The House on Serpent Lake (Ghost, Romance, Fantasy) (7 page)

“Well, whatever it was, it’s gone now.”

“Want to take a ride in our new boat?” he asked. “We have to try it out, you know.”

“Eric,” she said hesitantly, “we need to talk about last night. Are you having a potency problem? Is that why—”

He jumped up from the chair. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But honey, if you are, I understand. Especially with everything that’s happened lately. I love you no matter what, and together, we—”

Eric’s cell phone interrupted her.

“It’s Mark. I have to take it.” He bolted out of the kitchen.

Damn. The call couldn’t have come at a worst time. They needed to work out their problems, not push them away as if they didn’t exist. But from the closed expression on Eric’s face, she knew he still wouldn’t talk.

She didn’t know if impotence was his problem at all; he was much too young. It had occurred to her as a possible explanation, but she shouldn’t have blurted it out like she did. From everything she’d ever heard or read, men were extremely sensitive about their perceived masculinity, and when there were problems, they reacted in different ways. All she knew to do was to let him know she loved him no matter what, to support him, and listen when he felt ready to talk.

Okay, she reasoned, that would explain his withdrawal from her, but what about her lack of response to him?

She wandered to the front of the house. Eric was on the porch talking on the phone, so she drifted to the old Victrola.

Would it still work?

She raised the lid of the polished mahogany cabinet. Brunswick, the scripted gold label said on the inside. The top compartment held a turntable and a heavy metallic arm, its rounded end still holding a needle. A slim crank-handle protruded from the outside of the cabinet and the bottom front pulled opened to reveal slots holding old records, some 33 RPMs and a few 78s, each neatly cased in white paper sleeves, all in pristine condition. She thumbed through and discovered a treasury of recordings including classics by Billie Holiday, Irving Berlin’s “Lady of the Evening,” Enrico Caruso, and even a couple of Gene Autry’s records. Probably for Eric, she thought fondly, wondering what he’d been like as a boy.

She picked “Only You” by The Platters and placed it on the turntable. She didn’t think it would actually work, but she cranked the handle anyway. When the turntable began to spin, she was thrilled. She placed the arm over the record, and when she heard the first scratching sounds from the cabinet speaker, she felt as excited as if she’d discovered a lost diamond mine.

Elated, and with arms outstretched, she began to dance around the room in big, slow circles.

Suddenly, the lights winked on and off. The music stopped. She halted and, heart sinking, stared at the Victrola. Was it a short circuit?

Before she could check, the lights clicked back on and the machine whirled to life again.

She closed her eyes and, humming along with the music, and began her dance again.

The air thickened, and when whispers of the familiar fragrance wafted to her, she felt joyous. Large male hands gently led her in big open circles.

How she loved waltzing with him.

She opened her eyes, but as soon as she did, his touch faded and she was alone in the parlor.

“Eric?” She glanced around the room.

He opened the front door. “Sorry about that. It couldn’t be helped. Ready to go?”

He couldn’t have been outside; he had danced with her. She had
felt
him.

“Weren’t you just here? Dancing with me?”

“I just got off the phone. Let’s go.”

She stared at him as if searching for an explanation.

“Lindsay, not now. Let’s just enjoy the day.” Obviously he thought she wanted to talk again, and just as obviously, he didn’t.

But that wasn’t why she was quiet. If she hadn’t seen Eric come in from outside, she wouldn’t have believed he hadn’t been dancing with her. After an uneasy glance around the room, she ran out the door.

Eric followed her out. On the beach, he took her hand and helped her into the boat.

“Honey, you’re trembling. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, really.” She stared at the house. What was it about the house that was causing her imagination to soar?

She thought about the stories she’d told when she was very young, stories about another time and another life, of a lover and tragedy, but as she grew older and people began reacting to her stories with ridicule and scorn, the fantasies stopped and faded into memories. In time, even the memories disappeared.

What was bringing them to life now? She didn’t need the old fantasies to return, couldn’t bear the derision on Eric’s face. Especially not now, not when they were having personal problems.

He pushed the boat off the beach, jumped in, and they drifted until he yanked the cord for the motor. When it buzzed to life, he putt-putted them to the middle of the lake. It was nice, Lindsay thought, like gliding over water, but when he cranked it up and they took off, she forgot everything except the thrill of the ride.

Sitting in the front of the small boat, she rode close to the surface and loved the splashing sound the bow made cutting through the water, loved the wind on her face and even loved the earthy, fishy smell of the lake. Never before had she experienced anything so exhilarating. She lifted her face to the sky and felt such peace and happiness in her heart that she wanted to shout with the joy of it.

“Can we go faster?”

Eric laughed. “I don’t want to open her up yet. It’s better to take it a little slower to see how she handles.”

Serpent Lake teamed with life. They cruised by patches of tiny flying insects swarming in circles, and they witnessed a fish jump to snatch one of the bugs out of the air. Seagulls cried above them and crows cawed next to the treed shore.

“Oh look!” she cried, pointing to a large bluish-colored bird about three feet tall perched on a half-submerged log near the bank. Its long slim neck was curved like an ‘s’ and its wings were a bluish-gray.

“A blue heron,” Eric said. “Feeds on fish and frogs.”

As they approached, the bird took flight and its wingspan appeared six feet wide. Lindsay watched it glide over the far shore and thought again how different this part of the country was from where she grew up. She wondered if she’d ever get tired of exploring, of her delight in discovering something new.

They passed boats of all sizes, ranging from the smaller fishing ones like they had to the larger cruisers. Exploring the length of Serpent Lake, Lindsay couldn’t get over the pristine beauty that surrounded her, the lush greenery of the untamed forest bordering sections of the water, the puffy white clouds set against the deepest blue sky.

Farther down the lake, some of the newer log homes as well as older frame houses nestled between trees, some with a sandy beach, others with lawns that simply ended at the water. Lindsay noted boats of various sizes anchored to private docks and felt in awe over life around the lake, how certain things had changed—the newer log and glass homes, larger and sleeker trucks pulling boats, yet other things had stayed the same—the wildlife, the sun’s rays glistening on the water, the sadness and nostalgia for something she couldn’t name.

Chapter Ten

Back at the house, the first thing she noticed was that spicy scent lingering just under the furniture polish. It wasn’t as strong as her first time in the house or even the night before, but it was there, so familiar yet so elusive. It was almost as if it welcomed her home.

“What
is
that smell?” Sniffing the air, she wandered from the foyer and into the kitchen.

“What smell?” Eric trailed her.

“You don’t notice anything?”

He shrugged and opened the refrigerator door. “You want to have dinner here?” he asked, pulling out some cheese. “Or do you want to try that fancy place north of Brainerd? One of the guys told me they have great seafood there.”

Lindsay was opening cupboards and sniffing inside. “Makes me think of a kitchen spice.”

Munching on a chunk of cheddar, he watched her. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find where that scent is coming from. Did your aunt have a garden? Perhaps I’m smelling traces of that.”

“Most people had them, but I doubt anything’s still there, though. It’s been too long.”

Lindsay straightened and sniffed the air. “Oh well. It’s gone again.”

Later that afternoon the mortuary called and said the cremains were ready. They decided to go ahead and pick them up instead of waiting.

After sunset, Eric carried the octagon oak urn to the beach and Lindsay carefully stepped directly behind him. Although the porch light and the high round moon helped to illuminate their way through the blackness, she had never before seen such black nights as she experienced on the lake. Her eyes began to adjust and she could make out Eric’s outline next to her.

“Come on,” he told her. “Let’s find a better spot.” He moved to the far end of the property where the sand ended into the brush. Finding a spot on the bend, almost on a point, he stopped.

“Shouldn’t I say something? I’m not particularly religious, but I can’t just dump her ashes without anything.”

“Say whatever’s in your heart.”

They silently stood looking out over the water and listened as it gently lapped the shore. In the distance the faint buzzing sounds of a boat motor carried over the water.

Eric opened the urn and held it upside down over the water. Just then the moon slipped from behind the clouds to light the water with shimmers of silver.

“Goodbye, Aunt Frida,” Eric whispered. “Thank you for sharing your life and showing me that even when my father was taken away, I could still have family and love. May your journey to the heavens be a wonderful one. I wish you love.”

Lindsay’s eyes misted. “That was beautiful.”

Just then his phone rang. Cursing softly, he let it ring.

“Who could that be?” Lindsay asked.

“Mark, probably. Remember it’s two hours earlier on the coast.”

Although he didn’t answer the phone, the mood was broken and they headed back to the house. She heard him sigh before punching in Mark’s number. Once again she wished he could get away for good.

That evening while Eric busied himself in his office, Lindsay soaked in the bathtub, luxuriating in the steamy hot lavender-scented water. Her favorite novel and a glass of champagne sat on a tray next to tub. She tried to read a few pages but was too exhausted to concentrate, and the three glasses of the bubbly had left her floating in a soft cloud. She set the book down.

Lying back, she rested her head on the rim and closed her eyes, dreaming about relaxing summer evenings of roasting hot dogs and marshmallows over a campfire when the children and grandchildren visited, of fishing and boating, perhaps even skinny-dipping with Eric in front of the house when they were alone. As she drifted into sleep, she dreamed of making love in the gazebo under the full moon, just like they’d done …

The air in the bathroom changed, became heavy and faintly crackling as if charged with electrical tension. The light flicked off and a faint spicy aroma grew until it filled the room. In her drowsy state Lindsay breathed in the familiar scent of her lover and smiled a welcome.

The bath water gently splashed and two faint thuds sounded, then she felt the slight touch of lips on hers. Strong arms went around her and pulled her to a muscular body. She felt his smooth skin against her breast and her nipples hardened. The kiss deepened and a tongue slid into her mouth and in the twilight of sleep and awareness, she greeted it with her own. He laid her gently against the back of the tub and nuzzled her neck, just below her ear, and sent shivers to her toes. When he took a nipple into his mouth, she sighed and her legs fell open.

Still drifting between sleep and awakening, Lindsay ran her hands over his broad shoulders and down his body to his erection.

“Let’s go to bed where we have more room,” she murmured.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed her, sucking her bottom lip into his warm mouth and placed her legs around his lean hips. Desperately wanting him, she ran her palms around his neck and down his chest, luxuriating in his smooth skin …
smooth skin
? She stiffened and made a small sound.

Eric had chest hair.

The touches stopped. Her eyes opened and she was full awake.

“Eric?”

No one answered.

Blinking, Lindsay peered into the semi-darkness and didn’t see her husband, didn’t see anyone in the bathtub with her. She could see right through where Eric should have been to the tiles on the bathroom wall.

But that was impossible. He hadn’t had time to get out. Besides, she would have heard him or heard the water splash or the door opening. As if not trusting her own eyes, she groped for him, feeling the air all around her, but there was nothing.

If it hadn’t been Eric kissing and touching her, then who had been in the tub with her?

Chapter Eleven

Lindsay screamed and scrambled out of the water. Footsteps pounded in the outside hall and the door flew open.

“Honey, what’s wrong? Are you all right?” Eric held her wet body close and grabbed a towel.

Weeping, she held onto him. “Don’t let go,” she begged, frantically looking around the bathroom. “Please don’t let go.”

He gave her a quick inspection. “I don’t see anything wrong, no blood, so you didn’t cut yourself. Did you fall?”

Crying, she shook her head. “There was a man …”

“A man where? Let’s get you dried off.” He ran the towel briskly over her.

“In the water with me …”

Eric stopped drying her. “In the water with you? Just now?”

Sobbing, Lindsay nodded. “He disappeared.”

“Honey, no one’s here. I would have heard someone come up the stairs.”

“But Eric, I
felt
him.” Her face flamed. “I thought it was you.”

One arm still around her, he grabbed her robe and put it on her as if she were a child, then led her out of the bathroom.

“Look, honey, see my office door? It’s open. Not only would I have heard someone come in, but I would’ve seen him as well.”