Eternally Yours (3 page)

He glanced back at her and she beamed at him. She had sunny California looks that seemed out of place in this old Victorian on the East Coast. He tried to return her smile but felt his lip twitch. The attempt must have looked ridiculous.

Turning back to the ceiling, he wondered what to make of her. She seemed kind of flaky--which didn’t surprise him with her being a creative type. His ex-girlfriend, Karen, had been an interior decorator and could get pretty eccentric at times.

The thought of Karen made him frown. After they’d split up, he’d promised himself a long break from women. Now, only a month and a half later, here he was getting worked up over another artsy type–another divorcee. He’d seen what sort of baggage came with that. After eight months of dating him, Karen had gone back to her ex-husband, a man she’d never had a good word about. The last thing he needed was another woman recovering from a marriage.

Lara walked around to his side and cleared her throat, obviously trying to get his attention. “It’s so strange that I was reading your ancestor’s poetry just last night and then today you walk into my house.”

“Hmm.” Purposely not meeting her gaze, he tried again to focus on the architecture of the room. The poet had always been a sore spot with him. As a child, he’d been disgusted that the

one famous person in his family had gotten that way writing sissy love poems. These days his opinion hadn’t changed much. He’d recently tried reading some of old Geoff’s work again and found it nauseating--especially after his experience with Karen. At the moment he wasn’t too enthusiastic about love.

“Do you feel a draft?” Lara rubbed her bare upper arms.

“Maybe a slight one.” He frowned. “That’s strange. When I ran outside, it seemed to have warmed up again.”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Anyway, I mentioned earlier how much I love Geoffrey Vereker’s poems. You must be very proud to be related to him.”

He made no comment.

“The vivid imagery he uses is what grabs me,” she went on. “For me, reading his poetry is something like what we were saying about reading old letters--like stepping into another world for a moment.”

She obviously didn’t realize her effusions were wasted on him, but he wasn’t about to tell her. He had no desire to dally here arguing with her about what constituted worthwhile reading. Her love of trite poetry only convinced him more thoroughly that she must be a bit of a flake.

Glancing around, he said, “Well, I guess I’ve seen most of the parlor. Shall we move on to another area?”

“Oh. Sure.” She went to one of the window seats and retrieved her iced tea. Her legs were slender and beautifully shaped, but he forced his thoughts on what she was doing. He noted that the padded surface of the seat didn’t seem like the safest place to keep a drink. If she spilled sugary tea all over the antique wood, she’d have a real mess to deal with.

He turned toward the back of the room, where a set of pocket doors stood partly open. “Do those lead to a second parlor?”

“Yes, and that’s the scene of my master plan.” She darted in front of him and gave him a wide grin. “My ex’s family always used this next room as a library. Unlike in here, most of the wood is painted with a thick caramel-like stuff that sucks up light like a sponge. But I plan to open up the space and convert it into a
real
art studio. Right now it serves as a makeshift version.”

“‘Open it up’?” The phrase put him on the alert. He wondered if she wanted to knock out any walls--not always a good idea in a house this old.

“Wait till you see what I have in mind.”

Grabbing hold of one of the pocket doors, she put all of her sparse weight into pulling it the rest of the way open. She smiled again. “Come on through to the studio.”

He followed her into the second parlor, where she motioned for him to join her at a large drawing table. As she rushed to push aside strewn layout papers and art books, he looked around the room, shocked by the mess.

Aside from the table and two wooden stools in front of it, the main furnishing was a large red couch, not old enough to be called antique but enough to have grown shabby. A scarred end table beside it held a lamp that had also seen better days. Two of the walls sported built-in bookcases coated with the dark varnish she’d complained about. About half the shelves held books, while the remainder overflowed with tubes of paint and other art supplies.

On the far wall, a pair of floor-to-ceiling windows stripped of treatments allowed sunlight to fall on an easel and a cluster of canvases, the visible ones primed but unworked. Stained drop cloths littered the floor, and occasional streaks of pigment had escaped onto the light-and-dark parquet.

He could feel his blood pressure rising as he took in the disorder. Such a great house deserved far better care.

A familiar odor drifted to his nose, and he sniffed at the air. Recognizing the smell, he scowled. “You’re not using linseed oil in here, are you?”

She nodded. “I usually work in acrylics, but at the moment I’m also doing an oil painting. I figure I have plenty of time with the summer off from teaching.”

“My God, you could burn the place down.” He stooped and gathered up the rags. A year ago one of the most impressive houses in town had burnt to the ground in a fire that started due to the same sort of debris. “Linseed oil can heat spontaneously. You can’t leave these lying around.”

“Don’t worry.” Frowning, she took the rags from him and set them on the corner of the drawing table. “I know enough to dispose properly of oily rags, but I was in the middle of using these when you came to the door.”

He glanced around the room again. “Where’s the painting you were working on?”

“I have it in the closet at the moment.”

“That doesn’t seem like a good place to keep it.”

She clenched her teeth. “I’ll take it out when you and I are finished our interview.”

He didn’t care if he was annoying her. She obviously didn’t understand the value of a house like this, not only materially but historically. And if she didn’t see the light after living here for five years, he doubted he could explain it to her. Closing his eyes, he took his note pad and pen into one hand so he could massage his temples with the other.

“What is it--sinus headache?” she asked. “I may have something I can give you.”

“No, thank you,” he snapped. He tossed his things onto the area of the drawing table that she’d cleared. “Can we sit down and talk about your ideas for the room?”

She blinked at him but eventually took a seat.

As he pulled out the other stool, she slid a sketchbook from a corner of the table into the center. Her arm brushed up against his, and his skin tingled.

He nudged away, bothered that he could still be attracted to her now that he’d seen how careless she was. Again he was reminded of Karen. As far as his ex had been concerned, her interior decorating took precedence over any practical considerations, and in the end, she’d used the same lack of logic in personal decisions. From what he’d seen today he gathered that Lara Peale was cut from the same cloth.

“Since you don’t feel well, I’ll get straight to the point.” She flipped through her book to a draft of a floor plan. “Though the windows in here are large, the dark wood neutralizes the light. To make the room suitable for a studio, I’ll need virtually a whole wall of glass. What I plan is to knock out the outside wall, build a small addition, and line the new wall with French doors. Since the roof over the addition will jut out from the house, I’ll install skylights, too. Wait--I’ve got sketches of how I expect the end result to look.”

As she began searching through the pages again, he held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t bother. I’ll tell you right now that you can’t knock out an exterior wall. Frankly, I’m shocked you’d want to. Would you really sacrifice two original pocket windows for cheap contemporary doors?”

She pursed her lips. “I admit I had reservations, but, all considered, the need for serviceability won out. I’m not going to throw out the original windows. I thought I’d use them for something else.”

“Like when you’ve torn down a wall in some other part of the house?” He couldn’t prevent a note of scorn from seeping into his voice.

“Yes.” She stared at him for another moment, then looked down and snapped her sketchbook shut. “Well...you sound firm in your disapproval of the studio wall--the biggest of my ideas. Does that mean if I decide to go ahead with the plan, you won’t recommend me for the grant?”

“You
can’t
go ahead with the plan.”

Her focus shot back to his face, her blue eyes huge with apparent disbelief.

“Lara, this house is listed on the National Registry of Historic Places. The whole block is, in fact. You’re not permitted to change the facade. Since this is a corner lot, that wall faces a street, which makes it particularly important. I’m afraid you’ll have to limit your ideas to restoration and decoration.”

“Restoration and decoration?” She scrunched up her nose. “The place will look the same as it always has.”

“The same as it was
intended
, actually--with all the original splendor restored.”

“That’s not enough.” She sprang from her stool, revealing--much as he had feared--an artist’s temperament. “I need
change
.”

“There are plenty of things you can change in here--the paint, the carpeting, even the wood.” He got up and walked to the bookcases along the back wall. “Stripping these would do a lot to lighten the room.”

“Not enough.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she paced away from him then turned back. “Look, it’s clear that we can’t work together on this. I’m sorry I wasted your time. Forget about the grant.”

“Your getting the grant is almost a sure thing. This house would be an excellent investment for the society.”

“But only if I don’t build the addition?” She tapped her foot on the hardwood floor.

“You
can’t
build the addition, with or without us.” He gave her a hard look. “You’re not thinking of going ahead with the idea anyway?”

“That’s no concern of yours.”

“The local historical board has set guidelines for what can and cannot be done--”

“This house is
mine
,” she interrupted. “The historical board owns no part of it. They--or you, for that matter--have no say in what I do.”

He twisted his mouth, disappointed in himself. He should have approached this matter with more tact. At this rate she would never see his point. Adopting a tone of patience, he said, “Lara, I know you must understand that this house has historical significance, or you wouldn’t have contacted the society in the first place.”

“I’ve changed my mind about that.” She reached into the pocket of her shorts and drew out his card, glancing at the front. “Mark
Vereker
. I can’t believe you’re related to that wonderful poet.”

He snorted.
What nonsense
. He didn’t live up to that hack? For her to say so without reading a single chapter of his books proved how rash she was.

She held the card out to him. “Your ancestor would be ashamed of you. You have no vision whatsoever.”

Heat rose under his collar. He snatched the card away from her. “Well, I’d choose taste over vision any day. And if you consider old Geoff’s maudlin clichés visionary, that’s just an example of your lack of taste.”

As he pulled back his arm, his elbow hit the bookcase behind him. Though he barely jarred it, a book dropped from a high shelf and skimmed his head. Startled, he fell against the case with a thud. The case pivoted and ground along the floor, and he landed beside it on his rear end.

A hole had opened up in the wall--no, not a hole but an entrance. Unhurt but stunned, he lay staring into the doorway to an unlit hidden chamber. Cold air drifted out of it, adding an eerie quality to the discovery.

“Oh, my God.” Lara stooped next to him. “Are you all right?”

He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his attention anchored on the exposed opening. Peering into the darkness, he asked, “What is this?”

Lara stood slowly and took a step backward, as though she expected a monster to jump out and attack them. “I don’t know. I always thought the kitchen stairs were right behind that wall.”

He hoisted himself to his feet and brushed off the seat of his pants. Leaning through the doorway, he said, “It’s pitch black in here, though judging by the echo, there’s a fair amount of space. Amazing--we’ve found a secret room. Do you have a flashlight?”

“Not on me.” She hesitated. “Mr. Vereker–as long as you’re not hurt--I believe you were about to leave.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind a chance to see what’s in here.” He turned around and found no encouragement in her expression. Somewhat daunted, he added, “Even in my business, I don’t run across hidden rooms every day.”

She glanced toward the opening, rubbing her upper arms. “Why is it so cold in there? Do you feel that horrible chill?”

He shrugged. “Maybe it leads to a cellar or tunnel--which is why I don’t want to walk in without a light. Who knows what the footing is like? You must have a flashlight around here. Why don’t you go and get it?”

“Why don’t you just
go
?” she threw back.

He frowned. “You don’t really mean that, do you?”

“I’m afraid I do.” She pursed her lips. “You should be glad that you won’t need to spend any more time putting up with me and my terrible lack of taste. As I told you, I’m withdrawing my application for the grant. Now, I’m sorry about your head. I must have left that book sticking out when I put it back this morning.”

She bent to pick it up, and he glimpsed the cover. To add insult to injury, the book that had hit him was a volume of Geoffrey Vereker’s poetry.

Straightening back up, she looked him in the eye. “As long as you’re not hurt, I have to insist that you go.”

He matched her gaze for a long moment. “Listen, Lara, I know we have our differences, but can’t you look past them for five minutes and give me a chance to explore something as extraordinary as this?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m too busy to waste another five minutes.”

He looked away from her to the dark entrance next to him. The opportunity for him to get a peek inside was slipping away, but if she didn’t want him around, there wasn’t much he could do. Now he wished more than ever that he’d presented his views about her house in a more diplomatic way.