A Valentine Wish (Gates-Cameron 1)

As he approached the front door, he couldn’t help wondering if the visitor would be the prankster who’d played such an elaborate trick on him a few hours ago. Maybe it was someone who would cheerfully claim responsibility, generously concede that Dean was a good sport and solemnly promise never to do such a thing again.

His hopes of discovering the culprit collapsed when he opened the door. He doubted very much that the frosted-haired woman standing outside the door, a covered dish in her hands, had masterminded the elaborate practical joke. “Ms. Burton. Come in,” he said, politely greeting the real-estate agent who’d first shown him the inn.

Divorced, and in her early thirties, Sharyn Burton had made no secret of her interest in Dean, to his aunt’s amusement and his own rueful embarrassment. He didn’t know what it was about his ordinary face, slightly shaggy brown hair and bright blue eyes that intrigued her, but something obviously did, judging from the way she behaved around him.

“Hi,” she said, giving him a toothy smile as she minced past him. “I brought you a peach cobbler to celebrate your first night in the inn.”

“That was very thoughtful of you.” Dean took the heavy dish from her and then wondered what to do with it—and her.

There was nowhere for her to sit in the lobby, which was empty except for the massive oak reception desk that stretched in front of the back wall—an original fixture of the inn, the realtor had assured him. A once-magnificent Williamsburg chandelier hung over them, giving out just enough light to deepen the shadows in the corners of the lobby. Dean found himself avoiding looking at those shadows, even though he was confident that he would see no one standing in them.

Though he wasn’t really in the mood for entertaining, courtesy forced him to invite Sharyn to join him and his aunt in the dining room for dessert. Mae welcomed Sharyn warmly, and rushed to pour her a cup of coffee before going to the kitchen. She returned carrying dishes for the peach cobbler. Both she and Dean made appropriately appreciative comments after tasting the still-warm dessert.

“I’m glad you like it,” Sharyn said with a smile that was obviously for Dean’s benefit.

He concentrated on his cobbler, hoping this wasn’t going to get awkward. Sharyn seemed nice enough, but he had absolutely no interest in dating her. Or anyone else, for that matter. At least not right away.

He found himself wondering inconsequentially about the dark-haired, dark-eyed “ghost.” Who was the woman who’d posed for those projections? Was she a local resident? Would Sharyn know her if he described her? He was reluctant to bring up the subject, still smarting from the uneasiness he’d felt before he’d figured out that he was the victim of an elaborate prank.

“I heard youmet our mayor this afternoon,” Sharyn commented, reclaiming his attention.

Dean looked up in surprise.

Reading his expression, Sharyn gave a sheepish little shrug. “Word gets around quickly here,” she explained. “You can hardly sneeze in Destiny without everyone hearing about it.”

Dean winced. He’d heard about small-town gossip, but had never actually become the topic of it. Of course, he wasn’t so sure it was any different from the corporate-circle gossip he’d endured in Chicago. He would bet tongues were still wagging there about his abrupt decision to move to Arkansas.

“What did you think of the mayor?” Sharyn asked, directing the question to both Dean and Mae.

Dean shrugged. Mae gave him a quick look of reproof for his lack of conversational finesse and turned to their guest. “He seemed pleasant enough, if a bit too aware of his social consequence,” she said with the frankness that was entirely characteristic of her, to the dismay of more than a few hapless souls who’d tried to condescend to her in the past.

Sharyn chuckled. “If you think he’s aware of the family prominence, you should meet his mama. The mayor likes to pretend he’s in charge around here, but everyone knows his mother is the one really running things. She calls him up, barks a few commands and suddenly he’s got a new community project going. Usually at taxpayer expense. Margaret Peavy Vandover considers herself somewhat on a par with the queen mother.”

“Why would the local citizens support a mayor who lets his mother tell him how to run the town?” Dean asked, bewildered by this glimpse of small-town politics.

“Habit,” Sharyn admitted ruefully. “The Peavys have lived around here for years. Charles is the mayor, his cousin’s chief of police and another cousin is a state senator. Not to mention the money the Peavys have poured into the town over the years. It has to be spent exactly the way they say, of course—and usually on something that carries the Peavy name, like the new Charles Peavy Memorial Library. Charles, Sr., was Margaret’s father, and according to her, he fully qualifies for sainthood. He owned this inn once, by the way.”

“The mayor said something about that,” Mae acknowledged.

“Gaylon Peavy—Margaret’s grandfather—married the widow of James Cameron, the British immigrant who built the inn back in the 1890s. Her name was ... um ... Amelia, I think. James died of influenza while she was expecting their twins. She married Gay-Ion about ten years later. She died five or six years after that. Gaylon took over the inn and operated it until his death in the thirties, after which Charles, his son from a previous marriage, took over. Charles sold it in the fifties.”

“You know a great deal about the history of the inn,” Dean commented, wondering why she hadn’t told him much of this before. Perhaps because he’d never asked?

He’d taken one look at the place and had known he wanted it, whatever its history.

Sharyn smiled. “Everyone around here knows the story of the Cameron Inn. It’s part of our local lore.”

“Ah, yes. The ghosts,” Mae said with satisfaction, getting to the part of the story that particularly interested her.

“Amelia’s twins,” Sharyn said, her eyes lighting up.

It was obvious that she, too, relished this part of the legend, Dean thought in resignation. Was he the only one around here who couldn’t care less about silly old ghost stories? He’d outgrown them in his Boy Scout days.

As if sensing his disapproval, Sharyn threw a quick glance at Dean. “I did mention that the inn was supposed to be haunted,” she reminded him. “You never seemed particularly interested, but I didn’t want you t

o claim that I misrepresented the place when I sold it to you.”

He nodded. “You did tell me. And, as you assumed, I wasn’t particularly interested. I don’t believe in ghosts.”