The Nymph's Curse: The Collection (51 page)

“Look,” she started. “I don’t think I can help … ” She glanced up, but the redhead was gone. The next mourner in line, a petite woman with a sharp beak-like nose, stepped forward.

“Where … ” Harper looked past the mousy haired woman in front of her in search of the mysterious redhead.

“Excuse me?” the mousy woman said with an out-of-place smile.

“Yes, sorry,” Harper said, forcing herself to look at the gray business suit clad woman in front of her. The top button of the woman’s white dress shirt was fastened and there wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen anywhere on her perfectly put together outfit. “Thank you for coming.” The practiced words tumbled from her lips.

“You are welcome. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Dr. Redbird. I was the chief medical examiner on your sister’s case.”

Harper tried to keep the shock from striking her down. So many emotions invaded her all at once. Anger. Pain. Resentment. Thankfulness. “What are you doing here?”

The woman’s smile flickered and she glanced over her shoulder, like she was looking for some kind of attack. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am for your sister’s death. I thought I would pay my last respects to her family … and your kind.”

Something about the woman seemed
off
, but then again everything that was happening in Harper’s life didn’t seem to fit. She’d never prepared herself to be standing in a room full of acquaintances, mourners, and a favor-asking redhead — especially when they were all there to pay respects to her sister, a woman she had thought would never die.

The lawyer waited in his office at the far end of the desolate hall. A dark romance style painting of a couple in an olive-colored meadow hung crooked on the wall. As Harper passed the lopsided image she was struck by the way that not only the couple, but even the picture, seemed to grieve.

Harper ran her finger over her pocket where Chance Landon’s picture was hidden. Why had the strange redhead, Carey, been looking for the man? Had he done something wrong? Had the woman done something wrong? She had been so desperate, but did Harper really want to get involved?

The door to the office stood ajar and inside sat a black-suited lawyer with a dour face and a paunch belly. She pushed open the door further and the lawyer looked up. “Ms. Cygnini, it’s so nice to see you again. I’m only sorry it has to be under these particular circumstances.”

She always hated seeing the man with the pinched face, the last time she had seen Mr. Singer was when she had signed her divorce papers. She owed him for keeping all of her and Jenna’s secrets, and he knew it — which made this meeting all the worse. “Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice. I know you’d rather have met next week, but I appreciate you understanding I want to get this over with.”

“I completely understand.” He reached down and pulled a file from his briefcase. “I’ll make this as painless as possible.”

She tried to stop from wincing at Mr. Singer’s poorly chosen words. The lawyer must have known she was in a great deal of pain — each pitying look, each “I’m sorry” carved a slice from her ever shrinking heart. Soon there would be nothing left for the masses to take … and nothing left for her to give.

She tried to stuff away her misgivings toward the man. He was only doing his job. “That would be preferable.”

He sat the file down on his desk, next to a single crystal swan, which collected the dust-filled light given off by a small desk lamp. “I must apologize for not making it to the services for Jenna. I had other obligations.” He slid the swan across the table. “Accept this with my apologies.”

Harper took the swan with a nod and carefully placed the glass bird in her purse and out of the presence of the undeserving man.

“When do you have to return to work at Merckson?”

“They want me back to Seattle next week. They’re working on a new drug and need me there when the clinical testing is finalized.”

He flipped open the file. “That isn’t much time.”

She couldn’t disagree more. The snow-covered hills of Worley, Idaho were starting to wear on her. She missed the beautiful green mountains and the sound of rain on the roof of her house. “I think it will be more than enough time to settle my sister’s affairs. She couldn’t have had that much.”

“Your sister had become a bit of a lost soul, hadn’t she?”

Another slice fell away from her heart. “Recently she had been making some questionable choices.”

Harper couldn’t help but think of Jenna’s last poor choice in trying to get pregnant, something a nymph hadn’t been able to do in the last hundred years.

“If it makes you feel any better, she was cash poor but asset rich at the time of her death. And as her will states, she left most of her assets to you. You could have a secure future.”

Harper didn’t care about her sister’s money, even if the lawyer did. Money was nothing more than another thing to accrue — she’d been alive long enough to have her fair share. She would give it all away if it meant getting her sister back. Money didn’t matter. Only blood. Family. Sisterhood. Now all she had was her extended family of nymphs. She was affable with a few, but now Jenna was gone she felt alone.

The soulless lawyer flipped another page. “There was some real estate left to you. There is a home near Worley and an apartment complex by Coeur d’Alene.” He pulled out a few papers and slid them across the table. “Here are the rental agreements and the list of tenants. She was running the building on her own, but I recommend you find a property management company if you need to return to your job in Seattle.”

“Thanks, I’ll look into it.” Harper took the papers and scanned over the list of names. Halfway down the list she found the name she was looking for. Carey Jackson, apartment 316. The mysterious woman at the funeral had been telling her the truth. She had been Jenna’s tenant.

“Jenna left one thing to an outside party.” The lawyer tapped his finger on the paper, interrupting her thoughts. He stared down at the paper, and read out loud. “I, Jenna Cygnini, leave my collection of antique leather-bound books to one Ms. Carey Jackson, or her descendant, contingent upon the recipient being of a sufficient age (eighteen or older), to have proper reverence for, and responsibly put to use said texts.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Harper reached over and motioned for the paper.

“You’ll need to find the books and get them to Carey Jackson.” Extending the page, the lawyer handed it over. The words were exactly as he’d read them. Her breath rushed from her. Why was everything, even her sister’s will, pointing to this woman?

“What happens if I don’t find these books?”

“Then the matter will remain open and, upon their being found, they must be turned over to the named party,” the lawyer said offhandedly. He drew open his desk drawer and pulled out a manila envelope. Keys jingled inside the paper as he slid it across the desk. “Inside you will find another copy of the will, the deeds to your sister’s properties, the keys to her home, and her autopsy report. I just need you to sign some papers and this matter will be handled.”

Yes, the assets Jenna had left her would be under her care, but this
matter
was far from being
handled
. The agony of her sister’s death would fill her heart for eternity.

• • •

The key slid into the lock as if it knew it was home, but Harper didn’t feel the same excitement. Sucking in a long breath, she twisted the key and the bolt slid open with a hollow metallic click that reminded her of the sound of Jenna’s coffin being shut. The thought drew chills down her spine.

Her hands shook as she turned the handle and pushed the door open to her sister’s house. The stale air of a house closed up too long rushed out, as if it begged to be released from its sorrowful isolation.

Searching on the wall, she found a switch and flicked on the lights. Dust covered the side table next to the door. Amidst the dust sat a stack of unopened mail and a key ring filled with dozens of keys, small and large, zebra striped and covered in plastic, simple brass and aluminum. The funny array of mismatched and haphazardly arranged keys brought a smile to her lips. They reminded her so much of her sister in the way they seemed to be in a beautiful pattern of disarray.

It struck her that these mismatched keys, in their disheveled state, were perhaps some of the last things Jenna had touched.

She sat the packet of papers the lawyer had given her on the table next to the key ring as if the simple action would somehow bring her closer to Jenna. She was careful to leave her sister’s touch undisturbed.

Harper’s footsteps echoed through the house as she made her way to the living room. The lonely sound made the heaviness in her heart grow. She couldn’t stand the quiet — it was too much, almost as if it was the universe’s way of reminding her she would be alone for the rest of time. Picking up the dust-covered remote, she clicked on the television to a local channel and let the noise cover the painful silence.

There was nothing in this place she wanted to keep or take home to Seattle, at least nothing she could see in the living room. She simply needed to find the collection of antique books and get the house and apartment on the market, and all the loose ends would be handled. Then Harper could head back to Seattle and find some respite in her routine.

On the bookshelf in the corner of the living room, Harper found a vast array of worn romance novels. She pulled one out. The cover was a 1970s drawing of a woman with a Farrah Fawcett hairstyle of backward rolls and frosted strands. She remembered the book from the days she and her sister had spent together, talking and laughing about the events of their lives — it wasn’t too many years later they had moved apart and found their own life paths. Even though she knew she was being silly, she couldn’t stop herself from pulling the well-read book to her chest and embracing it for the memories it held.

She slumped onto the couch and flipped through the yellowed pages. On the title page was Jenna’s looping and messy handwriting that read:
From Harper, 1979
.

Before she realized it, Harper had started to read the book, but the noise of the television drew her attention. There was a commercial for a poker game at the local bar and casino. As she watched the lights shift, she caught a glimpse of a familiar face. There, sitting at a poker table, was Chance Landon. Her heart lurched.

He was even more handsome than the man in the picture. From the fine lines on his face, it was clear he had grown older since the picture had been taken, but there was no denying he was the same person Carey had been looking for. The book dropped into Harper’s lap and she stared at the screen until the advertisement was replaced and the man had once again disappeared.

Her lungs ached before she remembered to breathe. She couldn’t help but think the commercial was another sign that she was meant to find the handsome stranger.

Using the DVR, she skipped backward and watched the ad again. She made a mental note of the address for the poker game, which would take place in an hour at the Cellar Casino. It seemed easy enough to pop down to the bar and give the man the message that Carey had been looking for him. He could make of it what he may, but at least Harper wouldn’t have the crazy woman and her desperate plea on her mind any longer. She could wash her hands of the entire situation. And besides, it would give her a reason to get out of this house, and away from the haunting memories that filled the place.

She made a quick dash out to her car, grabbed her suitcase, and brought it upstairs to the largest guest bedroom. The door to her sister’s bedroom was closed. And as badly as she wanted to be done with it all and away from here, she couldn’t bring herself to open the door. She wasn’t ready to go through her things, to smell her sister’s familiar scent of citrus and cloves. Maybe while she was at the bar she would get a drink to dull the pain of sorting through Jenna’s precious things.

On the wall, next to the guest bathroom, was a picture of Harper and Jenna in the 1920s. They were smiling with painted pink cheeks and beaded dresses. Each of them wore a feather in her hair and stood proudly exposing bare legs, which had only made the Victorian era people judge them as rebels and feminist thrill-seekers. Jenna had loved every minute of throwing away the repressive trappings of the previous era. Their finest moment had come with the active bootlegging of socially required, but unaccepted, whiskey. So much had changed since then. In a way, Harper felt old. She’d given up so much — her spontaneity, her zest for life, her freedom — all since she and Jenna had put another person between them over twenty years ago.

In the bathroom, Harper readied herself for a shower. Moving to the tub, she turned on the water and let it run over her tired hands. Her mind drifted around the events of the day until the heat of the water seeped into her flesh, reviving her sorrow-numbed skin. She pulled the metal tap that turned on the shower and she was met with a strangled sound of metal banging within the wall. The pipe’s complaint grew louder and no water escaped the aged showerhead. Fearing the shower would break, she turned off the tap.

Even the house was pushing for her to be on her way. Harper turned to the mirror and caught a glimpse of her tired eyes. On the shelf just beneath the mirror was a man’s razor and shaving cream.

Harper picked up the razor — from the look of the edge it had been well used. Who had Jenna been seeing? The only man at the memorial had been Beau Morris. Did the man who used this razor not know Jenna was dead? Or did he know and simply not care? There was so much she hadn’t known about Jenna’s new life.

Another sliver of Harper’s heart slipped away.

The casino was illuminated by glaring red lights and the flash of slot machines. Harper weaved her way through the maze of machines and attendants with fluorescent-glazed smiles. A crowd of players and bystanders swarmed around two well-lit poker tables that ran adjacent to the back wall.

Moving between two onlookers at the center of the activity, she spotted the copper brown-haired man who matched the picture in her pocket. She had practiced what she was going to say to the man, but now that she was here and so close, she couldn’t remember what she had planned on saying.