tugged sopping wet fabric from his knees before continuing on his way. Most folks in this neck of the woods drove pickup trucks. A Porsche was a city car—and this particular one had been driven by someone with city manners…which meant no manners.
He had occasion to visit Vancouver on business several times a year and was always glad to get home. People down on the Lower Mainland were all so damned busy going where they were going, they didn’t care a hoot about anybody else.
He pressed his thumb against the top spring of his umbrella and shook the umbrella out as he walked into the Pizza Palace. It wasn’t a place he regularly frequented—he didn’t have to, Molly and his mother were forever bringing him casseroles or inviting him over for meals.
But tonight, because Molly had taken the kids to a movie, and his mother had gone to Kelowna for the weekend, he was on his own.
And he was looking forward to having the house to himself. Stressed-out after his hectic week, he needed some time alone. What he planned to do as soon as he got home was have a quick shower and change into dry clothes. Then he’d pour himself a beer and take it—along with a few slices of steaming Hawaiian pizza—through to the sitting room where he would spend a couple of mindless hours flaked out in front of the TV.
“Well, hallelujah, it’s still here!”
Despite her aching fatigue and her screaming muscles, Liz managed a shaky smile as she dug up her old house key from among the clothes pegs stored in a wooden box by the back door of Laurel House.
Huddling under her hooded black slicker, she slipped the key into the lock, and held her breath. For a second, she met resistance…and then the dead bolt slid back.
Her breath seeped out in a relieved hiss and she slumped weakly against the door, heedless of the rain lashing down on her…
Then realizing she was in danger of falling asleep where she stood, she jerked herself upright. She had to stay awake…at least till she had faced her father.
She’d phoned him ten days ago, before setting off from New York, but he hadn’t picked up the phone. She’d listened to his abrasive voice bark: “Max Rossiter here, leave a message after the beep!” but she hadn’t wanted to leave a message. She had just wanted to confirm that he was still living in the family home.
Apparently he was…but this evening he was out.
She’d stood at the front door for a good five minutes, ringing the bell, over and over again. Finally she’d given up.
But she hadn’t left.
On her long drive west, she’d had time to think. And she had made some decisions. One of those decisions was that she was going to stand up to him. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her, the way he had when she was a teenager. Laurel House was his home…but it was also—legally—her home. And if he tried to throw her out, she would take him to court over it.
She opened the door and stepped inside.
Nothing had changed.
That was her first thought.
But after she’d taken a second look, she saw that some things had indeed changed. The appliances she remembered had been gold. The appliances she saw now were black. Gleaming black stove, dishwasher, fridge, microwave…
Yawning, she walked through the kitchen, out into the corridor and along to the foyer.
The doors to all the rooms were open, and she peeked in every one but they were all empty.
Yawning again, she turned away and ascended the stairs.
“Dad?” she called out as she reached the landing. Her voice echoed back. It had a hollow sound.
She checked his bedroom. He wasn’t there. But everything was just as she remembered it, even to the blue-and-white antique quilt with its log cabin design.
She moved on to her old room. She was surprised but pleased to see that here, too, nothing had changed.
And never had the bed seemed more inviting.
Shrugging off her slicker, she tossed it over a chair. She would lie down, she decided exhaustedly, and have a short nap. But she’d leave the door open to make sure that when her father came home, she would hear him.
She woke from a deep sleep to the sound of movement. The thud of heavy footsteps, someone going down the stairs.
She pushed herself up to a sitting position, and felt her fingers tremble as she brushed her long sleep-mussed hair back. Her father was home. And she had to go down and face him. It was a moment she’d dreaded.
She edged off the bed and crept to the door. And hesitated.
The courage she’d built up during her journey now threatened to desert her. Her father’s rages…they had always terrified her.
But she had to confront him sometime. And what was to be gained by putting it off?
Swallowing down her dread, she made her decision. And before she could change her mind, she walked out of her room, across the landing and then—forcing one foot after the other—she descended the stairs.
Matt had just gulped a mouthful of beer from his can when he heard a sound behind him.
Swiveling around, he spluttered when he saw the pale apparition standing unsteadily in the doorway—a wraithlike figure with long flaxen hair and a perfect oval face.
“What the…?” Wondering if he was dreaming, he stared incredulously. Then shaking his head vehemently, he tried to jar the vision from his head. But…when he looked again, it was still there. She was still there.
And she was staring at him as incredulously as if he, too, were a ghost. Her eyes were starkly wide, her full lips parted in dismay, her oval face as pale as the crumpled ecru suit that hung so loosely on her thin body.
“There must,” he said, “be some explanation for this. Tell me—” he attempted to inject some humor into his tone “—please tell me that you’re not the Phantom Lady of Laurel House!”
“What,” she asked in a voice as insubstantial as her appearance, “are you doing here?”
She was real. No doubt about it. Ghosts didn’t wear perfume and this one was wearing something that made him think of pink roses and summer kisses. Raising his beer can to his mouth again, he regarded her with great interest as he took another long swig.
Then wiping the froth from his lips, he set the can on the counter and settled his fists lightly on his hips.
“I’m here,” he said in an amused tone, “because this is my home.”
Her eyes, if that were possible, widened even further. “Since when?” One of her hands had crept to her throat and she was pulling her delicately fashioned platinum choker from her neck as if trying to keep it from strangling her.
Who the devil was she? And what did she want?
“Since when?” she demanded.
“Since I bought it.”
“You’ve bought it? Bought Laurel House? But you can’t have! What happened to—”
“The previous owner? Max Rossiter?” He shrugged. “He’d been ill for a long time and he passed away a couple of months ago—”
She made an odd sound, like the croak of a parched frog.
Intrigued by her reaction, he kept talking and watched her with fast-growing curiosity. “Shortly before that, he’d put the house up for sale—it’s only two miles out of town and it has the greatest view, so I bought it. It had been mortgaged to the hilt—the old guy had had a stroke several years back and he just couldn’t keep up with his extra expenses so in the end he was forced to sell…”
If she’d been pale before, she was ashen now. Alarmingly so.
He walked over