Eternally Yours (18 page)

“I need to see it again so I can compare the handwriting to some other samples I’ve found. Can I come over?”

“Now?” She looked down at her crumpled clothes. The image of Karen’s crisp pastels flashed in her mind, and she hoped fervently that the woman had gone home.

“Yeah, if that’s okay,” he said. “If not, I’d like to do it

as soon as possible.”

“Are you alone?”

He hesitated briefly. “Yeah, why?”

“Never mind. But I can’t do it right this second.” If she was going to see him, she definitely needed to shower and change. “Can you give me an hour or so? I can come over there, if that’ll be easier.”

“Actually, that would be better. That’ll give me time to do some more research. I have some other things here that I’m eager to look through.”

“What sort of things?” she asked. “Books?”

“I’ll show you when you get here. But hurry--and don’t forget to bring the letter. I think you’ll be as excited as I am. See you in a bit.”

“I’ll see you,” she murmured.

He hung up.

Still stunned, she stared at the phone for another second before she pressed the “off” button. Then she remembered she only had an hour to make herself presentable. The effort might be futile, but she would try. She put down the phone and raced upstairs.

The fact that Karen had left so early seemed a promising sign, she told herself as she stripped off her dusty clothes.

Maybe the reunion hadn’t gone well, but if not, wouldn’t Mark have sounded depressed instead of excited? Their dinner could have ended early for any number of reasons. Karen might have had a meeting to attend or a plane to catch. Lara wondered what her rival did for a living.

Getting into the shower, she considered whether she should try working up the nerve to ask Mark directly about his relationship with his ex. She might not like the answer she got, but it was the only way to find out if she stood a chance with him.

She decided she would see if the apartment showed any evidence of a romantic evening. If so, she would come right out and ask what the story was.

Chapter 12

When Lara got into her car to go to Mark’s she was still wrestling with mixed feelings. Why on earth had she agreed to meet him without knowing whether or not he was back with Karen? If the couple had made up, she would be better off dropping his friendship than hanging around him, feeling rejected. She had never been the type to compete for a man’s affections. If the situation came down to that, she would concede defeat.

As she backed out of the driveway, she clung to her one token of hope: Karen’s early departure tonight. Because of that detail she had tried to look her best for this visit, digging out a form-fitting sundress she hadn’t worn in years. She doubted that the dress could still pass for stylish but knew that the pale yellow color flattered her. She looked far more cheerful

than she felt.

During the short drive to the other side of the borough, another problem bothered her. Mark had told her that he had a lead on “G,” but after the revelation she’d had about “G” being the ghost, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know more about him. Since she’d found out how much he’d hurt Mariah, she had come to dislike the man--and she certainly didn’t want to deal with him herself. If the spirit wanted something from her, she saw no reason why she should help him.

She parked outside the schoolhouse apartments and walked into the entrance hall. Clearing her throat, she pressed the intercom button.

“Hello?” Mark answered the buzzer.

“It’s me,” she said simply.

“Lara!” His voice still sounded excited. “You’re finally here. Come on up.”

If his dinner with Karen had gone wrong, he would be in a bad mood
, she thought again, remembering the first time she’d visited his place. That time seeing his ex had left him sulky and short-tempered.

She trudged up the single flight of stairs, bracing herself for what she might learn tonight.

“Hey!” He waited for her outside his apartment door, grinning widely. He had changed into clean jeans and a T-shirt, which he’d left untucked--unusual for him. His posture looked more relaxed than normal, too.

She had never seen him looking so happy before. All morning--with her--he had acted like a zombie.
He and Karen must have made up.

“Do you have the letter with you?” he asked.

“Yep.” She patted her purse.

“You look great.” Giving her dress a quick once-over, he ushered her into the wide foyer that also served as the dining area. For an instant his smile wavered. “You’re not going out later, are you?”

She was still recovering from his compliment, though the praise probably had more to do with his good mood than her looks. It was as if he were a whole different person tonight. “No, I just wanted to get out of those dusty clothes that I wore in the attic this morning.”

“Good, I’m glad you don’t have other plans. I want to be able to savor this occasion.” He gave her a mischievous grin and urged her ahead with a hand on the small of her back. “Come on through to the living room.”

Her curiosity stirred, but his light touch preoccupied her more. Spine tingling, she worried about his relationship with Karen. As they walked past the kitchen, she looked for signs of their dinner. The stove top was empty, and there were no dishes in the sink. She couldn’t even detect the aroma of food, but she noticed that the windows were open.

“What’s all this about?” she asked. As they entered the living room, she took in her surroundings. The contemporary furniture surprised her, more evidence of Mark’s varied tastes. Several impressionist prints--two Monets and a Van Gogh--decorated the tall walls. The hardwood floor gleamed with a new finish, set off by a thick, oval rug. A staircase on the inner wall led to an upper level.

“Before I tell you, can I see that letter again?” he asked. “I want to make sure I know what I’m talking about. Please have a seat, by the way.”

“Thanks.” She dug out the paper and handed it to him, then chose a plush love seat to settle down on.
Very comfortable
, she noted, leaning back into the cushions.

“It’s him, all right,” he said, looking at the letter. Bending down next to the coffee table, he slid a large cardboard box out from under it and pulled out some yellowed documents. Sitting down next to her, he held out one of the sheets, alongside of the letter from “G.” “Take a look.”

The paper he’d found was filled with handwriting that matched that on the letter perfectly. She stared at the sheet in amazement--and with some trepidation. “Where in the world did you get that?”

“My parents’ house.” Eyes sparkling, he paused, as if for dramatic effect. “It’s an original copy of an essay Geoffrey Vereker wrote.”

“Geoffrey Vereker?” She let her jaw drop. Her favorite poet was the ghost?

Of course he is
, she realized immediately. She remembered that the idea had occurred to her when they’d first read the letter Mariah had left in the secret room. Thinking about how often she’d had the urge to read the Victorian’s poetry lately, she shuddered. Did the ghost have some sort of influence over her? Had she subconsciously picked up on his identity?

A horrible sense of personal invasion engulfed her. Could she get away from him at all?

“I can’t believe that you actually guessed his identity the other night.” Mark grinned at her. “Remember--when we learned from Mariah Sulley’s letter that ‘G’ was a poet, and you wondered if he might be Geoff? I have to apologize now for laughing at the time. I still can’t imagine how you figured it out. Maybe there’s something to be said for women’s intuition.”

She put her hand up to her mouth, staring into space.

“Why do you look so shocked?” He set both papers down on the coffee table. “Aren’t you going to gloat about your insight?”

“I don’t dare.” She met his gaze, her lower lip trembling. “The creepy thing is that earlier today, after you left, I worked out that ‘G’ is the ghost. That means your ancestor is the one who’s been haunting us.”

His smile disintegrated into a grimace. “I’ve told you there’s no ghost.”

“But the pieces are all coming together now: why the strange happenings started when you and I met, why he’s been at both of our places. Geoffrey Vereker is your ancestor, and he has a connection with my house.”

He shook his head. “There are a couple of coincidences, but stranger things have happened.”

“No kidding. Stranger things have happened to
us
. Why, for example, did I get the urge to read his poetry the night before I met you?” As more thoughts bombarded her mind, she looked at him with wide eyes. “Mark, he’s the one who knocked his own book of poetry on your head--and led us to the secret room. He wants something from us.”

For a moment he stared at her, his expression blank. He leaned back on the love seat. If she hadn’t been in such a state of shock, his proximity would have unnerved her.

“I’m not saying you’ve convinced me,” he said, “but I have to admit you have some interesting points.”

“‘Interesting’ is not the word I’d choose. ‘Horrifying’ is more like it.”

“Now don’t let this freak you out unnecessarily.” He looked at her intently, his eyes full of concern. “You have to stop thinking like that.”

She swallowed. “I don’t like the idea of letting him get to me, especially when I know what he did to Mariah. But I’m not sure I can think of this experience as anything but horrifying.”

“Try to consider it an adventure. Ghost or no ghost, you and I are getting a fascinating glimpse into the past.” He motioned toward the box on the floor. “These papers all belonged to Geoff. Do you think you’re up for helping me take a look through some of them tonight?”

“I don’t know.” The idea scared the hell out of her, but did she really have a choice? If she didn’t try to find out what the poet wanted, he might not leave her alone.

Mark stood up. “I’ll get us a couple of drinks to relax us. Would you like some red wine?”

“Please.” She thought she might need a whole bottle. While he ducked into the kitchen, she sank back into the love seat. At least she wasn’t in this on her own. Mark had to figure prominently in the reason why all this was happening. She’d lived in her house for five years and before meeting him, there had never been any otherworldly incidents.

He came back with a bottle of shiraz and two goblets. She watched him pour with a steady hand. Accepting a glass from him, she wondered whether he was really as fearless as he appeared. Did he truly still believe the ghost could be explained away, or was he just trying to keep her from getting hysterical?

She sipped the earthy red wine and tried to emulate his calm demeanor. Letting the liquid loll on her tongue, she took in the smooth, dry taste. “This is good.”

“Thanks. The brand is nothing fancy, but it’s a favorite of mine.” He set his glass down on the table and dragged the box of papers out farther into the open. “I’ll say one thing for Geoff, he was prolific. His wife may have burnt his journals, but look at all the stuff that’s left behind.”

Leaning forward, she scanned the mound of ledgers, envelopes and loose papers. “Is all of that his writing?”

“No, there are also letters here written to him from other people.” He sat back down next to her and bent over the box, flipping though the contents.

His knee brushed hers, reminding her how close he was to her. What a difference from this morning when he’d kept to the opposite side of the attic. Apparently after Karen’s visit he’d gone beyond thinking of
her
as a temptation.

He pulled a leatherbound ledger from the pile and placed it in his lap. “My dad thinks we may find something juicy among all of this. He says that one of Geoff’s sons hid a lot of his father’s effects from his mother and didn’t return them to the family archives until after her death.”

“Can I look through the letters
to
him?” she asked. “Maybe if I don’t rummage through his personal writing, he’ll allow me some privacy, too.”

He smirked but didn’t argue with her, handing her a stack of correspondence.

As she read through the letters, she soon found that they proved far more absorbing than the ones from Mariah Sulley’s chest. Many of them were from fans of the poet, including females making barely disguised--and sometimes boldfaced--propositions to him. Lara wondered if Geoffrey had ever responded to the women, or even met some of them. If he hadn’t gotten some kind of kick out of these letters, she doubted he would have kept them.

She finished her glass of shiraz, and Mark poured her another. The wine soothed her and, though she couldn’t exactly enjoy the research, their findings intrigued her. Whenever she or Mark came across an interesting passage, they read aloud to each other. At first he chose most of his excerpts for a chance to make fun of his ancestor’s romantic phrasing, but after a while, the examples of “barbed wit” that he quoted outnumbered the ones he mocked.

Lara pulled a particularly well-preserved letter out of her stack. Her heart sank when she spotted a familiar “M” on the wax seal. Turning it over, she saw that it was addressed to “G.” She stared at it, reluctant to unfold the paper. “Here’s one from Mariah Sulley.”

Mark met her gaze, his features solemn. “Well, if there was any doubt left, that confirms the lovers’ identities. Should we read it?”

“I don’t know. I’d say no, but maybe we’re meant to. Can you do it?”

“Sure.” He took the letter and read out loud:

My dearest G,

Your pain is contagious. I suffer every pang

along with you, and I can no longer endure this anguish. Pray meet me at midnight tonight at the kitchen door to my house. I have the perfect retreat for us. You are likely unaware that prior to the Civil War my ancestors aided with the Underground Railroad. They built a secret room

into our house, and it still remains. My sisters and I played there as children, but for years the room has lain undisturbed. After the rest of the household has retired, this haven will serve us well.

Your own tormented M.