating again in less than a year,” she murmured.

He pulled her more tightly against him. “Time and pain don't seem to pay much attention to the calendar,” he told her. “You'll be okay.”

She turned into him, leaning her head against his chest. He smelled the clean fragrance of her hair, felt it tease him. He prayed that she would move away.

She did.

She took a step back and looked at him. The tension in the air was palpable. She looked alarmed.

“Hey…” He lifted his hands.

“You…you're amazing, Joe,” she murmured.

No, I'm a rat. And I know the only way I'll ever get to be close to you is to keep my distance. Wait. Bide my time. Pray.

“Leslie, it's all right.”

“Okay.”

They stared at each other for a moment longer. Then she cleared her throat and did her best to speak normally as she changed the subject. “Did you know that your house was once owned by a very talented composer?”

“Um…no.”

She nodded. “His name was Zachary Duff. He had a few pieces published and performed before he was called up to fight in the Civil War.”

“And just how do you happen to know this?” he asked. “I mean,” he joked, “the Civil War. That was a long time ago. He's not still hanging around, is he?”

She shrugged. “Well, you know, music lives forever.”

“Seriously, where did you get your information? I've seen some of the records on this place…in fact, I think I remember seeing the name Duff. But in the late 1800s, the property was owned by a family named Norman. Duff must not have had children. Was he killed in the war?”

“He survived long enough to come home, then died from complications due to his injuries,” she said.

“Is he haunting the house?” Matt teased.

She didn't smile.

His laughter faded, and he frowned.

“Leslie?”

“Check out the bricks by the fireplace in your basement,” she said. “The left outside wall. Pull a few of them out, and you'll find a cache of his work. It would be great if you could get it to a music publisher.”

He laughed then. “You
are
joking, right?”

“No, I'm serious. And I'm asking you to do this for me, as a special favor. Take the bricks out on the left side of the fireplace. You'll find you've been in possession of a treasure trove of old American music.”

“How did you get this information? Seriously.”

She pretended not to hear him, slipping past him, heading toward the door.

“Leslie.”

He caught up with her, set his hands on her shoulders and spun her around to face him. Her expression was guileless.

“Leslie,” he said very seriously, “you don't really believe in ghosts, do you?”

“I spend a lot of time in libraries,” she said. “You know…we do tons of research on an area before we work it. A lot of Lower Manhattan—and some areas of Brooklyn, too—is a treasure trove, once you dig deep enough.”

“And you just happened to research my house, and you know there's music stashed in a niche inside the bricks of my basement fireplace.”

“Right,” she said.

“Leslie—”

“I feel an urge for something stiff and fortifying before tonight. Let's head out, shall we?” she asked.

He had “fortifying” right there, in the apartment.

But they needed to get out. Being alone was…

Painful.

“Sure.”

As he followed her out, locking up, he said, “Research, huh?”

“Check out your basement fireplace,” she said.

 

Hastings House. His prison.

But she was all right; Leslie was all right. He had seen her…almost touched her. She had called out to him, and he had tried so hard to reply. Then she'd gone, and he'd known that she was all right, but he was still so…

Afraid.

It was laughable.

He was just the ghost of a man. Pathetic. Why was he here if he couldn't even help, couldn't stand against evil and injustice?

In dreams. There was a place for him in her dreams. Dreams filled with whispers and reminiscences. Poignant and sweet and surreal.

If he couldn't manage to summon enough of himself to be seen, to linger for more than a few seconds, to leave the confines of the house, how was it that he could pace—or seem to—endlessly and desperately?

Peace, rest in peace…

He couldn't. There was a reason for this pain of simultaneously being and not being, of needing to remain. It was fear. Fear for her. Strange warnings plagued his spectral soul. Somehow he knew she was in danger. He raged against it. What good did it do to feel this certainty that he should warn her, that the evil behind his death was still out there, when he was powerless to do anything about it? What had he ever done to deserve this wretched hell where he learned with more certainty each day that the greatest agony on earth didn't lie in the pain of living or the pain of death, but in the pain of separation that haunted the heart and soul?