One Last Time (3 page)

An incredibly handsome man introduces himself and his wife to me. His name is Austin Phinney. He graduated from Cornell. Just my luck; I am afraid he is going to ask me questions about the university. He and his wife do make a striking couple. Her name is Brianna, and she’s beautiful like Steffi, except more glamorous. She’s soft-spoken and doesn’t say much. She just smiles a pretty, soft smile. I heard Austin tell someone she is an opera singer. I figure it’s a good idea to ask her about it, to defer the Cornell questions.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” someone says. I turn to the doorway, thrilled at the interruption and extremely thankful the last two guests have finally arrived. Now we can eat. My heart skips a beat. I am looking at the most gorgeous face I have ever laid eyes on. The guy can’t be much older than me, maybe a couple of years. He is hot, oh so hot. The only tanned bodies I’ve seen that bronzed are the lifeguards at the public pool, and I am sure I’ve never seen Mr. Silver Eyes perched up on one of those towers before. Heat wraps around my neck like a woolen scarf. I’m blushing, and I hope he doesn’t notice.

Mr. Brackett tugs at his necktie. Either he tied that thing way too tight or he’s not as pleased with his new guest as I am. “Is Mrs. Kendrick with you?” He asks.

“Sorry, no,” the guy says. “My grandmother regrets she is not able to attend with me tonight.”

He talks properly and he’s polished. I can’t compete with that so maybe I should hide in the kitchen with Mike and stir the bisque.

Mr. Brackett has broken out in a full-on sweat and is rubbing the back of his neck nervously. As we gather at the table, I realize what has him uptight. Without Mrs. Kendrick, we are left with thirteen for dinner. My stomach flip-flops. I find an interesting pattern on the carpet to trace with my stiletto. I don’t belong at this party, so if I leave, there would be twelve guests, and all would be well.

“Dinner is served.” Mike’s announcement draws my attention from the faded rug. Mr. Brackett is looking at me as if I am a curse. I want to bolt, but Austin Phinney has just pulled out my chair for me, so I sit. He and his wife take their seats to my left. On my right are Phyl and Jason Atienza. From everything they are saying, it seems they have made their fortune in a multilevel vitamin business. Phyl is a good advertisement for their industry. She is in excellent shape for having four kids. Jason has curly hair and the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. I wonder if his face ever hurts from grinning all the time. Across the table, to my left, are flirtatious Regina and her henpecked husband. Next to them are Mary Elizabeth and Peter Butler. They are Texas oil tycoons and the oldest couple here. Peter is loud, obnoxious, and drinks too much. He gives Regina a run for her money. The last couple at the table is Tony and Emma Chizzam. Tony is a beefy ex-professional football player. The Chizzams are conservative, born-again Christians, and have made it clear they do not believe in ghosts. But Emma looked a tad nervous a few minutes ago when Peter Butler loudly disclosed the horrid history of this place.

The hot guy takes the chair directly across from me. It’s then our eyes meet for the first time. I can’t help notice a twinkle inside his steel-gray eyes. Maybe he’s pleased because there is someone else at this strange dinner who is close to his age. Or the sparkle in his eyes could be because he thinks I’m pretty. After all, Mike said I looked beautiful and French. Austin notices our inspection of each other and promptly introduces me. “This is Makayla, our esteemed host’s niece. She is heading to Cornell next month.”

“Quillan Kendrick.” He grins, using only one side of his mouth and nods. “Nice to meet you, Makayla.”

I smile, yet dare not say anything. Darn my deep Southern accent. No matter how hard I try, I won’t sound as educated as he does, so I choose to remain mysterious, aloof, and French.

Mike is prompt with the service. He has long since cleared away the bisque and salad. Now he’s placing the main course on the table. He gives me a slight wink as he places filet mignon in front of me. I think the big-boobed Regina noticed. She gives me a wry look as she pops a baby carrot into her mouth. Other than that tiny infraction, dinner has gone off without a hitch. Everyone is making small talk and seems to be enjoying themselves. From the conversation at the table, I’ve figured out that Mr. Brackett intends to buy this property for some sort of boarding school. He sent out several business proposals, looking for investors. The people here tonight must be the ones who showed interest.

The wind is howling outside. The forecasted storm has arrived. A loud thunderclap shakes the room, reminding me I should be utterly frightened. Yet, the unexpected arrival of Quillan, along with the delectable meal, has nearly chased my apprehensions away. We have just finished our crème brûlée, and I have to stop myself from picking up my dish and licking it clean. Mike is pouring an expensive bottle of port. I am surprised when he pours some into my glass. I’ve never drank before. I’m underage and he knows it, but he fills my glass.

Mr. Brackett lifts his goblet for a toast. “To this historical home. May the vision I have erase the dark past and bring a bright future.”

The clinking sound of glass fills the room as we toast. I take a big swig of the fine Port and choke. How could this be expensive? It tastes like Nyquil. I manage to swallow the burning liquid without making a face.

Mr. Brackett sets his glass on the table and dabs at his mouth with a linen napkin before he speaks. “I have devised an interesting way to show you the mansion.” The grin on his face sends a chill down my spine. “Instead of giving a guided tour, I decided it would be thrilling to send you on a treasure hunt of sorts.” The oddness of his statement gets everyone’s attention, including mine. My stomach begins flip-flopping again, swirling the Port and crème brûlée inside my belly. Go on a treasure hunt inside this creepy house? Is he kidding? There’s no way I’m participating in Brackett’s crazy game. I’ve done my job filling in, even though it wasn’t needed, but I refuse to go traipsing through this haunted mansion.

“There are three floors, thirty-six bedrooms, twenty-four bathrooms, a conservatory, a library, a billiard room, a couple of dens, several sitting rooms, a kitchen, dozens of hallways, an attic, a basement, the cupola, several staircases, and”—his eyes dance in excitement, during his dramatic pause—“a few secret passageways.”

“And just what is it we are hunting for?” Regina asks, using her sultry voice as she traces her finger along the rim of her chalice.

Mr. Brackett pulls a cigar from his coat pocket and runs it beneath his nose, inhaling the aroma of the expensive smoke. A resounding thunderclap explodes outside the mansion, shaking the historical home and knocking out the power. From the darkness, Mr. Brackett answers Regina’s question. “You’ll be looking for a way out.”

The darkness is suffocating. Even the flame on the three candles vanished when the thunder shook the room. I lift my hand in front of my face, but I can’t see anything. I don’t want to panic, but I am terrified, fear choking the voice from my throat. I am utterly speechless. I want to make a run for the kitchen directly to Mike, but in the blackness, I have lost my bearings.

It seems everyone at the table has been stunned to silence as well. Then, little by little, their voices arise out of the foreboding darkness. They hurl their questions at Mr. Brackett, who remains silent. Peter Butler curses in an angry Texas drawl, demanding the damn lights be turned back on immediately. It’s Regina who answers his demand by flicking on her lighter and igniting the wick on the candle directly in front of her. The faint glow of light shatters the menacing darkness, releasing sighs from the guests and bringing a bit of relief to the table.

Austin Phinney quickly picks up the candle and lights the wicks on the other two. Able to see more clearly now, we all turn to face Mr. Brackett for some sort of explanation to his bizarre announcement, but his chair is empty. For some reason, all eyes shift to me. Even Quillan is staring at me from across the table with those luscious eyes of his. I wonder why everyone is looking at me. I swallow hard, fearing maybe the ghost of Emily Faulkner is standing directly behind me. My dumbfounded expression must be noticeable because Quillan quickly makes his opinion known on the matter. “I don’t think she has a clue as to what her uncle is doing. She seems just as surprised as the rest of us.”

My uncle! That’s right! Mr. Brackett introduced me as his niece.

“Well, I’m not one to play childish games, especially those which glorify the occult and incite fear.” The ultraconservative Tony Chizzam faces me as he stands. “I agreed to come here tonight because I was possibly interested in funding a boarding school. Your uncle’s proposal sounded promising, as if he intended to bring some good to a place with a very dark past. I am all about redemption, but I refuse to be drawn into a game that glorifies the tragic events that took place here. Thank your uncle for me. However, I am no longer interested in investing.” The others stand in agreement, ready to leave as well. I could care less so I don’t respond. Besides, what can I say? I am pretty much hating Mr. Brackett right now, so if no one invests in his little venture, it’s not my responsibility. I’ve done my duty for the night. I’ve eaten a nice dinner, gazed across the table at the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, and got paid for doing it. It’s been a successful night. Let them leave. With them gone, I am free to escape this haunted mansion and go home.

Tony takes the initiative and picks up one of the candles as he makes his way toward the door. I half expect him to start singing “This Little Light of Mine” as he leads the guests in triumph, no doubt saving them from the bowels of hell. Everyone follows him, everyone except Quillan and me. I am not taking his path. As soon as they disappear, I am grabbing a candle and yelling for Mike to come get me. I am surprised he hasn’t made his way here to check on everyone since we lost the power.

Tony stops a moment before shifting his path slightly to the right. Raising his candle, he illuminates the wall in front of him. There is no door, only solid wall.

“Where’s the damn door?” Peter Butler curses again.

Tony shifts back to the left and lifts his light again. A floral-papered wall greets him.

“There’s no door!” Emma Chizzam’s voice reeks with fear. “The door has disappeared!”

Tony openly shows his agitation. “That’s impossible, honey. Doorways just don’t vanish.”

“In a haunted house, I am sure they can.” Regina’s sultry voice teases.

I don’t think it’s funny. The darkness is heavy, smothering, stealing the air from my lungs. My claustrophobia is on the rise. I have no intention of being entombed in this gruesome sarcophagus. Somebody better find the door!

“We’re trapped,” Jason announces. “I’ve felt my way around the entire room and there is no exit.”

“Mr. Brackett did say we would be looking for a way out.” Regina laughs. “I guess he intended the fun to start here.”

“Well, I for one do not want to play!” Emma’s nearly crying. “Mr. Brackett!” she calls out, as if she were disciplining one of her children. “You reveal yourself this instant!”

Only silence meets her demand. The only sound I hear is the pounding of my heart. The guests make their way back across the room, all eyes on me. With their lit candles in tow, they are like an angry mob with torches and pitchforks. “Where’s your uncle?” Tony asks me, his voice far from pleasant. I am not sure I should fear him. After all, he did say he was a Christian, but then again, didn’t they cause the Crusades?

“He’s not my uncle,” I confess to the holy man. “I’ve never met him before tonight.”

Now it’s everyone else who is dumbfounded, not to mention extremely agitated. “What in God’s name is going on?” Peter yells. Even in the darkness, I can see his face flush with anger.

“I don’t know any more than you do.” I shrug. “I’m not his niece. My name is Averie. I work for the catering service.” Everyone starts questioning me at once. I blush at my admission. “He hired me to join his party.” My trembling voice rises above their complaints. “A guest canceled earlier and Mr. Brackett admitted he is extremely superstitious and didn’t want only thirteen people to attend his dinner. I was guest number fourteen until Quillan showed up without his grandmother.” I refuse to look at Quillan now, so I am not sure how my disclosure is setting with him. Everyone else shakes their heads in disgust, perturbed at being duped.

“I knew it!” Regina releases a sarcastic laugh. “I saw our hot little server winking at her. He must be your boyfriend.” I decide I don’t like big-boobed Regina. How dare she refer to Mike as her hot little server? He is much more and definitely not into cougars.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” I deny her crude accusation. My face grows hot, and I hope the light doesn’t reveal my glowing cheeks.

The beautiful Brianna Phinney gracefully takes the seat next to mine. In the dancing glimmer of the candlelight, her perfect bow lips form a gentle smile. “Dear,” she calls me, and her endearment causes me to miss my mother. “Do you know anything about Mr. Brackett that might prove helpful, a contact number or something?”

I shake my head. “No, but maybe my friend Mike does. His mother is the one who dealt with him. She owns the catering service. Maybe Mike has some paperwork or something.”

“Well, it’s a place to start.” She smiles again, patting my hand in reassurance.

“How could it help?” Regina asks, lighting a cigarette. “He’s in the kitchen and we are stuck in here.”

“He keeps his cell on him all the time.” The thought brings me hope. “Especially tonight ’cause Steffi left him in charge.”

Austin Phinney pulls his cell out of his pocket and hands it to me. I key in Mike’s number, but nothing happens. It doesn’t ring and there is no recording, only silence. I try a few more times while everyone watches me. I can feel their stares, especially Quillan’s. My fingers tremble.

“It’s not working,” I say, looking at no one. “I’ll try Steffi.” I key in her number and get the same results. A seed of fear takes root. I’ve had dreams like this before, stuck in a horrific situation, and no matter how many people I call for help, I can’t get a hold of anyone. Just when all hope is gone, I wake up. Not tonight. Tonight, I am trapped in a nightmare. “Nothing.” I hand the phone back to Austin.