The House on Serpent Lake (Ghost, Romance, Fantasy) (8 page)

BOOK: The House on Serpent Lake (Ghost, Romance, Fantasy)
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Lindsay checked his open office door and even sat at his desk. He was right. If anyone had entered the house, especially the bathroom, Eric would have seen him.

But who had been making love to her? Surely it wasn’t her imagination; she could still feel his touch.

In their bedroom, he helped her under the covers and sat down beside her.

“Now tell me everything.”

She began from when she set her book down and told him everything except the intimate details of the lovemaking. It
was
lovemaking, she realized, remembering the gentle touch that made her feel more alive than she could ever remember. Whoever he was, he hadn’t wanted to hurt her, she was sure of that. Instead, he was offering pleasure.

Pleasure? He? He who?
That was crazy. No one had been there. She shivered and pulled the covers to her chin.

“And when I opened my eyes—”

“When you opened your eyes,” Eric repeated. “That’s the key. You’d had several glasses of champagne, and since you don’t drink much—”

“I only had two glasses, Eric. I hadn’t even touched the third one yet, so I was not tipsy.”

“Okay, you must’ve fallen asleep and been dreaming. Couple that with the champagne. That’s the only logical explanation.”

“Not everything was a dream! I woke up when he, when—” she broke off. She didn’t want to tell Eric she’d felt an erection.

“Think back, honey. You said you tried to read but put the book down, and you lay back and closed your eyes. You even said you dozed.”

“Search the house, Eric, please. Search everywhere. Just to make me feel better.”

She listened closely while he checked every bedroom and even the bathroom once more before going downstairs. She heard him open and shut the front door, then she heard nothing more until he yelled from downstairs that everything was locked up for the night. When the sound of footsteps ascended the stairs, she tensed.

“Eric? Is that you?”

“It’s okay, honey.” He walked around the landing to their bedroom. “Nothing there.”

“Did you check the attic?”

“There’s no one here, Lindsay. I assure you.”

“Please, just for me.”

He sighed. “All right. Then I’m coming to bed.”

In a short time he was back in the bedroom peeling off his clothes. “I don’t know what it is about the attic, but I just don’t like it up there.”

“Maybe it’s because the lighting’s different. Or it could be the sloping roof.” She held the covers for him, and after he undressed, he climbed in beside her.

“Honey, I’m beat.” After giving her a quick kiss he wrapped his arms around her and was soon snoring softly.

She cuddled into him, secure in the safety of his arms, but she couldn’t close her eyes, couldn’t think of anything but what had happened in the bathtub.

The amber numbers of her bedside clock read one in the morning, then two.

Was it actually possible she’d had been dreaming? Could something that had felt so real been a dream?

Since no one had been in the house, it had to have been a dream, although she didn’t fully believe it. She had felt him, felt his lips on her breast, had felt his erection—and she’d wanted him with a passion she had never known.

My God, what was wrong with her?

Was she so sex-starved that she’d invented a phantom lover?

She and Eric hadn’t made love in months. Yet, while she was curious about his decline in interest, she had to admit her desire for him had faded as well. She still loved him dearly, and she believed he loved her, so what was the problem? What had caused both of them to lose their desire for each other?

She’d felt exquisite desire in the attic that first evening, and then again tonight in the bathtub, desire so intense she nearly climaxed, something she didn’t experience with Eric.

But no one was there—at least anyone she could see.

What was going on? Something was. It couldn’t all be her imagination.

It had to be something about this house.

Starting tomorrow, she’d find out everything she could about the history of the Peterson home.

Finally at daybreak, when the birds started their morning chirping outside her window and the dawn brightened their bedroom enough so she could see that no one was in the room with them, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

Chapter Twelve

When Lindsay opened her swollen eyes, her stomach was rumbling. She pushed off the lavender coverlet to rise, but discovered her legs were too weak to stand.

Was she coming down with something?

She lay back and burrowed under the covers.

From outside her window, she could hear the birds singing, and in the distance a motorboat buzzed.

She loved this room with the pastel wallpaper, the faded purple posies and green leaves against the crème background. Even though it was faded and peeling in places, she loved the pattern. She remembered pouring over patterns with Mama to select just the right one.

“You don’t want the flowers too big,” Mama had said, tendrils of her graying-blond hair escaping from her chignon, “or you’ll get tired of it too quickly.”

“Just as long as it has lots of lavender,” she’d answered.

She admired the plaster medallion surrounding the ceiling light fixture, pleased that it was still in one piece and not all chipped like in some homes that had been neglected. She used to pretend to see patterns in the swirls, and even as a child, drew what she’d imagined. What wonderful features these old houses had, she thought now, extras that were full of charm that most new homes couldn’t duplicate.

Eric had wanted the larger master bedroom but she’d felt more at ease in the smaller room with the purple posies. She would have liked the bigger bedroom; after all, it looked out onto the lake and should have been preferred. But to her, it would always be Mama and Papa’s room. Perhaps if she and Eric redid it, stripped off that awful old mauve wallpaper and bought new furniture, she’d feel more at ease in there.

She glanced at the digital clock. Nearly one in the afternoon. Good Lord! She’d never slept that late in her entire life. Feeling decadent, she stood, but her wobbly legs forced her back on the bed.

Must be the flu.

Picking out patterns with Mama? Starring at the ceiling medallion as a child?

My God, was she going insane?

She’d always been chided for her stories of a long-ago time. Was her subconscious bringing those stories to life?

She thought about last night. Had it all been a dream as Eric said? Or more of her imagination?

But why bring the old stories to life now? She’d successfully repressed them for years, so what was causing them to resurface now?

She’d research the history of the house just as she resolved to do last night. Maybe there was some connection, something Eric had told her about the house that stirred up the old stories. Or perhaps it was something she’d read.

There had to be logical explanation.

Otherwise she was lost.

Still, sitting on the edge of the bed, she hesitated, dreading entering the bathroom.

Well that was just great. Now what was she going to do? Revert back to using the old outhouse in back of the house?

When the pressure of her bladder urged her on, she felt for her slippers, grabbed her robe, and zipped it up to her chin. She wasn’t going to face anything unknown in just her gown.

She crept across the landing to the bathroom, paused at the stairs leading to the attic, and looked up, breathing in the air, searching, yet desperately hoping she wouldn’t detect that certain spicy scent.

Please let it all be nothing but her imagination.

After a few deep breaths, she detected nothing but fresh air from the open window, so she continued on to the bathroom.

Outside the closed door, she braced herself and pushed open the door—to a sparkling clean bathroom. Eric had scrubbed everything, and all she could smell was the lavender from her favorite scented soaps. What a sweetheart!

Fifteen minutes later, feeling slightly stronger, she dressed in lightweight cotton slacks, and, holding onto the banister, took the stairs to the kitchen.

She wanted to grab a quick sandwich and get to the library. Should she tell Eric why she wanted to research the house? She wasn’t sure how he’d feel, especially when she didn’t want to tell him why it was so important.

He stood cracking eggs into an iron skillet, and when she heard them sizzle in the hot bacon grease, she realized she was hungry.

“Decide to join the living?” He turned the eggs with a spatula. “I heard you upstairs and thought I’d surprise you with breakfast.”

It was such a sweet thing for him to do that she couldn’t help but be pleased. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she reached up to give him a light kiss. “Eggs and bacon will do it every time. You just now having breakfast?”

“I had some cereal earlier but thought I’d make my special BLT with fried eggs. Got enough for two if you’re hungry.”

“Starved.” Leaving the security of his arms, she turned to rummage through the grocery sacks for paper plates and napkins when she noticed the dish drainer, coffee pot, and toaster from their California home standing on the counter. Looking around the kitchen, she realized all the moving boxes were gone. “You unpacked the kitchen?”

“Open the cupboards and see.” While he said it in a nonchalant way, pride filled his voice.

She opened the cupboards and everything, including the silverware and pots and pans, was neatly put away.

“Oh, honey, how wonderful!”

“Look in the pantry.”

She opened the door to rows of canned soups, vegetables and packages of dry goods, all put away on the shelves as if they’d always been there.

“You’ve certainly been busy this morning.”

Shrugging, he slid the eggs onto platter alongside strips of bacon. “Self-preservation, you know. With a wife who sleeps all day—”

She grabbed a dishtowel and snapped him on the rear. When he yelped, she smiled. Then her earlier fatigue caught up with her and her knees went wobbly. She slid down on the closest chair.

Rubbing his backside, he turned to her. “Hey, not fair. I was going to return the favor, but you look pale. Aren’t you feeling well?”

“I don’t feel ill, just extremely tired. Must be some kind of bug.”

Eric prepared a plate for her and joined her at the table. “Might as well spend the rest of the day resting. Nothing’s so urgent you have to get it done now.”

“So much I want to do,” she said, wiping a glob of runny yoke from her chin. “Since you’ve done the kitchen, I’m not sure whether I want to get our bedroom unpacked or do the living room next. And the reading nook. It’s such a perfect place to relax and read. Then, of course, there’s my studio.” Feeling somewhat stronger after her breakfast, she sipped her coffee and looked through the window to the blue sky and sunshine.

Such a perfect summer day. The maple and oak branches swayed gently in the breeze from the lake and the sound of motorboats and ski-doos echoed across the water. Birds sang.

“Just listen. I love to listen to the birds. That’s what I missed most. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the radio on again.”

He paused in mid-bite. “You missed the birds? When? We had birds at home.”

“I said that? Guess I meant … oh, I don’t know. It’s not important. Honey, feel. No humidity. Let’s shop in town for some bookcases and perhaps an area rug for the attic. We can top it off with dinner at one of the local resorts.”

“Can’t, sorry. I’m expecting a call from Mark.”

“He can reach you on your cell.”

“We’re going over spreadsheets, so I have to be at the computer. You and I can explore later.”

“Oh.” Disappointed, Lindsay picked up their plates. At the sink she slipped off her gold watch and set it in the windowsill before running hot sudsy water.

She had hoped that spending the summer away from the frantic pace of southern California would allow Eric to relax so they could spend more time together. Finding him after so many years spent alone still felt like a miracle and she wanted to nurture their relationship, attend to it and watch it grow rather than have it wither from neglect.

Fiercely scrubbing the skillet, she was determined she wouldn’t live like she’d done before, losing the one she loved, the years drifting by with each day getting worse, sorrow permeating every facet of her life until nothing could get through the haze of grief and pain, drifting in—

“Honey,” Eric said, interrupting her thoughts.

Lindsay blinked.
Haze of grief and pain?
What had she been thinking? She hadn’t lived that kind of life. Of course it had been difficult when her first marriage broke up, but it hadn’t been crippling. They both realized after three years that they were too young. And to be fair, she hadn’t loved him like she loved Eric. Her first husband had been more of an escape from an insecure childhood than someone she loved. She’d found stability with Eric, but since he’d had to travel so much, she still spent much of her time alone.

At least she had her art to occupy her time. But now, with fears about her sanity
,
she wondered if she would be able to paint again.

“Tell you what.” Eric came up behind her. “I’ll measure for the bookcases you need and if Mark hasn’t called by then, we’ll go into town and shop around. We might stop for pie at Bertha’s, but no dinner out. I need to get back home.”

“You got a deal!” Thank God Eric was there to steady her, to keep her firmly in the present. She turned around and wrapped her arms around him, loving him with all her heart.

He accepted the embrace for a moment, then broke away. “You mentioned an area rug for the attic. Why would you want one up there? Won’t you get paint all over it?”

His withdrawal stung, but she decided to not let it spoil their day. She turned so he wouldn’t see the hurt and finished the dishes. “Since I’ll have the entire space to myself, I thought I’d have a sitting area for when I wanted a break but didn’t want to lose the mood and come downstairs. I thought I’d have a rug and a couple of chairs, maybe even a small table for drinks or a snack. What do you think?”

BOOK: The House on Serpent Lake (Ghost, Romance, Fantasy)
2.13Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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