John Saul - Nathaniel

Ryan groaned. "Oh, God. She'll kill me, Aunt Janet."

"Quite possibly she will," Janet agreed, keeping her voice implacable, unwilling to let the children see her amusement. "But before she gets the chance, I want an explanation for all this. Otherwise, you can all work naked for the rest of the afternoon, and go home the same way. Is that clear?"

The three boys nodded mutely and headed for the bathroom. Janet Hall waited until she heard their anguished screams as the icy water began sluicing the latex paint from their skins, then went thoughtfully down the stairs.

She, too, had been under the window, and she had heard the conversation that had led to the paint fight.

"You were talking about Nathaniel," she said. Though her eyes were on Michael, Ryan and Eric were clear in the periphery of Janet's vision. Michael nodded, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Eric echo the gesture. Ryan, however, suddenly looked worried.

"Ryan was teasing Eric about being afraid of ghosts," Michael said. "And then-well, it just sort of happened. It wasn't anyone's fault, Mom. We all started it. I just wanted to find out if anyone else heard the story Grandpa told me last night. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Janet assured him. "Except that I think it's time you understood that it's only a story. All of it."

"Grandpa says-" Ryan began, but Janet didn't let him finish.

"Your grandfather told us a revolting story last night, and I'm sure very little of it is true. The whole idea of that poor woman doing what your grandfather says she did is disgusting, and probably nothing like it ever happened. And as for ghosts, there are no such things, as all of you well know."

"Then why did Grandpa tell it to us?" Michael asked.

"Probably for a couple of reasons. Ghost stories are fun. Furthermore, a good ghost story can keep people off property where they're not wanted." She turned to Ryan and Eric. "When you two were younger, did you believe there were ghosts out here?"

Sheepishly, they both nodded.

"And did it keep you off Mr. Findley's property?" Again, they nodded. "Then it served its purpose, didn't it?" She focused her attention on Michael. "As for why your grandfather decided to tell it to you, I haven't any idea. But it seems to me you're a bit old for that sort of thing. If Mr. Findley doesn't want people on his property, certainly you don't need a ghost story to keep you away, do you?"

"But-but what if it's not just a story?" Michael pressed. "What if there really is a ghost out here?"

Janet saw the glance that passed between Ryan and Eric, and was sure her son had just lost a part of their respect. Michael himself, however, hadn't seemed to notice it. Instead, his large eyes were fixed seriously on her own. "There are no ghosts," she said. And yet, even as she said the words, she wondered if they were true. What about her own ghosts? What about the ghost of Mark that was beginning to haunt her? The doubts about him, the questions about him that were always nagging at the fringes of her mind, demanding answers? Weren't those ghosts? Wasn't she, herself, beginning to wonder what was real and what was not?

Resolutely, she banished her doubts from her mind, and reached out to squeeze Michael's shoulder. "There are no ghosts," she said once more. "There are ghost stories, but that's all they are. Just stories." Then, pointedly eyeing the paint that was quickly drying on the floor and windows, she left the three boys alone in Michael's room.

When she emerged from the house a few moments later, she found Laura and Anna on the front porch, Laura bent over as if she'd been whispering into her mother's ear. Seeing Janet, she straightened up and smiled, but there was a falseness to her expression that wasn't lost on Janet.

"Has something else gone wrong?" Janet asked, her voice anxious.

"Heavens, no," Anna assured her. "I was just telling Laura not to overdo, that's all. But I'm afraid it doesn't do much good. Sometimes she digs in her heels, and it seems like she's trying to work herself to death. Do you suppose you could find some of that lemonade we had with lunch?"

"I'll look," Janet replied. She went back into the kitchen and found the last of the lemonade, though there was no ice. Still, she rinsed out a glass, filled it with the warm liquid, and started back toward the front porch. Once again, Laura was whispering into Anna's ear, and when Janet made a deliberate sound, there was something furtive in the manner in which Laura looked up. Furtive and frightened. Somehow, Janet had the feeling that it had something to do with the conversation that she and Laura, along with Ione Simpson, had overheard earlier.

The conversation about Nathaniel.

She handed Laura the glass of lemonade.

"You believe that crazy ghost story, don't you?" she asked as Laura raised the glass to her lips.

As the color drained from Laura's face, the glass shattered on the floor of the front porch.

Laura Shields was still upset by Janet's accusation. That evening, when she eased her ungainly bulk into the chair that was normally reserved for her husband, she smiled apologetically, hoping Buck wouldn't question her about the nervousness she'd been unable to cover. "I guess maybe I overdid it a little bit today. Women in my condition shouldn't try to paint shutters."

Buck looked up from the paperwork he'd been poring over, and his eyes suddenly hardened. "I told you not to try it. If anything happens to that baby, I guess you know whose fault it will be."

"But I wanted to help Janet with the house," Laura murmured. She settled herself in and sighed.

Buck smiled sourly, and his voice took on a sarcastic edge. "You're just like your mother-if you don't do it yourself, you don't think it'll be done right." He pushed his papers aside. "It never ceases to amaze me that there's a town here at all, considering you weren't even born 'til thirty-one years ago."

"It amazes me, too," Laura said, with careful placidity, determined not to rise to her husband's bait. She reached over to pick up the TV Guide , and felt a sudden twinge of pain in her abdomen. Frowning in spite of herself, she waited for the pain to pass, then completed the motion..

"Something wrong?" Buck asked.

"Don't be silly. What could be wrong?" With studied nonchalance, Laura opened the little magazine and began examining the listings. Another pain seized her, and this time she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. Now Buck rose to his feet, the hardness in his eyes dissolving into concern.

"Something is wrong."

"It's nothing," Laura insisted. "It's just something I ate. I've just got a little cramp, that's all."

"Cramp, or contraction?"

"I-I'm sure it's just a-" She jerked spasmodically as another pain shot through her, then, as it eased, she felt a spreading dampness on the chair beneath her. "Damn," she whispered. She looked up at Buck, her expression a mixture of sorrow, pain, and fear. "I'm sorry. I guess I really did overdo it today. You'd better call Dr. Potter." She began to lift herself out of the chair, but another sharp contraction forced her back.

"Ryan? Ryan!" Buck called, the urgency in his voice bringing his son out of the kitchen immediately. "Call Doc Potter, and tell him to get over here right away. The baby's coming."

"But it's not supposed to be-"

"Damn it!" Buck snapped. "Do as I say. Call the Doc while I get your mother upstairs." He slid his large hands under Laura's arms and eased her to her feet. "Can you make it, or shall I carry you?"

Laura took a tentative step, leaning heavily on Buck's arm. "I can make it," she assured him. "But if the baby's going to come tonight, don't you think I ought to go to the hospital?"

Buck ignored the question. "Let's get you upstairs."