Southern Comfort (2 page)

He took a step forward, extending his hand as he approached. “Newland Tran.”

Natalie looked at his hand, then back up into those deep brown eyes. She searched her brain for something pithy to say, but before she could come up with even the smallest remark there was a flash of white, a growling howl, and a whimper.

“Aunt Bitty! Do something!” Thank heavens she hadn’t taken Oskar off his leash. She used the strap attached to the harness to swing the poor pooch into her arms. But it was the handsome reporter who picked up the wallowing bundle of white Persian cat.

“Poor baby,” Natalie crooned to Oskar. “I don’t know why that mean ol’ Mr. Piddles doesn’t like you.”

As if in answer to Natalie’s words, Mr. Piddles hissed. Though Natalie wasn’t much of a cat person, she normally didn’t mind them, but Mr. Piddles was in a league all his own. He got along with Oskar some days—usually when Piddles was put in the sunroom for Oskar’s visit— but there were times when he attacked for no good reason.

“Aunt Bitty, would you please get your cat?”

Her aunt took the spitting white bundle from the reporter and cuddled him close. “He’s not normally like this, you know,” she said.

Natalie shook her head and mouthed to their visitor, “He is, too.”

Except the cat didn’t seem to mind this tall stranger.

“Won’t you come in, dear? I’d like to introduce you to—”

Natalie interrupted. “Can I talk to you for a minute, Aunt Bitty?” She looked pointedly at the reporter. “Alone.”

If she had offended him, he didn’t show it. He merely stood there looking back at her. It was as if he had already won.

Won? There was nothing to win. This was not a competition. So why did it feel that way?

“I don’t know, dear. I don’t think we should—”

“He’ll be fine, Aunt Bitty.” Natalie took her aunt by the arm and led her into the hallway. She scooted her down a couple more feet for good measure then asked, “Why is he here?”

“Why, the ghost of course.” Her aunt said the words in such an offhand manner that sometimes Natalie believed there might actually be a ghost in the house. But they all knew that wasn’t true.

“Aunt Bitty,” Natalie started, her voice softened with love and compassion. “There is no ghost. We’ve been over this.”

Her aunt narrowed her gaze. Although her blue eyes still twinkled, Natalie knew this was the closest she got to angry. “There is so a ghost. And that’s why Mr. Tran is here. He’s going to help me prove it.”

“There is no—”

Her aunt shook her head. “If there’s no ghost, how do you explain my stove being left on and the refrigerator door being open and doors shutting throughout the house? And things falling off the shelves when no one’s in the room?”

Natalie bit back a sigh and tried to keep her understanding tone. “You own a cat. He knocks the things off the shelves. The house is drafty, and one good gust of wind through the front window will pull doors shut on the second floor. And … ” She chose her words carefully as to not hurt her aunt’s feelings, but something was going to have to be done about this and soon. “Are you sure you’re not the one leaving the stove on and the refrigerator door open?”

“Posh.” Aunt Bitty waved a dismissive hand at her. “I know y’all think I’m going senile, but that’s not true. I’m as sharp as I ever was, and I have a ghost.” She said the words with a staggering finality and left Natalie standing all alone.

“Now, Mr. Tran, about those cookies … ”

Natalie shook her head and followed her aunt back into the parlor.

They were seated in the same places they had been when Natalie had burst in and all heck had broken loose between Mr. Piddles and Oskar. Except now her aunt held the cat in her lap stroking his fat, furry head. Even from this distance Natalie could hear the beast purring. She didn’t know what her aunt saw in the creature.

“Oh, Natalie, dear, there you are.”

Where else would I be?

“I was just telling Mr. Tran here all about my ghost.”

Somehow Natalie managed to bite back the words “imaginary ghost” and found a seat across from the reporter. That way she could keep a good eye on him.

“So you’ve never actually seen him, is that correct?” Newland Tran asked.

“Oh no, dear,” her aunt said, still stroking her cat. “I told you I’ve seen him in the cemetery.”

“But never in the house, correct?” he asked.

“Just what are your credentials, Mr. Tran?”

Tran looked up at Natalie with those exotic brown eyes and shot her a fake smile. “You want to see my press pass?”

Natalie felt the heat rise in her cheeks and knew that she was turning as red as her shoes. “That won’t be necessary. But who exactly do you work for?”

“I’m freelance.”

A euphemism for
can’t keep a job.
“Freelance?”

“That’s right.” His voice had turned to steel.

“Who do you plan on selling this story to, Mr. Tran?”

“Whoever offers the most, of course.” His eyes turned as hard as his voice.

“I see. So this is all about money?”

“Oh no, dear,” her aunt interrupted. “This is just to get the word out. I think people should know that ghosts exist.”

Natalie refused to roll her eyes at her aunt’s insistence that ghosts were real and that one resided in her house. Right now she just needed to convince her aunt that there was no ghost, and that she was becoming forgetful in her advancing age and needed to go live in an assisted living home. Why, Meadowbrook was just down the road from here and it was a perfectly fine place to live. Natalie had checked it out herself, on the insistence of her parents of course.

“That’s why I called
I Spy,
” her aunt continued.

“
I Spy
? Like at the checkout counter at the grocery store
I Spy
?”

Her aunt nodded. “Yes, of course. They always have stories about Big Foot and aliens and all sorts of things like that. I figured they would be most interested in my ghost.”

Natalie shot the reporter as hard a look as she could muster. “If she called
I Sp
y, how did you get the information?”

Tran shifted uncomfortably on the Louis Some-teenth divan and cleared his throat. “I, uh, used to work for them.”

“Used to?”

“That’s right.” He seemed to regain some of his confidence and managed to straighten his spine and meet her steady gaze.

“Why don’t you work for them any longer?”

“I decided to go out on my own,” he said, teeth clenched.

“I see.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“If you don’t work for them, then how did you hear about my aunt’s story?”

He shifted in his seat. “I just remember seeing it one time.”

Hacked into the company computer was more like it. People just didn’t change their passwords like the really should. He probably even deleted the file so no one would follow him south and try to take over the story.

“Have we forgotten about the cookies?” Aunt Bitty interjected.

“Oh no, Aunt Bitty.” Natalie took up a cookie and nibbled one edge to prove her enthusiasm for the treat.

Her aunt smiled. Just the reaction she wanted.

“Well, now that that’s all settled, I’ll show you to your room.” She stood and placed Mr. Piddles in the chair where she had been just seconds before.

Tran stood as well.

Natalie jumped to her feet. “What do you mean show him to his room?”

“Oh, Mr. Tran’s going to stay here.”

“What? There’s a perfectly good hotel just down the road.” This was going too far.

“Now, Natalie, you know he can’t find the ghost if he’s not in the house.”

“There is no ghost.” Natalie’s diplomacy where the specter was concerned was running thin.

“You don’t believe in the ghost, Miss … I don’t think I got your name.”

“No, I don’t,” Natalie said. “And it’s Natalie. Natalie Coleman.” She didn’t bother to reach a hand out to shake.

Tran made no move to greet her in such a manner either. Instead he wrote something down in his little notebook. But she couldn’t read it from this angle. Or maybe it was some sort of shorthand designed to hide secrets from the eyes of others.

She shook the thought away. She’d been watching too many late-night detective movies.

She turned to her aunt. “Aunt Bitty, surely you realize that he cannot stay here with you.”

“Who else is he going to stay with, dear? I mean I live here after all and if he’s here and I’m here … ” Her already wrinkled brow creased with her confusion.

Natalie took her aunt by the elbow and pulled her slightly away from the prying eyes of the reporter. It would do no good to take her out into the hallway again. She was certain that he would follow behind and hear every word.

“You don’t know him, Aunt Bitty. You can’t invite him to stay here at the house with you. He could be a murderer or a rapist—”

Aunt Bitty patted her on the hand reassuringly. “He’s none of those things, dear. He’s a reporter.”

• • •

Newland bit back his laughter as he watched the spunky Natalie engage with her aunt. Despite her obvious animosity toward him, he found her somehow … cute, with her brown hair pulled back into a perfect bun and her blue eyes flashing with distrust. She was feisty and loyal. And he was glad that sweet Miss Duncan had someone like Natalie watching out for her.

“I don’t care what he is. He can’t stay here,” Natalie said, her voice firm, as if she were talking to a five-year-old instead of an eighty-five-year-old.

Newland moved a little closer, trying to get more of their conversation.

Her aunt gave a firm nod. “See, I own the house, and I have invited him to stay.”

It was obvious where Natalie Coleman got her spunk.

Once again he hid his laughter. He lowered his head and rubbed his eyes hoping the motions would conceal his mirth.

Natalie sighed. “Aunt Bitty … ”

But the old woman shook her head. “I have decided.”

Another sigh. “Then you leave me no choice.”

“You do what you have to. And I’ll do what I have to.”

Bitty Duncan moved away from her niece and came to stand by Newland.

Once again, he flipped his notebook shut and gave her an understanding smile. “Come, Mr. Tran,” she said. “I’ll show you to your room.”

He picked up his duffel bag and gave Natalie a quick nod before following Miss Duncan out of the room.

As he left he thought he heard a growl of frustration. Certainly not. A girl as pretty as Natalie Coleman surely didn’t growl. Must have been her little wiener dog.

Other than Malcolm Daniel’s house in Jefferson County, Newland had never been in such a house. It wasn’t as big as Malcolm’s plantation home by far, but somehow the walls had soaked up the history of the place. It seemed to hang around like an aura of good intentions and past deeds.

“How old did you say the house was again?” he asked as he followed Bitty up the stairs.

“Let’s see now … We bought the house in 1950 and it was over a hundred years old then. It was built in 1824, then part of it burned in 1845, I believe. They rebuilt it. That’s the wing on the back where the kitchen is. Nasty kitchen fires in that day.” She spoke as if she’d been there to witness the whole thing.

Newland bit back his smile. There was just something about Bitty Duncan that made him happy. Maybe because he’d never had a grandmother of his own. Or maybe she just had that personality. Whatever it was, he was going to enjoy his stay here.

“So that makes it almost 200 years old, right?” Newland asked.

She gave him an apologetic smile. “Math never was my strong subject.”

But he was sure she had excelled at charm school.

“Now, you can stay in this room here.” She opened the door to a large suite. If he hadn’t known better he would’ve thought the furnishings were straight out of the Civil War. There was an antique washstand with a pitcher and a bowl, though he didn’t think it’d seen water in half a century. The four-poster bed stood majestically in the center of the room raised up enough that it required a small stepladder. He could only hope he didn’t have a nightmare and roll off in the middle of the night.

Cabbage rose wallpaper, the gilded frames of black and white photographs, even the rugs in soft hues of rose and cream added to the delicate yet long surviving core of the room.

“This is your closet.” Miss Duncan flung open the doors of a freestanding cabinet, revealing shelves and a hanging bar. It looked like an extra-large jewelry box.

He had seen things like that in the movies, but never knew they really existed. Of course, he and his uncle barely had furniture, much less antiques.

“And bathroom is there. That’s why the room is so small, dear. We had to take out part of it to make the bathroom.” She gave him a wink. “But it’s worth it.”

She moved toward the door, and paused with one hand on the cut glass knob. “You just make yourself at home now, you hear? I’m going to see about Natalie, but you come down whenever you are ready.” She shot him that Southern beauty queen smile, then let herself out of the room.

Newland was hesitant to place his beat-up duffel bag on such a beautiful lace counterpane; in fact the whole house felt a little untouchable. The parlor had been bad enough, but somehow with Aunt Bitty’s collection of Avon car decanters, it had at least appeared lived-in and comfortable. This room looked like something out of
Antiques Anonymous
.

He set his duffel bag on the floor by the freestanding closet. Even left it tied. He didn’t need anything from it. It wasn’t like it mattered if his clothes were wrinkled. Most of them were t-shirts anyway. Concert t-shirts, his favorite.

Shirts from every concert he had ever attended, shirts he’d found in thrift stores, it didn’t matter. If it had the name of a band on it, he wanted it.

The one regret in his life was that he’d never learned to play an instrument. Something always seemed to hold him back. He’d always had to work, to get a job mowing grass or carrying somebody’s groceries. At night he fell into bed exhausted from trying to make his lunch money for the next day. But if his life had been different—if his family hadn’t died—who knows what might have happened. He could’ve been the greatest rock star ever known.