A Valentine Wish (Gates-Cameron 1)

There was no sign that Anna had ever been here.

Dean sat for a long time with his hand on that empty space beside him, thinking of a young woman with vibrant dark eyes and a smile that made him wish things were different.

5

Life is eternal; and love is immortal; and death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.

—Rossiter Worthington Raymond

IT WAS Aunt Mae who’d convinced Dean to attend the library dedication the following Sunday afternoon. She’d heard that almost everyone in town would be there, she said. It would be good for them to mingle with the locals in their new hometown. Though it wasn’t exactly Dean’s type of affair, he’d agreed because his aunt had seemed to want to attend. She’d worked so hard helping him with the inn. How could he deny her an afternoon of relaxation?

Mae hadn’t been exaggerating about the attendance. Whether it was because there was nothing better to do, or because the locals didn’t want to risk offending the Peavys, people had turned out in droves. Dean saw quite a few people there he’d already met, and many more he hadn’t. The small but nice new library was packed with Peavys, as well as several other prominent citizens.

Margaret Peavy Vandover, the mayor’s mother, was as condescendingly gracious as Dean had been led to expect. She’d arrived dramatically late, and Dean had noticed that the cheerful chaos had seemed to subside somewhat upon her entrance. Were the townsp

eople really as intimidated by the woman as they seemed to be? And, if so, why?

The mayor brought his mother over for introductions. To her credit, she greeted them without visibly reacting to Mae’s flowing, bright purple caftan-style dress, worn with the usual profusion of jangling jewelry, and clashing so cheerfully with her copper-tinted hair. Margaret was more conservatively attired in black moiré silk and pearls. Though she was probably five to ten years older than Mae, she certainly didn’t look it. Dean couldn’t help wondering about the efficacy of face-lifts and wrinkle creams.

The painfully thin mayor and his short, plump wife made an amusing couple. She seemed as warm and friendly as he was distant and somber. Dean guessed the mayor owed his office as much to his wife’s popularity as to his family’s social position.

Roy Peavy, the chief of police, was there, inappropriately attired in uniform. He was a faded, mousy man in his mid-fifties, and Dean suspected he thought the uniform gave him an air of authority he lacked without it. It wasn’t hard to guess that his appointment had been the result of blatant nepotism—a small-town tradition.

The most visible Peavy seemed to be Roy’s brother, Gaylon, the state representative, named after his great-grandfather. He was surrounded by constituents, many of whom couldn’t seem to resist giving him political suggestions to take back to Little Rock. Gaylon had perfected the flashing-smile-hearty-handshake-and-quickly-move-on manner of a career politician, and he worked the room like an expert.

“Interesting group, isn’t it?”

Dean turned in response to the drawl, recognizing Mark Winter’s voice. He smiled. “Covering the big event?”

“Of course. This is front-page news. The opening of the ‘Saint Charles’ Library.”

Dean chuckled. He’d heard Margaret’s dedication speech, and he understood Mark’s irony. Dean had almost been nauseated by Margaret’s effusive praise of her late father. Talk about obsession!

He took a sip of the too-weak coffee he’d been served in a foam cup. He’d had a choice of the coffee or something green with big chunks of fruit floating in it. The coffee had seemed the safer option.

“I found those notes I promised you,” Mark commented. “I’ll bring them by tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure. Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

“Hey, thanks. If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble, I’d like that. I get tired of eating take-out.”

“No trouble. Aunt Mae loves to entertain. Just remember, the place is a mess, with all the construction going on.”

“I’m curious to see how the renovations are coming along.”

“We should be ready to open late in July.”

“Fast work. No wonder you wanted to get started on your research. When your guests ask about the ghosts—and they will—you’ll want to have an answer prepared for them.”

“Ghosts?” A portly, pleasant-looking man in a brown suit stepped closer, a curious gleam in his squinty brown eyes. “Have you seen the ghosts?” he asked Dean.

Dean forced a smile. “I’m just curious about the legend,” he prevaricated. “I’m Dean Gates, new owner of the Cameron Inn.”

The shorter man, who looked to be in his early fifties, pumped Dean’s hand enthusiastically.

“R. J. Cooley,” he said. “How are you set up for insurance on the place? I’d be happy to look over your policies for ya, and I can probably beat whatever rates you’re currently paying. My office is over on Main Street.”

Dean smiled, instinctively liking the guy, despite his much-maligned profession. “Let me make a wild guess. You’re in insurance.”