Nicole Young: Love Me If You Must

I weighed the idea of asking David Ramsey in beyond the vestibule. It would be neighborly of me, and it couldn’t hurt to get off to a good start. The guy didn’t have fangs, after all.

“Would you like to come in a minute?” The words rushed out before I could stop them.

He gave a nod. “I haven’t been inside this house for some time. I’m curious to know what you have planned for the place.”

That accent again. I refused to swoon.

I opened the inner door and led him through the parlor, past the tiger-oak fireplace. I couldn’t wait to take a bottle of wood restorer to its carved pillars. The front stairs twirling off to one side would get the same treatment.

I trekked through the dining room, doing my best to be hospitable. “I’d offer you something to eat, but I’m afraid you’d remember where it’s been. And the only thing to drink is water from the faucet. Are you up for a little arsenic poisoning?”

I set the paper bag on the kitchen counter and turned to face my guest.

“You’re thinking of the township wells,” he said, leaning against the refrigerator as if he belonged there. “The village water tests pretty good, actually.”

“I’m not taking any chances. I think I’ll stick to my Evian.”

I pulled a bottle out of the bag and twisted off the cap. I’d already ordered the oversize jugs of water and accompanying dispenser that would help cut down on throwaways. I didn’t splurge too many places, but fresh water was nonnegotiable.

I offered my guest the first sip.

“No, no. Really. I just came over to introduce myself.”

His accent had me captivated. As did his khaki slacks and burgundy sweater. I wondered if the cashmere was as soft as it looked. My palm itched, but I controlled the urge to find out.

I sighed. Here was the kind of distinguished guy I’d pegged for myself lo those many years ago when life had been ahead of me instead of down the drain. The kind of guy I’d hoped to meet in college and one day marry.

“Don’t tell me,” I ventured, “you’re an engineer.”

He smiled and scratched the back of his head, seemingly shy. “Close. Computers, actually.”

I set my water on the counter and reached for his hand. “Tish Amble.”

“Nice to meet you.” He glanced around. “Will your moving van be arriving soon?”

“Moving van? No. I always rent my furniture. Never made sense to buy a set and then not have it match the next house.”

At his look of puzzlement, I explained. “Houses are my living. I fix them up and sell them. There’s usually enough money left after I pay off the contractors to put a little food on the table, then do the whole thing over again.”

His eyes roved the kitchen. I followed his gaze to the bank of floor-to-ceiling cupboards against one wall. The built-ins were one of my favorite features, though they made the room too small for today’s families.

“So, what are your plans?” David asked, turning to look at me.

I forced myself not to stare at the fullness of those British lips. “Well, I’d like to put a rec room in the basement, I’m thinking about bumping this wall out to make more space in the kitchen, I want to link the library and drawing room to make a master bedroom suite, and upstairs there’s just a whole lot of ugly that needs a facelift.”

He broke into a charming grin. “Well, watch you don’t disturb the ghosts.”

Ghosts? Was he serious?

I’d hoped to get a good night’s sleep after my grueling day, and probably would have before he mentioned ghosts.

I chewed my lip. I couldn’t blame any loss of sleep on David. I’d always known it was only a matter of time before the ghouls that lay in wait came to do their haunting.

There are no such things as ghosts, I singsonged in my mind a little while later as I climbed the back stairs from the kitchen to the second story. The dashing David had stayed only a few minutes, but his off-the-cuff comment had stuck to my brain like ectoplasmic slime. Only the British could talk about ghosts as casually as they would a visiting relative.

I paused under the light of a dim bulb to assess the work ahead. The narrow staircase would need fresh wallpaper in a neutral design. The foil-flower look had to go. And the creaking steps could use a few more screws to hold down the noise. After I stripped the old finish and gave the wood a good sanding, I’d add a fresh coat of polyurethane and the passage would be good as new.

I reached the top and faced the long run of hallway that made a left-hand turn up ahead, then emptied onto the front stairs. Each open doorway looked suspiciously like a jack-in-the-box, with a surprise waiting to pounce out of the blackness beyond the threshold.

I gave a quick look down the back stairs to be sure no one followed, then launched ahead, disgusted with myself for feeling so afraid when I knew I was alone in the house. And, please, if someone had followed me up the back stairs, wouldn’t I have heard every creaking step?

Unless that person was a ghost.

“Tish, stop it!” I growled at myself in the silence. “No such thing as ghosts. No such thing as ghosts.”

I pressed my back against the uneven plaster of the hallway, praying for calm even as my racing blood threatened to burst vessels.

“Please take away my fear,” I whispered. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it, that after all these years I quit expecting the ghost of my grandmother to reach through the wall and choke the breath from me?

At the thought, I leapt across the hallway, hands to my throat. I looked back at the place I had just stood. No ghostly arms. No stranglehold. Only dust from a crack drifting to the floor where I had disturbed the air with my display of faithlessness.

I dropped to my knees on the worn carpet runner and buried my head in my arms, hoping to blot out the guilt. I took a deep breath to calm myself and ended up hacking on dust mites.

With a sniffle, I lifted my head and called out to the ceiling, “I won’t go back there.”

I wiped the tears defiantly from my cheeks and stood up. If I couldn’t hold it together better than this, I’d better sell the place now before I went stark-raving mad.

Maybe I should have taken some time to relax in Cancun, like Jan Hershel, the unaccounted-for wife of the previous owner, surely was. I could be soaking in rays of sunshine right now instead of inhaling dirt and fending off nonexistent spooks.

One week would do the trick.

I pulled at my hair to get the temptation out of my mind.

I couldn’t abandon my goal even for a moment. How long would this house stay standing without my loving touch? Who else would spend the time and money to restore it to its former youth and beauty?

Besides, I’d forked over a generous down payment, with just enough set aside to live on while I made improvements. I couldn’t afford to be afraid.

I squared my shoulders and poked my head into the rear bedroom. Paint, updated flooring, and new windows were pretty much all it would need. Satisfied, I continued my tour. I pulled out a pocket notebook and a golf pencil I’d found in a parking lot to note minor details along the way.

Sometime later, I caught myself squinting to see the pad and realized the day’s halfhearted sunshine had faded to dusk. Task complete, I flicked a switch to light up the front stairs and made my way back to the kitchen.

Hunger hit at the smell of room-temperature salad that had managed to permeate the air during my two-hour foray upstairs. In my freak-out over the Brit’s mention of ghosts, I had forgotten to put my supper in the fridge. I ran to the bag sitting on the counter and stuck in my nose. A fly, annoyed with my intrusion on its private feast, buzzed past my cheek toward the light over the sink. My stomach gave a gurgle of complaint. I crumpled the bag.