Kiss Me Hello (12 page)

What was it Joss Montague wrote? He wanted someone he could worship, day and night, body and soul. Exactly right. That’s what she wanted with Bram. Being at Turtledove Hill was the best thing for her marriage. A chance to hit the restart button, refresh, recharge, recommit. She could part with the vineyards when the time was right, but they had to keep the house.

She rolled over on her belly to search for her sleep shirt and found it clumped up on the floor near the foot of the bed. She swung her legs around and pulled the shirt over her head.

Joss Montague was watching her from the chair in the corner, solid and real.

“Ai!’ She screamed and hiccupped at the same time, making a weird chirpy sound. Montague’s goofy grin morphed to a look of dismay—then he disappeared.

“Breathe, Sara,” she said aloud, mostly just to see if she could talk. She bent over and put her head between her legs. Wasn’t that what people in the movies always said to do? After two deep inhales and exhales, she sat up. The only things in the chair were the shawl and the journal.

That was no hallucination. It wasn’t because of exhaustion or stress or a caffeine-only diet. She had a great dinner last night topped of by fabulous tension-relieving sex and a blissful good night’s sleep.

She went to the window, and the mourning doves flew away. Turtledove Hill was haunted.
He’s trapped.
Aunt Amelia must have meant the man in the kitchen. Joss Montague. That’s why she left Turtledove Hill to Sara, to keep it with someone who knew about him.
Never let them have it. He’s trapped.

“Babe!” Bram yelled up from the kitchen. “Get it while it’s hot!”

She went downstairs, jumping over the bad tread. If they were going to have a memorial for Aunt Amelia here at the house, they’d better have these stairs fixed. They could always rope off the stairs to the observatory.

“Hey, babe.” Bram blew her an air kiss and flipped the omelet he was working on. “First thing we buy with that thirty grand is a decent egg pan.”

She loved it that he knew about food and wine and cooking. He was so sexy standing at the stove, shirtless, in red pajama pants covered with panda bears. She hugged him from behind and rested her head against his back and smelled his skin.

“Mm, good morning,” she murmured. She was ready to go back to bed.

On the counter beside the stove two plates were loaded with fried potatoes and onions. She couldn’t believe what she saw plugged in under a cabinet.

“Bram, my hero!” The Keurig from home sat there, plugged in and ready to go.

“I knew she wouldn’t have a decent coffee maker. Nobody over fifty does.”

“Ageist.” She teasingly slapped his butt.

“Knock wood.” He rapped his knuckles against the cabinet drawer. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

“Especially when the house might be haunted,” Sara said—then wished she hadn’t. She didn’t want to feed Bram’s interest in Joss Montague. “And K-cups too,” she added. “You think of everything.”

“Yes, I do.” Bram nodded toward a satchel on the floor near the archway. “I also brought your blow dryer and shampoo and stuff, and some more clothes.”

That was Bram’s version of bringing a girl flowers and candy: remembering her toiletries and fresh underwear. Sara popped a pod in the coffee maker. “Last night—”

“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry about that. In my defense, I was exhausted.”

“Well, not completely.”

“A little drunk then? That Gracien makes a killer pinot.”

“But…” She just stared. Last night was so amazing. Extraordinary. Bram’s last words,
I didn’t know it could be like this.
And now he shook the omelet pan so nonchalantly, like it had been nothing special. Like he didn’t even remember.

“By the way, babe, where did this come from?” He held up the iron knife she’d left on the nook table. “These things are so cool.”

She felt sick. “It was in the barn.” He
didn’t
remember. Or didn’t want to. She was so confused.

“It’s called a spike knife,” he said. “They make these out of railroad spikes. This looks like an old one. I’ll bet Bonnie knows something about it. She’s totally into the history of Pelican Chase.”

“Bonnie.” Sara opened the refrigerator and looked for the half and half. As she added the cream to her cup while the coffee brewed, Bram came up behind her and put his hands on her sides. She ached with frustration. One minute he was aloof and withholding, and the next he was all flirty and suggestive. She couldn’t stand it.

“Don’t be hating on Bonnie. Yeah, she’s tall and gorgeous and ambitious, but I’m married to an heiress. Feels pretty good!” He pulled her hair to the side and tucked it behind her ear. Maybe she should let her hair grow. She knew he liked it better long, but this way it took less time to dry in the morning.

“Not helping, Bram.” She laughed because he did mean to be funny, but she couldn’t help feeling stung. Bonnie was tall, gorgeous, and ambitious. Was he saying she was short, not gorgeous, a loser—but acceptable now because she might have money? And since when was short a bad thing?

She was being an idiot. She’d read too much into last night. That journal had messed with her head. And no way was she jealous. Bram wanted to work things out, and so did she. She tilted her head for him to kiss her neck.

His breath was warm as he nibbled at her earlobe. “This would make a great murder weapon.” The spike knife was at her throat. “You think?” He pressed it against her skin.

“What the hell!” Her heart pounded and she twisted away, spilling hot coffee all over the counter.

“Oh, babe.” Bram burst out laughing like a maniac. “Don’t take it personal.” He wrapped his arms around her and rocked her, still laughing. “I’m planning the murder in the next
Hot
book.”

“Jeez, Bram. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Good. Then it works. Now come over here and sit down.” He steered her to the nook by her shoulders. The flowers were cheerful, and morning sunshine poured in through the window. She sat down across from his laptop.

This was Bram being romantic. Set a pretty table. Cook a great breakfast. Share the murder mechanism for the story he was working on. He moved his laptop aside and slid into the nook across from her, diving into his potatoes and onions.

“By the way, there’s no internet here.” He winked. “How did Amelia live like that?”

“Yeah,” she said. “The cell signal is sporadic too.”

“So I noticed. Seriously, I need to get on line to check my stats.”

“There’s wireless in the village. I know Peekie has it at The Book Beak, and people were using laptops at The Coffee Spot across the street. Watch out for Spot’s coffee though. It deserves its reputation.” She crossed her eyes and made a face.

“Sure thing.” Bram said. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I checked the mailbox before I came. Looks like you got a RIF notice after all.”

“Oh.”

“The envelope’s in your bag.”

“Well, crap.”

“What do you care now?” Bram said, scraping up the last of his omelet. Sheesh, he ate fast.

“I don’t know.”

Sara found the letter from the district and brought it back to the nook to open. Somewhere inside, she’d believed she was too good a teacher, too valued to RIF. She’d fantasized that when her name appeared on the list, some administrator would say.
Oh, no! Not Ms. Blakemore. The parents will raise an outcry if we let her go.

“It still doesn’t feel good.”

Well, she could let her hair grow now. No need to blow-dry it at 5:30 every fricken freezing winter morning.

“No, babe. It doesn’t feel good.” Bram took his plate to the sink and rinsed it, put it in the dishwasher, then washed out the pan. Sara couldn’t fault his housekeeping habits. Compared to her, he was a neat freak. “You want to come?” he said. “I’m going to Pelican Chase to find a hot spot.”

“No, I want to take a shower and explore a little.”

He came back to the nook and kissed her forehead. “Maybe later we can find each other’s hot spots.” Not quite the same as connecting body and soul.

Anyway, she realized painfully, she still wasn’t sure she wanted to.

He scooped up his laptop and was out the door, waving at her through the window. He jumped into his truck, and roared out of the courtyard.

No telling how long he’d be gone. Ever since he published
Hot Heat
, once he got online it was hard for him to log off. He was always checking sales and ranks and promotions and whether his Facebook fan page had any more likes. For one crazy minute, Sara fantasized not bringing internet access to the house.

But Bram was right. Who could live like that these days?

She took her satchel of stuff upstairs. Bram had cleared away Aunt Amelia’s things in the master bath. His razor and deodorant and toothbrush were neatly arranged on one side of the old-fashioned basin. There was room for Sara on the other side of the sink, but it felt wrong. She wasn’t ready to move into Aunt Amelia’s space.

On her way to the bathroom down the hall, she stopped outside the guest bedroom. Sunshine streamed in through the window over the unmade bed, too cheerful a mess for a ghost. She poked her head through the door for a look at the chair in the corner. No one there. Mostly relieved, she continued down the hall.

Bram was thorough. He packed her toothbrush and toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, deodorant. Even her birth control pills, which she’d quit taking months ago. Why screw up her body for no reason?
Uh-oh.
What about last night? They’d used no protection whatsoever. She hadn’t even thought about it.

The pills were still on the sink when she stepped out of the shower. She dried her hair, considering. Last night she was sure they’d kick-started their sex life, but this morning Bram was as withholding as he’d been all year, affair or not. A tease. She didn’t want to call him cruel, but that’s how it felt. She started to cry.

“Don’t be stupid,” she told herself. She wasn’t going to let him get that close to her again, not until she was sure of him—and of herself. She put the pills in the cabinet without taking one.

- 13 -
Snowdrops In May

T
HE POND WAS STILL
there in the eucalyptus grove, fed by the little waterfall from the stream. This time of year so many kinds of flowers were in bloom. Irises, tulips, daffodils, narcissus, lilies, and more. And snowdrops, which should be impossible. The middle of May was far too late for snowdrops.

The slate rock jutted over the side of the pond as if put there by design, a place to sit and watch the fish go by. Sara sat down and wrapped her arms around her knees. No fish. Maybe they’d show up when the water was warmer.

And then it hit her: she would be here when the water was warmer. She’d be here all through summer—and beyond. Every summer from now on, if it was true Turtledove Hill would be hers. Her problem with the district had flipped on its head. Instead of being devastated by a RIF notice, she was actually relieved to get it. She wouldn’t have to write a letter of resignation.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sara. Wait until you see Aunt Amelia’s lawyer.”

She rested her head on her knees and closed her eyes, listening to the stream and the birds in the trees. It was strange to think of not being a teacher. Stranger still to realize she wouldn’t mind, not if she had Turtledove Hill.

All at once, the birds stopped their chatter. The only sound was of water flowing from the stream. Sara looked across the pond and gasped. He was standing among the snowdrops, watching her.

She scrambled to her feet, never taking her eyes off the man on the other side of the pond. “Are you real?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are
you
?”

“My name is Sara Lyndon—Blakemore.”

“My name is Joss Montague.” With a worried expression, he took a step forward. “Don’t disappear.”

“That’s my line.” She stepped down from the rock and moved a few steps closer to him. He was dressed the same. Among the trees and flowers he was even more like a romantic poet—or a Mr. Rochester. “Are you…are you a ghost?”

“I don’t know what I am. I think not, if you can see me and hear me.” He smiled and stretched his hand out to her. “And touch me.”

Sara recoiled inside, but he looked so vulnerable and hopeful that she couldn’t be afraid. “Promise you’re not an axe murderer?” she said.

His laughed and ran his hand through his hair. “Promise.”

She returned his smile. He was surely something ghostly, but he struck her as all muscle and hard angles, good bones, soulful dark eyes—something human. He had quiet charisma.
Inner beauty
. There really was such a thing.

“I’ll try to touch you,” she said.

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Touch away.” His sleeves were rolled back, exposing his forearms. “I doubt you’ll have a problem.”

“If I hadn’t seen you disappear on the stairs,” Sara said, “I’d think this was a joke. You seem so real.”

“I seem real. I guess that’s a comfort.”

She gripped his arm, but her hand made a fist and went through. He slipped out of her grasp like smoke—but his forearm was still there, intact, with the rest of him. “What the hell?” She backed away.