Copper Lake Secrets. Marilyn Pappano

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ key on its ring around his finger. “He can’t scare me too much,” he said mildly as he started across the patio to the road. “After all, he is dead.”

      Dead, but not forgotten, and still possessing the ability to frighten.

      At least, he could still frighten Reece.

      She watched until Jones had disappeared inside the cottage, wishing she could have claimed it for herself before Grandmother offered it to him. It was a miniature replica of the house, with a huge difference: it was memory-free and nightmare-free. Reserved for visitors, it had been off-limits to her and Mark that summer. At the moment it seemed the only safe place on all of Fair Winds.

      But Jones had it, so she was going to be stuck in the house where Grandfather had lived.

      And expected to go through his boxes, too. A shudder tightened her muscles as she recalled the one time she’d gone into his study. Only in the house a few days, she’d still been learning her way around, and Mark had told her that heavy dark door that was always closed led into a sunroom filled with beautiful flowers.

      There’d been nothing sunny or beautiful about the room. Dark drapes pulled shut, dark paneling, the thick, heavy smell of cigars and age, and Grandfather, glowering at her as if she’d committed an unpardonable sin. He’d yelled at her to get out, and she’d scurried away, slamming the door, to find Mark laughing at the bottom of the stairs. Grandmother had chastened her, and Valerie had, too, and she’d felt so lost and lonely and wanted her dad more than ever.

      Oh, God, she wasn’t sure she could do this, not even to find out what had happened those three months. Over the course of her lifetime, they added up to what? One percent of her time on this earth? Nothing. Inconsequential.

      Except the months did have consequences: the nightmares, the fear, the distrust.

      She breathed deeply. Across the drive, Jones came out of the cottage, climbed into his truck and drove away. She felt his leaving all the way to her bones. Aside from Lois, who must be Grandmother’s current housekeeper, there was no one left on the property but her and Grandmother.

      Not a thought to inspire confidence in a drama princess.

      Another deep breath got her across the patio and into the door. Dimness replaced bright sun; coolness replaced heat. Instead of pine, the lemon tang of wood polish drifted on the air, along with the aroma of baking pastry. A voice humming an old gospel tune came from the kitchen, ahead and to the right. Lois, Reece was sure. She’d never heard Grandmother hum or sing, had rarely seen her smile and couldn’t recall ever hearing her laugh.

      No wonder Daddy had left the first chance he got.

      She ventured farther along the hallway that bisected the house north to south. A glance through the first set of double doors showed the table in the formal dining room, set for two. Opposite was Grandmother’s study, a small room with airy lace curtains, a white marble fireplace and delicate-appearing furniture that looked hardly a year of its century-plus age.

      The rooms were small, the ceilings high, the furnishings mostly unchanged. A broad hallway, easily as wide as the rooms themselves, cut through in the middle from east to west. The stairs rose from this hall, and portraits of early Howards—and, in one case, an early Howard’s prized horse—lined the walls. None of Grandfather, Reece noted with relief. His memory was enough to haunt her. She didn’t need portraits, too.

      The salon was empty, the door to Grandfather’s office closed. Presumably Grandmother was upstairs. Readying a room for her? Gathering items Jones might need in the cottage? Or getting ready for the noon meal? After all, Howard women dressed for meals.

      Reece paused outside the study door. The house was oppressive. So many rules, so little laughter. Her father had loved to laugh. Elliott Howard hadn’t taken anything too seriously. He must have felt so stifled within these walls.

      She was about to go upstairs, left hand on the banister, right foot on the first tread, when a creak came from the study behind her. Another followed it, then more: the slow, steady sounds eerily similar to a person pacing. Her fingers tightened around the railing until her knuckles turned white, but she couldn’t bring herself to let go, to turn around and walk across the faded Persian rug to the door.

      It was probably Grandmother, looking for more papers for Jones, having thought better of the idea of trusting the search to her. If she’d wanted company, she would have left the door open; she would have—

      “Well, don’t just stand there. Either come up or get out of the way.”

      So much for the theory of Grandmother. The old woman was standing on the stair landing, hair brushed, makeup freshened, a string of pearls added to the diamonds she always wore.

      Reece glanced over her shoulder at the study door. The room was silent now. Just her imagination running wild. It always had, according to Grandmother. That girl lives in a fantasy world, she’d often complained to Valerie. Thinks she sees ghosts everywhere.

      Heard them. Reece had never seen a ghost. She’d simply heard them, and felt them.

      She loosened her grip on the banister and backed away as Grandmother descended the stairs.

      “Dinner is served promptly at 12:30. Supper is at 6:30. If you miss the meal, you fend for yourself—and clean up after yourself.” With an arch look, Grandmother passed her and headed for the dining room.

      Reece followed her and took a seat at the polished mahogany table as a woman about her mother’s age began serving the meal. There was iced tea in crystal goblets that predated the War, salad and rolls served on delicate plates her great-great-and-so-on grandfather had brought from France when he was still a sea captain in the early 1800s, roasted chicken and vegetables, and pie. Much more than the po’boy or muffuletta she usually had for lunch back home.

      The conversation was sporadic, nothing more interesting than general comments about the weather or the food. It was ridiculous, really, to chitchat about nothing when they hadn’t seen each other in so long, but Reece was no more eager to have a serious conversation than Grandmother was willing to break her dinnertime rules.

      It would have been nice, though, to have been greeted with a little more pleasure—a hug, a kiss, an I’m happy to see you. Valerie didn’t have much patience with her, but even she managed that much every time they met.

      Finally, the meal was over and Grandmother, taking her tea along, led the way into her study. It was the brightest, airiest room in the house, but it was stifling in its own way. The furniture was uncomfortable, and Grandmother didn’t relax her rules there. A settee that didn’t invite sitting, spine properly straight, chin up, ankles crossed and Grandmother with her own rigid posture didn’t invite confidences or intimacy.

      Grandmother had apparently exhausted her store of chitchat and went straight to the point. “All these years, all those invitations you turned down or ignored, and suddenly you show up without so much as a call. What changed your mind?”

      She could claim tender feelings, but Grandmother wouldn’t believe her. Reece had always tried to love her; weren’t grandmothers supposed to be important in a girl’s life? But loving someone who constantly criticized and lectured and admonished … Fearing Grandfather had been easy. Feeling anything for Grandmother hadn’t.

      Reece gave a simple, truthful answer. “Curiosity.”

      “Curiosity killed the cat.”

СКАЧАТЬ