failing.
Even with her own husband.
The parlor was big, but there wasn’t enough air in it. Cinnamon and pine were thick in the air, and she feared she might be sick. She wished she hadn’t eaten so much at Donovan’s. It had tasted great, and Marianne had been so welcoming....
But now, the food began to roil oddly in her stomach.
When Tess didn’t speak, Rowena looked disappointed. She opened her mouth, but then she exchanged a look with Bree. Something must have passed between them, because Rowena closed her lips.
Eager to leave, Tess was trying to stuff the papers into her purse—which was far too small to hold them—when a commotion in the doorway made her look up. A boy, maybe eleven or twelve, stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips.
“There’s a big problem,” he announced dramatically. “But it’s not my fault, honest!”
“Of course it’s your fault.” With a sigh, Mitch rose, shaking his head. “When was it ever not your fault?”
“You don’t even know what it is!” The boy tucked his head back, indignant.
“I still know it’s your fault.” Mitch smiled at Dallas as he passed. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Not you, Uncle Mitch!” The boy held out his hands. “It’s Isamar—and she wants Ro. She says the ghost is on the stairs again, and won’t let her pass with the vacuum. Plus, she’s scaring Becky, who was trying to dust, and they look like they’re going to scream any minute. And that’d be worse than having me interrupt.” He looked around for confirmation. “Right? That’d be a lot worse.”
Rowena groaned, but she stood immediately, as if there were no denying the summons.
“Maybe it’s just as well somebody mentioned this now,” she said in a strangely flat, resigned voice. She looked at Bree. “I’ll handle the maids. You’ll tell Tess?”
Bree nodded, her face utterly expressionless. “I’ll tell her.”
For a moment after Rowena and the boy departed, no one spoke. They all looked uncomfortably at the empty doorway. It was only when a weak, high-pitched shriek wafted from the floor above that Bree cleared her throat, squared her shoulders and turned to face Tess.
“Okay. So. There’s one thing you should know about Bell River. The house has a history. And, at least according to this particular housekeeper, we also have a ghost.”
* * *
MITCH GARWOOD, whose nickname had always been mischief and whose favorite word had always been yes, found himself craving peace these days. Like some tired old codger, he was happiest when he could sit quietly in the handmade rocking chair in Jude Calhoun’s workshop and watch his friend turn wood.
He wondered whether that meant he was getting old. Not by the calendar, of course. That relentless numeric ticker still said he was a few years shy of thirty. But maybe he was getting old when measured by the heart, which seemed to count age in buoyancy...or lack thereof.
And it had been months since he’d felt anything that came even close to buoyant.
Not since that September morning when he’d opened his eyes and discovered that the other side of his bed was empty. Bonnie was gone. Bonnie. His lover...his friend. His future and his life.
That was the day his heart turned to lead.
At home, back at Bell River, he put on a pretty good show. But it was exhausting. That’s why he liked to be here. The twirling lathe and Jude’s spindle gouge made a soothing white noise, and it took away any pressure to talk.
Jude gave off utterly peaceful vibes, too. He belonged in here, with the sawdust and the scent of fresh wood. Back when they were boys together, Mitch had understood that Jude’s one dream was to be a carpenter, like his father. When Mr. Calhoun dropped dead of a heart attack, Jude was only fifteen. Maybe that’s why he always projected such calm in here, in the workshop full of his dad’s memory, and his dad’s lovingly tended tools.
It had probably half killed Jude when Haley talked him into leaving all this behind for Hollywood. For the hundredth time, Mitch wondered why on earth Jude had said yes.
Of course, Mitch would have left Silverdell, Bell River, everyone and everything, for Bonnie. He had done exactly that, in fact. Bonnie had come to work for Bell River, literally out of nowhere, with no past and no promises that she’d stay. She’d been there only a few months, but during those months he’d fallen in love. When Bonnie told him one day that she needed to run away from Silverdell, he’d chosen to go with her, no questions asked.
But Haley and Bonnie were two entirely different kettles of fish.
At least he hoped they were. Because in the end, what did he really know about who Bonnie was?
To distract himself, he picked up a couple of magazines from the nearby table and leafed through them. Molly must have left them here. He couldn’t imagine Jude reading Behind the Screen or Hair Today.
He flipped through the hair magazine first, hoping he’d see something ridiculous enough to spark a joke or two. And sure enough, he saw women paying big bucks to look like poodles, and San Quentin convicts, and bristlecone pines, but none of it seemed very funny. It made him think about Bonnie again, and that tantalizing glimpse of golden-red sunshine that sometimes had peeked out at the roots right before she touched up the dye on her hair.
Why hadn’t she ever told him the reason she had to hide her real color? Why hadn’t she trusted him enough to tell him what she was running from? Why hadn’t she ever told him...anything? He’d been her lover. He’d been by her side for nine whole months, and he’d kept his promise...no questions.
But why should he have had to ask? He loved her. She loved him. Shouldn’t that have given him the right to know what they were fleeing from?
“Just for the record,” he said, “love is a giant sucking, stinking sinkhole.”
Jude raised his head, lifting his gouge from the spindle he’d been turning. “Very poetic, Shakespeare.”
“No. I’m serious. And I’m not just talking about me. What about Molly and that phlegm-head husband of hers? And what about...yeah, I’m going to say it, buddy. What about you and round-heeled Haley Hawthorne?”
Mitch was pushing his luck. Jude had made it clear when he got back from Los Angeles that he didn’t intend to discuss the romance with Haley, his accident or his years in Hollywood. Not with anyone. The Dellians who were dying of curiosity could just die, for all he cared. He even stonewalled Mitch most of the time. But once or twice, late at night like this, Jude had let enough slip that Mitch understood how crappy the whole thing had been.
Jude’s blue eyes glittered, hard marbles in the bright light over the lathe, and for a minute Mitch thought he was about to get blasted. Weirdly, he almost welcomed it. A bruising, pissed-off fistfight would at least be a sign that he was still alive.
But Jude blinked and his shoulders relaxed. “Okay, but what about Rowena and Dallas? What about Bree and Gray? What about Penny and Max?”
Mitch rolled his eyes. “They don’t count. There’s gotta be something in the water over at Bell River, some kind of love potion that makes everyone go gaga.”
Jude turned to his lathe. “So drink some, for God’s sake, and quit whining. The cure for one woman is another woman. You’ve known that since you were ten.”
Maybe. But that particular “cure” worked only when you were ten. It worked only when all girls were identical bundles of hormones wrapped up in slightly different packages. It didn’t work when...
It didn’t work when you grew up. It didn’t work when you fell in love.
But he didn’t say any of that out loud. Even he was ashamed to whine that bad.
He dropped Hair Today on