Carla Neggers - The Carriage House

He heard someone breathing, gulping in air in the dark.

"Tess?" He pointed his bright arc of light at her kitchen steps, moved it back toward the lilacs. "Tess, are you out here?"

His light caught her in the face as she stood in the overgrown grass at the other end of the driveway. She blinked rapidly, blinded, and he lowered the flashlight.

"Oh, it's you." She choked a little as she spoke, then rallied. "Thank God. I didn't know who might be sneaking around out here. You heard me yell?"

He nodded, watching her closely. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Yes, fine."

She walked over to the steps, moving unsteadily, almost drunkenly, and sat, putting a hand on her upper chest, as if trying to still a wild heartbeat. She pushed her other hand through her short curls. She wasn't looking at him, didn't seem to be looking at anything.

Andrew switched off the flashlight, the light from the open kitchen door sufficient. "What's going on?"

"I was startled, and I yelled. Screamed my head off, actually." She cleared her throat and attempted a smile. "I found your cat."

"Tippy Tail?" He took another step toward her, still watching. She had strong, attractive features, nothing delicate or tentative about her. But she'd had a scare. He could see that. "Dolly will be pleased."

Tess nodded. "I hope my scream didn't wake her up."

He saw she was more pale than he'd thought, and her clothes were streaked with dirt and cobwebs. He noticed a scrape on her left wrist, another on her jawline. And more cobwebs in her hair.

He stood at the bottom of the steps and touched her jaw next to the scrape. She had soft, smooth skin. "The cat do this?"

She shook her head. "No, no," she said, her voice hoarse. Whatever had happened, she was stemming a shock reaction. Chattering teeth, trembling, rapid heartbeat. She looked as if she had every muscle in her body tensed to keep herself from jumping out of her skin. "I just fell. It was stupid. I heard the cat down in the cellar and went to investigate."

"At night? You're braver than I am. Old Tippy Tail would have been on her own if I'd heard her."

"I was afraid she was having her kittens, and I could hear her through the floorboards. She sounded awful." Tess pushed her hand through her short curls again, and for no reason he could think of, Andrew noticed her long, slender fingers. An artist's hands. "It's an old house. I can hear everything."

"I understand."

Her eyes lifted, focusing on him for the first time. Her smile, although still tentative, seemed genuine, her nerves less rattled. "I know about the house's history. I refuse to be scared, let myself get creeped out. When I heard the cat, I went around to the bulkhead." She pointed to the back of the house, as if to remind herself what she'd done, how it had made sense at the time. "There's a trapdoor inside, but I'm not sure it's safe."

"I've seen that trapdoor. I wouldn't want to go that way either." Andrew sat on the step next to her; she smelled as if she'd been rolling around in a hun-dred-year-old dirt cellar. "I don't imagine the bulk-head's much better."

She almost managed a laugh. "So I discovered. Tippy Tail had lodged herself way back in the old dirt cellar. I tripped over some junk and fell."

"That's when you yelled?"

She averted her eyes, and they took on a faraway look, as if she were back down in the cellar, falling in the dark. She blinked a couple of times, focused again on him and forced a smile. "Yes. I kept thinking about snakes. It was ridiculous."

Not so ridiculous in an old dirt cellar, but Andrew decided Tess didn't need him to confirm her worst suspicions. "Hurt yourself?"

"Not really. I'm afraid I scared off your cat, though. I have no idea where she is."

"She hadn't had her kittens?"

Tess shook her head. "No. Just as well. Next time I'll leave her alone."

"Tippy Tail's a survivor. She'll be fine."

"I hope so."

She started to her feet, calmer now, but there was little improvement in her color. She was still pale, shaken from her encounter with Tippy Tail. Andrew followed her up. As she started to turn to go inside, she winced suddenly and grabbed his arm, steadying herself.

"Sorry." She still held on tight. Andrew didn't move, let her gain her balance. "I forgot-I took a pretty good hit on my side." Her grip relaxed slightly, but she didn't let go. "I'm okay."

"Maybe you should come back to my house." An-drew's voice was quiet, and he tried to sound sensible, not dictatorial. Tess Haviland didn't seem the type to want anyone to swoop in to the rescue. "I can make you a cup of tea, and you can see if you discover any more aches and pains."

"I really did take a tumble." She smiled, but he could see the pain in her eyes. But she shook her head. "Thanks, but I've got chamomile tea inside. I'll make myself a cup."

"Okay, but I wouldn't be much of a neighbor if I left you before you're steady on your feet. Come on, I'll fix you that chamomile tea."

She released her grip on his arm, managed a quick nod. She seemed appreciative, not as if she'd given in. "That'd be nice."

They went into the kitchen, and when the light hit her full in the face, Andrew saw just how pale and shaken she was. A spill in an old, dark cellar would throw anyone off, but he suspected there was more. A ghost, perhaps. Tess Haviland didn't strike him as someone who'd want to admit she'd turned shadows into a ghost and screamed bloody murder. She'd probably rather there was a real ghost instead of something she'd conjured up.

She withdrew a cell phone from the pocket of her warm-up pants and placed it on the counter, her hand shaking visibly, even if at this point just from adrenaline. She limped silently into the bathroom. She left the door open, and Andrew heard water running and a string of muttered curses. Whatever else, she had guts. Damned if he'd go into that cellar in the dark after a cat.

He used her shiny camp pot and put water on for her tea. "Mind if I use your phone? I should call Harl, tell him what's going on before he calls in the troops."

"Of course. Please."

She emerged from the bathroom. Her face was scrubbed, her hair pushed back and wet. Some color had returned to her cheeks. And her eyes, Andrew saw, seemed even a bit brighter.

"I imagine your fantasies of owning a nineteenth-century carriage house didn't include washing cobwebs off your face."

"I'm not sure I had any fantasies about this place. I guess Ike thought he was doing me a favor. Go ahead, call Harl."

But Andrew was staring at her. "Ike?"

She sighed. "I assumed you knew-because you live next door, I suppose. I did some work for the Beacon Historic Project early last year and the year before. Ike hired me. I'm a graphic designer in Boston. He transferred the carriage house to me as payment. Maybe it was a whim, I don't know. He took off right afterward, and I haven't heard from him." She leaned against a counter, as if to steady herself. "But go ahead and call Harl, if he'll be worried."

Andrew dialed his number. Harl didn't wait for him to speak. "All clear?"

"Yeah. She fell in the cellar chasing Tippy Tail."

"Damn cat," Harl said, and hung up.

"That was quick," Tess said.

"Harl hates phones."

The water came to a boil, and Andrew poured it into a mug, dangled in a strong-smelling chamomile tea bag and handed the tea to Tess. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yes." She smiled over the rim of the steaming mug, the heat adding color to her cheeks. "Thanks."

He glanced at the camp she'd set up. Even with her lilacs in a mason jar, it looked rough. "Look, I've got a couple of spare bedrooms at the house. If you're injured, you don't want to spend the night on the cold floor."

"Thanks, but I'll manage. To be honest, I haven't decided if I'm going to keep this place. That's why I'm up here for the weekend, seeing if being here will help me make up my mind."