A Valentine Wish (Gates-Cameron 1)

Oh, yes, something was bothering her. And now it was more than the familiar need to find out the truth about what had really happened to place her and her twin in exile in this colorless, joyless place.

Dean had wanted to kiss her. And worse, she’d wanted him to kiss her. Wanted it so badly, she’d ached. She’d even moved toward him, and then she’d realized what a foolish, senseless action that had been.

Dean was a living, breathing, healthy young man with his whole future ahead of him. Anna’s life was behind her. She’d never been more keenly aware of her loss.

Maybe she was wrong about Dean being the one to free her. Maybe meeting Dean was as much a punishment for whatever wrongs she’d committed in life as the long years she’d spent in this cold, gray limbo. Perhaps she’d become too complacent in her existence, resigned, if not happy. Ian’s companionship had been enough for her...

Until now. Until she’d met Dean. And realized that she had never fully experienced life when she’d lived it. She pictured Jeffrey, and winced. She’d been fond of him, had convinced herself she would be content with his gentle embraces, his deep affection. But now her growing feelings for Dean made her realize that what she’d had with Jeffrey would never have been enough to truly satisfy her.

Wasn’t that what Ian had tried repeatedly to tell her?

What cruel twist of fate had forced her to learn that lesson now? What had she done to deserve this? Why had she been allowed to

tumble into love for the first time with a man she could never have?

What if it was her destiny to drift out of his reach for the rest of his life, to watch helplessly as he lost interest in a woman whose own life had ended years before his had begun, and turned instead to a woman of flesh and blood? Someone like Cara, so pretty, so sweet, so vulnerable that Anna couldn’t blame Dean if he fell for her. Or the other blonde—pushy, but probably pleasant company for a lonely man.

What if Anna had to watch from oblivion as Dean fell in love with someone else, married and started a family of his own?

She could think of no worse punishment, not even an eternity of grayness.

Had she really been so bad? She’d been stubborn, yes, and had occasionally lost her temper. She’d snitched a candy stick from the general store when she was six, but she’d admitted the truth to her mother that very evening. And there’d been those two incidents with Jeffrey—nights when her curiosity and his passion had overcome discretion. She’d known it was wrong, but they had planned to marry.

Did she really deserve this? She pictured Dean’s face and the aching began again.

“Anna?” Ian repeated, sounding concerned now. “What can I do?”

She forced a smile. “Just be with me,” she said, finding solace in her twin’s love.

At least she had Ian. She imagined an eternity spent in this place alone, and a shudder ripped through her. Now, that would be unbearable, she assured herself. At least she’d been spared that.

“I APPRECIATE your taking the time to see me this afternoon, Mrs. Vandover,” Dean said the next afternoon over tea in Margaret Peavy Vandover’s elegantly decorated parlor.

“It’s a pleasure to see you, Mr. Gates. I understand you have some questions about the decor of the inn? I must tell you that I remember very little about the original furnishings. I was only a child when my father sold the inn.”

Dean bit the inside of his lip. Charles had sold the inn in 1950, and Margaret had had a child of her own by that time. The mayor had already admitted to Dean that he remembered seeing the rose gardens when his grandfather owned the place.

He didn’t bother to argue with her. “I was hoping you could remember a few details about the gardens,” he said instead. “They’ve been allowed to go wild, and it’s no longer possible to tell what was originally planted. Can you remember the names of any of the roses your grandmother planted there?”

“My step-grandmother,” Margaret corrected him regally. “My father was born of my grandfather’s first marriage. My biological grandmother died when my father was very young. His father remarried several years later.”

“Of course.”

“Still, my mother was fond of the rose gardens. She spent many hours tending them during the years that we lived at the inn. remember quite a few of the roses that were planted there. Damasks and gallicas, moss roses and lovely, delicate climbers. The wonderful old ‘antique’ roses. I’ve planted a few of the same varieties in my own gardens, though of course the modern hybrids are so much easier to raise. I’d be happy to make a list of suggestions for you.”

“I’d like that. Thank you.”

Margaret nodded, obviously pleased with the opportunity to give her expert advice. “Is there anything else you’d like to ask?”

He’d been waiting for this opening. He’d already talked to the chief of police, only to be told, as Mark had been, that no official police records from 1921 had survived, and that there had never been cause for anyone to doubt Deputy Tagert’s accounts of the events of that February night at the inn. Chief Peavy hadn’t appreciated Dean’s speculation that Peavy’s ancestors might have been more involved in the scandal than they’d let on, and he’d made his objections quite dear. He’d all but thrown Dean out of his office, and had ordered him to leave the past alone.

Undaunted, Dean had driven straight to Margaret’s house. He managed a convincing chuckle. “I’ve heard most of the old stories of the inn’s history, of course. Seems like everyone in town has taken time to tell me about the ghosts.”

Margaret’s forehead creased in disapproval. “That nonsense again? Honestly, one would think grown people had better things to talk about.”

“It is an interesting story, I suppose, if one believes in that sort of thing.”

“Which I do not,” Margaret said crisply.