Eternally Yours (8 page)

The book he’d given her still lay where Di had left it. Remembering that she’d never read his inscription, she stretched her arm out across the surface and slid it toward her.

Opening to the title page, she read what he’d written:

Dear Lara,

The reason I like writing so much is because it gives me time to think before I make a statement. If I could rewrite the words I spoke to you yesterday, I swear I’d come off sounding helpful instead of pompous.

Since I can’t, I can only apologize and hope you’ll accept this book--my attempt to prove that I can be circumspect on occasion. If the writing does nothing for you, I hope at least the photos will appeal to your artistic sense.

Sincerely,

Mark

She put her hand up to her mouth. The words seemed so sincere, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to excuse him, when his second visit to the house had ended as poorly as the first.

Getting up to clear the dishes, she thought about her own behavior toward him. Hadn’t she been just as stubborn about her views as he’d been about his? He had no way of knowing the studio meant so much to her. And his own feelings about his parents’ house had probably made him react badly to her ideas.

After loading the dishwasher she went back to the studio, but the room felt cold and lonely. She’d had enough isolation for one day. Maybe her silly fears of being haunted were signals that she’d passed the stage of needing space after her divorce. Having a social life didn’t sound quite so intimidating as it had six months ago. She wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted, but she knew she had to get out of the house today.

Deciding to go for a drive, she went to get her purse. On her way to the kitchen stairs she spotted Mark’s manuscript again. He’d made a gesture of apology to her after their first tiff. Maybe this time it was her turn. Though she was tempted to read the whole thing before giving it back, this seemed like the perfect time to stop by his place.

She hunted through her organizer for his business card to see if his address was on it. It was, and she recognized the name of the apartment complex. The converted schoolhouse always caught her eye when she drove by.

Fifteen minutes later she entered the vestibule at the building and searched the names above the rows of mailboxes. “M. Vereker” stood out quickly, and she pressed the buzzer above it.

After a minute the intercom speaker crackled to life. “Hello?”

His voice sounded gruff, as if he’d been interrupted. Until that moment she hadn’t felt nervous. Maybe she hadn’t thought he’d be home. Now that she had him on the intercom she wondered if he might be busy.

“Hi, Mark.” She moistened her lips. “It’s Lara Peale. I’ve got your manuscript.”

The pause that followed made her bite her lip.
I never should have come.

“Come up the stairs,” he said finally. “Turn right at the top. I’ll meet you in the hall.”

So he wasn’t going to ask her in. Feeling even more daunted, she took her time climbing the stairs.

The hall of the second floor still looked like part of an old elementary school. Emerging from the stairwell, she turned to the right.

Mark poked his head out of the first door, his expression bland. “It’s this one. Come on in.”

Though she’d received her invitation after all, he didn’t look happy about issuing it. She wished again that she hadn’t come but forced a smile as she stepped inside.

The smile wavered when a frowning redheaded woman stepped up beside him and gave her the once over. It was the obnoxious friend of the clerk at Town Hall! Today she wore a sleek burgundy-colored business suit, again with a short skirt. In comparison Lara felt like a frump in her paint-stained T-shirt and jeans.

Mark cleared his throat. “Lara, this is Karen Ridley.” He looked to the redhead. “Oh, I’m sorry. You said you’ve met, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” The woman glanced at him then looked back at Lara. “Suddenly we keep running into each other.”

“What a small world--or town, at least.” Lara looked back and forth between the two of them and got the feeling Karen was more than a friend. So he did have a girlfriend. Di would be disappointed. Strangely, she was, too. She supposed it was because she didn’t like this woman.

“Karen was just leaving.” Mark stood holding the door open, his features stoic. It appeared the two of them weren’t on such good terms after, all. Maybe they were ex-lovers.

The redhead faltered for a second or two but eventually took the hint. She reached up to a shelf on the wall and grabbed a clutch purse that matched the color of her suit to a tee. Walking to the door, she said to Mark, “I’ll drop off that shirt of yours soon.”

“Whenever.” He pressed his lips together.

She looked to Lara, her cat-like green eyes narrowing into slits. “Have a nice day, Ms. Peale.”

“You, too,” she murmured, her composure broken.

Mark shut the door as soon as the woman had exited. For a moment he didn’t turn around.

“I get the feeling I came at a bad time,” Lara said.

He let out a sigh but still wouldn’t look at her.

“Did you and Karen, um...once have a thing?”

He turned around and gave her a smirk. “You guessed it.”

        She felt a little sick to her stomach--and more awkward than ever. Judging by his behavior, he seemed to be carrying a torch. She swallowed. “Maybe I should go.”

“No, it doesn’t matter.” He glanced at her, then walked past, looking at the floor.

“Here.” She held the envelope out to him. “I had another errand in town today, so I brought this with me.”

“Thanks.” He made another face, not quite a grimace but not a smile either. Taking the manuscript, he said, “You didn’t have to bring this by. I was going to print out another copy.”

“Oh.”

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, then he said, “Can I make you a cup of coffee?”

“Are you sure I’m not intruding? If you’re in the middle of something, I’ll go.”

He shook his head, tossing the package onto a small bistro table that fit snugly into the wide front hall. Across from the table an archway opened, the edge of a refrigerator showing around the corner. He stepped into the kitchen, out of her view. “I owe you a cup of coffee.”

Not exactly an entreaty for me to stay
, she thought, inching farther into the hall. He obviously hadn’t gotten over that Karen person.
Why am I even here?
A guy hooked up with that bitch couldn’t be the saint Di described.

On the other hand, maybe he’d have to be.

While he fixed the coffee, she scanned the towering walls in the front hall. Beside her hung a group of black-and-white photos, apparently shot in Paris in the nineteen-twenties or so. She moved forward to look at a larger print above the table and recognized Van Gogh’s “Cafe Terrace/Night.” Peeking into the kitchen, she admired the retro decor. Evidently Mark had varied tastes. She’d thought his place might look something like a Victorian museum.

“I’m surprised you came over. You could have just called.” Standing at a small counter between the sink and stove, he scooped ground coffee into a filter. A prolonged view of his backside led her to decide he looked best in jeans.

“I knew I would be in the neighborhood.” She sat down in one of the two chairs at the bistro table. Her statement, she told herself, was basically true. She
lived in
the neighborhood.

“Yeah?” He switched on the coffee maker and turned toward her. “What errands are you running today?”

“Besides bringing you your manuscript? Well, I’ve got to pick up a few things at the supermarket. I’m not good at keeping the fridge stocked. I end up having to hit the grocery store every other day.”

He walked over to the table and took a seat across from her. “Did you get everything on your agenda done yesterday?”

It was a strange question for him to ask, but her mind wandered before she pointed that out. She stared at a pair of unlit tapered candles between them, pushed off-center by his manuscript. A napkin holder and two coasters added to the cluttered surface. Wondering if he’d often made dinner for Karen here, she said, “Yes, I had to get a prescription for my mother and...do a couple other things. Believe it or not, I even have the kitchen floor completely uncovered now. All I need to do is move the dinette set back.”

As soon as she’d spoken, she worried that he might think she was fishing for help from him--which she by no means wanted. She’d find a way to take care of the table on her own. She added, “My friend Diane has promised to help me do it.”

“Karen mentioned she saw you in Town Hall,” he said, practically on top of her words. A hard edge had crept into his voice.

Had Karen told him about the building permit? She really was a bitch.

On the slim chance that he didn’t know, she decided not to volunteer the information. Luckily she’d had more than one errand at the office. “Yeah, I stopped to pay my property taxes.”

The coffee maker let out a discordant sputtering, as if protesting her half-truth. Breaking their shared gaze, Mark got up and went into the kitchen. His silence gnawed at her, and she raked her brain for another topic to talk about.

She cleared her throat. “I hope you don’t mind, but I read some of your manuscript this morning.”

For a long moment she heard only the tinkling of a spoon stirring in a china cup. At last he said, “Why should I mind? That’s the reason I brought it over there.”

Though his voice remained tense, she reached for the envelope and pulled the manuscript out onto the table. Flipping through the pages, she looked for a phrase she had particularly liked.

He returned carrying two large cups and saucers in a style made especially for cappuccino. Jaw clenched, he handed her one of the sets. “Milk, no sugar, right?”

She nodded, impressed that he’d noticed and remembered. Balancing the cup and saucer, she thought he must be an unusual guy. She regretted having to be evasive with him, but she doubted he’d have been happy if she had been frank.

“Lara, did you apply for a building permit?”

Damn it, Karen did tell him--of course.
Poised to sip her coffee, she looked up at him. She didn’t like the way he soared above her, staring down his nose. “Mark, I see no point in talking about that with you. I don’t want to start another argument.”

“Are you saying you did apply for it?”

“I’m saying I don’t want to discuss it.” She tried her coffee. The flavor was mellow, the temperature perfect. Too bad their conversation couldn’t follow suit.

He stepped toward the other end of the hall, where two armchairs faced what must have been the living room. His back to her, he asked, “So why didn’t you say that before, instead of making up that lie about property taxes?”

“I didn’t lie. I did pay my taxes yesterday. I didn’t mention the permit because I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

He wouldn’t meet her gaze or speak, but he turned part-way around and leaned his back against the wall.

She set down her cup and saucer. “It’s none of your business, anyway.”

“Maybe not...but you know how I feel.”

She frowned to herself. That damned studio wall seemed to mean so much to him that she actually felt a pang of guilt--but what could she do? None of the other rooms in the house were bigger or brighter.

Sighing, she asked, “Well, do you want to hear what I thought of your writing or not?

“I don’t know. I’m not in the best mood right now.” He shook his head. “No, I think it would best for us to talk some other time.”

She took a deep breath, trying not to feel affronted. After all, he hadn’t asked her to drop in today, and his ex-girlfriend’s visit had clearly upset him. Then again, he didn’t have to take his bad feelings out on her.

Standing slowly, she said, “All right, but I don’t know when. I can’t promise you anything.”

His eyes constricted. He looked so annoyed that she had to turn away from him. Tension hung heavy between them, almost like a third presence in the room.

She smoothed down her jeans, wondering why he was so mad. So she’d caught him at a bad time. Big deal. Nevertheless, she hated to leave on such a sour note.

“You write well,” she blurted. Her exasperation made her sound begrudging even though she meant what she said. “On a good day, you might even go head-to-head with your notorious ancestor.”

This time he definitely grimaced, looking off into the kitchen. “That idiot wrote nothing but tripe. His poems have nothing to do with real life. They’re a load of adolescent fantasies. He was a middle-aged Romeo.”

Clearly her effort hadn’t helped. Now she had no choice but to leave. As she pushed her chair under the table with a squeaking noise, a sudden coldness descended on her. She shivered and heard the cups rattle in the saucers. Hers turned over, flooding the surface with coffee.

“My manuscript!” Mark sprang forward and scooped up the scattered papers. He held the bundle away from his body, dripping milky coffee onto the hardwood floor. “Damn it, Lara. This is a mess, completely ruined.”

“
I
didn’t do it!”

“Right. Then who did?” He ducked into the kitchen and stepped on the pedal of a flip-open trash can, dropping his work in among the coffee grounds.

Her heart sank at the sight.

“The cup just turned over.” She felt helpless to defend herself, especially since she didn’t want to mention the eerie cold she’d felt as evidence of another culprit. Surely there couldn’t be ghosts at both her place
and
Mark’s. She had to be imagining things. “There was some kind of vibration. Maybe a helicopter flew over the building.”

“Whatever.” He snatched up a sponge from the sink and blotted the table. Excess liquid ran off the sides.

“Can I help?” she asked, embarrassed. Looking like a guilty party made her feel almost as bad as being one, and she
had
been next to the table when the spill happened. She glanced around for a roll of paper towels but didn’t see one.

“I’ll handle it.” He picked up the cup, and she saw that the side was cracked. “I don’t think you know how to care for things of value. You’ve demonstrated that more than once.”