“I don’t know about you,” Mae murmured as they climbed into the car. “But now I’m more cunous about the ghosts than ever.”
“We’ve got a lot more to worry about than ghosts. Plumbing and wiring, dry rot, modernizing the kitchen, refurbishing all the rooms. Paint, wallpaper, carpeting, wood to be stripped and resealed, fixtures to replace...”
Mae smiled. “lt’s going to be great fun, isn’t it, Dean?”
He relaxed enough to return her smile. “Yes,” he said. “I think it will.”
HAVING FULLY EXPLORED the inside of the inn, Dean concentrated on the outside while his aunt put away the groceries they’d purchased on the way home.
The sprawling two-story structure opened into a large lobby and reception area, with the public dining room off to the right. The kitchen, a smaller dining room, four small bedrooms, two baths and a private sitting room were at the back of the ground floor. The ten guest rooms were on the second floor, each with a tiny, but adequate, private bathroom not much larger than a walk-in closet. Above that, of course, was the attic.
Dean didn’t want to think about the attic right now.
Built in 1892 by James Cameron, a British immigrant, the inn was country-style, with multiple shuttered windows and dormers, and an inviting wraparound porch. It had been mostly unoccupied for the past six years. Some of the windows were cracked, shutters were crooked, paint was peeling and faded and boards were splintered and rotted in places.
A few renovations had been made over the years, but general neglect had finally taken its toll. The grounds were a mess of dead weeds, sprawling bushes and unpruned, winter-denuded trees. The driveway was rutted, the footpaths broken and uneven, and the once-flourishing garden was overgrown and run-down.
Dean looked at the place and saw the simple elegance that had once been, the same look he hoped to achieve again.
So far, only the kitchen, two of the back bedrooms and the private sitting room were habitable. Freshly painted, papered and furnished with antiques and reproductions, the rooms had been decorated according to Dean’s instructions while he’d finished up his business in Chicago during the past month. He had considered the private living quarters the first priority; after all, he and Mae would be making this their home.
Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his heavy jacket, he strolled around the side of the building, mentally adding to his list of needed repairs. Had it been summer, the garden path would have been so choked with weeds and vines, walking down it would have been difficult. As it was, he sidestepped the thorny branches that threatened the fabric of his wool slacks.
A rotting, precariously leaning shack that was little more than a stack of old boards lay at the back of the grounds, at the very edge of the woods through which Dean planned to cut nature trails and hiking paths. He’d have to clear away that shack, eventually. It looked as old as the inn, and had long since deteriorated past usefulness.
There were a couple of other dilapidated outbuildings on the property, all of which had to go. He had vague plans to build a few guest cottages once business picked up enough to justify the extra investment—honeymoon cottages, perhaps.
He didn’t have to be a romantic to know how to capitalize on that human weakness.
It was late afternoon now, and long shadows stretched across the path in front of him. He had almost reached the old shack, when something made him stop.
Compared to Chicago at this time of year, it wasn’t a particularly chilly afternoon. The temperature hovered in the low fifties, but Dean was suddenly cold, right through to the bone. Instinctively, he moved back a few steps. The coldness went away.
Frowning, Dean moved slowly forward. The coldness hit him again in the very same spot on the path, a deep, skin-tightening chill that made him decidedly uneasy. He wasn’t standing in a shadow, nor in a low spot, and there was no other apparent physical explanation as to why it would be colder here than it was five feet away. But it was.
The hairs at the back of his neck rose with a tickle of premonition. Reluctantly, warily, he turned.
She was standing on the path right behind him, so close he could almost touch her.
He kept his hands in his pockets. He had a nagging suspicion that his fingers would go right through her if he reached out.
The outline of a straggly, winter-dead rosebush was dimly visible through her, as though seen through sheer white fabric. Only her face was perfectly clear—and as beautiful as it had been when he’d seen her in the attic.
“I,” he told her stupidly, “do not believe in ghosts.”
She smiled. Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged. At least, nothing that he could hear. She looked suddenly frustrated, as though annoyed that he hadn’t responded to whatever she’d tried to say.
Which, of course, was ridiculous. “I am not going crazy,” he said emphatically.
She shook her head, her expression reassuring.
He wasn’t reassured.
He thought of the people who’d questioned his sanity when he’d quit his fast-track career in Chicago and announced that he’d bought a run-down old inn in an off-the-beaten-path town in central Arkansas. He thought of his ex-wife’s recent telephone call, not so subtly inquiring if he was having a nervous breakdown following their divorce a year ago. Irritably, he’d assured her that he wasn’t.
He hoped to hell no one would ask him that question now. He wasn’t at all sure he could answer so positively.
“This is absurd,” he said, his eyes never leaving the woman’s face. “It’s a joke, right? A twisted way of welcoming me to town? Someone’s idea of having fun with the newcomer? What are you, a projection?”