Eternally Yours (2 page)

“Go ahead. I’d like to know how old it is.”

She unstuck a misshapen wax seal and unfolded the stiff paper. “Damn. There’s no date. Maybe the contents will clue us in. Would you like to hear it?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

She cleared her throat and read the note out loud:

My dearest M,

Pray put me out of this wretched state of unfulfilled desire. An exotic flower such as you cannot be sensible of how much suffering she inflicts on the man she beguiles and then denies.

Your lips are like a rose on the morn it blooms, fresh and glazed with dew. Every inch of your skin is as perfect and pure as a lily. Open your petals to embrace me, and our love will flourish fully, as Nature intended.

Your own ever-patient G.

“Well!” She gave Mark a wry grin. “‘G’ doesn’t exactly sound patient to me.”

He raised his eyebrows but didn’t reciprocate her smile. “No, he sounds like a snake.”

“Do you think so?” She looked back down at the beautifully crafted handwriting. The letter gave her a weird feeling—maybe because it had seemed to come out of nowhere--but something about it appealed to her, too. “I kind of like the note. No one writes stuff like this anymore. It’s gratifying to see a man express his feelings in words.”

The curl returned to Mark’s lip. “Maybe genuine feelings, but the sentiments in that are drivel--the words of a womanizer trying to get a virgin into his bed.”

“Maybe.” After her failed marriage, she considered herself pretty cynical about love, but apparently she still had a soft spot for romance. She touched the ink of the man’s initial, imagining how much “M” must have wanted “G” when she read his pleas. “I wonder who they were. Doesn’t this glimpse into the past make you want to know the whole story?”

He gave her a long look. “In a way. That is, I can understand how you feel. The houses I research make me feel like that. There are usually only scraps of information available about the people who lived and died in them--just enough to make me want to know more. Lots of times the only history recorded about a house comes from letters like that one. Can I take a closer look?”

“Be my guest.”

He took the note from her and skimmed its contents. When he’d finished, he smirked. “I still think these are empty words, but it’s always interesting to uncover a piece of the past. Something like this is the nearest you can come to going back in time.”

She smiled. “I like that concept. I think that’s kind of what I was doing when I read the letter--reliving a moment from the past.”

He stared at the note for a moment, rubbing his thumb over the signature, as she had done. Then he shook his head. “‘Open your petals...’ What a ridiculous thing to say.”

“I think it’s rather poetic.”

“Then, the letter will make a nice keepsake for you.” He held the piece of paper back out to her and started looking around the room again. “Anyway, we’d better get down to business. Why don’t you tell me your plans for this place?”

“Okay.” As she took the paper from him, another chill shivered through her. The wild thought occurred to her that maybe the note was haunted. As much as the discovery had piqued her curiosity, something about it made her vaguely uncomfortable, too. Why hadn’t she ever found the letter before?

Dismissing the crazy idea, she set the paper down on the window seat next to her iced tea. “Just give me a moment to gather my thoughts.”

“Of course.” He reached inside his jacket, then patted his other pockets. “I think I’ve left my note pad in the car, anyway. Let me run out and get it. I’ll be right back.”

Trying to clear her head, she followed him to the front door and watched him dash out to his car. He’d parked on the side of the road instead of in her driveway--a considerate gesture, she thought. The way he moved looked athletic, but who could tell with that suit he was wearing? The fact that she was taking so much notice of his physical attributes surprised her. When was the last time she’d given a guy a second glance?

As he opened the passenger-side door, she reflected that she’d never met an author before--or the descendant of a Victorian poet. Those things particularly intrigued her about Mark Vereker...though, admittedly, she’d noticed his good looks right off the bat, too.

He leaned into the car and she moved away from the door, irritated by the direction of her thoughts. For months Di had been nagging her about starting to date, and it seemed that her friend finally had her thinking about men.

That, however, was as far as she wanted to go.

Her resolution hardened as she walked back into the parlor. She had been married, and somehow over the years her hopes and dreams had deteriorated into pain and a sense of helplessness about her situation. Now she had escaped the marriage, but the hurt still lingered, along with something like guilt. She had vowed to live her life with a man, and she hadn’t been able to keep her promise. She would never try it again. As for dating, she hadn’t yet figured out how that might fit into her future. All she knew was that she wasn’t ready for it now.

She glanced out the front window and saw Mark Vereker getting back out of his car, holding a writing pad. In another moment he would be coming up the walk. She had to pull herself together and present her plans for the house to him in a positive light. If she got this grant from the historical society, she could finally build a real studio.

Combing her fingers through her hair, she took a deep breath. Ron had always made it difficult for her to pursue her art--maybe out of some sort of jealousy. Now that he was gone she intended to dedicate herself to her work, and revamping the studio would be the first major milestone in her new life. Making a good impression on Mark Vereker today could mean a huge difference for her in the future.

Too nervous to wait for his knock, she walked back into the current studio. Maybe she
would
try softening up her guest with some small talk. So far, making conversation with him had been surprisingly easy.

Though he hadn’t responded well to her questions about his ancestor, she thought the poet might still prove a good choice of topic. She would probably fare better if she simply expressed her admiration for Geoffrey Vereker instead of asking Mark for information about him. The poet had to be a great source of pride to the family.

Chapter 2

The late Geoffrey Vereker, who in life had won modest fame with his poetry and utter notoriety with his womanizing, floated around his haunt on a summer afternoon, utterly bored with his existence.
Ennui
, he’d long ago concluded, was his personal hell. Life for him had been an ongoing chase after adventure in one form or another, and the afterlife had proven the same--only with far fewer successes.

He glided down Main Street in Falls Borough, the town where he’d been born and raised. Though his haunt ranged to any place he had traveled during life, he found himself coming back to his hometown more and more frequently. What did it matter where one wandered when one could do so little
anywhere
?

A pretty redhead walking out of Town Hall caught his attention.
Ah, here is some excitement worth pursuing.
Geoff drifted closer to her for a better view.

She turned in his direction and sauntered toward him. Tall and elegantly dressed--for
her times
, in any case--she was a little slimmer than he preferred. As she approached him he sucked in his breath, admiring her green eyes. Her complexion was fair and faultless, precisely as he liked--though he rather wished she had long flowing locks, instead of the short modern coif she sported.

Reaching an electric traffic light, she stopped and waited at the crosswalk.

Geoff inched up beside her to study her profile.

All at once she put a hand up to her mouth, as if suddenly recalling something. She turned away from the light and strode at him--promptly walking through him.

“Oh!” Shuddering, she nearly stumbled in her spiked high heels. She directed a horrified glance over her shoulder toward him, but her gaze sliced through him. Shaking off her discomfort, she hurried on her way.

Geoff hovered behind, scowling to himself. This was the extent of his contact with women! He could inspire only fear in mortal females, and he had never met a female spirit--or a fellow male one for that matter. Though he occasionally might have sensed another ethereal being, making contact loomed beyond his abilities.

Well, if he’d learned one thing in the last century, it was that pining away only made his circumstances seem worse. He let out a great sigh and floated off, choosing the direction opposite the way the redhead had gone.

Having been out of town for several months, he decided to check up on a favorite local beauty. He’d first noticed the woman the previous autumn on the day her husband had moved out. Taking in the scene at the house, Geoff had been titillated. Divorcees had always intrigued him because of their worldliness. Soon he’d found, to his delight, that this one often read his poetry! From that moment on, the lovely blonde had held a special place in his heart.

As he neared her residence today, he spotted a strange man in front of the house. A jagged stab of jealousy ripped through him. A mortal man could do what he could not--touch the lovely divorcee. Still, it remained to be seen whether the woman actually
liked
this fellow. Trying to stifle his fears, he floated closer to see what would happen.

The man looked to be fetching an article from one of those motorized carriages people drove these days. As he pulled back out of the vehicle, Geoff glided over next to him. When he got a good look at the fellow, he started.

A Vereker!
He would have known that profile anywhere--and because it had shown up in his own hometown, he felt doubly sure. That the man who could potentially steal his divorcee from him might be a relative didn’t lessen his resentment. Over the years he’d run into many of his descendants, and few of them had impressed him. Though occasionally one dabbled in writing or another fared well with the ladies, none had seemed to encompass enough of his own personality to interest him much.

The man stood up straight and revealed his full height, a good six foot. As he stepped onto a slate walk that led to the house, Geoff conceded that the fellow might have some presence. Though his drab attire obscured his physique, a long, easy stride showed he was in shape befitting a relative of Geoff’s. In fact, the ghost rather thought he saw a bit of himself in the man’s sweep of black hair and wide-set brown eyes. The mortal’s nose was stronger and straighter, but he rested easy, knowing that the fair sex had always admired his own rather delicate nose.

As he watched his flesh-and-blood counterpart climb up to the porch and rap at the door, he wished with all his soul that he could trade places--but he couldn’t. What would he do if his descendant managed to get where he himself could not with the divorcee? He wondered if there were any possibility he could enjoy the experience vicariously.

The twinge of distaste he felt at the thought told him it wasn’t likely.

To Geoff’s displeasure, the mortal opened the door himself, signifying some degree of intimacy with the divorcee.

“Lara?” he called.

So her name was Lara. He had wondered what to call her. That her name should be similar to that of Petrarch’s Laura seemed fitting, for Geoff could imagine this woman being his own earthly muse...if only he could still write. As it was he had no access to an ethereal pen and paper, and he couldn’t usually manipulate physical objects unless in a fit of extreme rage.

After a moment’s hesitation the mortal Vereker let himself in, stepping slowly, clearly tentative.

Geoff made a wry face. The fellow must not have been on completely familiar terms with the lady, despite seeming somewhat expectant of a welcome.

“I’m sorry,” a feminine voice sang out from a room beyond. “Here I am.”

The ghost followed his descendant into a barren drawing room. The lady emerged from a door in the back, and Geoff gaped. She was even more lovely than he had remembered.

On the upper half of her body, she wore a sleeveless bodice, fitted closely enough to demarcate the pertness of her breasts. Her eyes were among the bluest he’d ever seen. He had always liked the way her golden curls suggested a hairstyle more attuned to his century than the current one. But what truly tormented him now was the glory of her legs, flaunted under a pair of those shockingly short pantaloons that modern women wore in warm weather. Good Lord, but he wished he had been born a century later!

Biting his fist, he forced himself to stand back so as not to give her a blast of unexpected coldness. But if he’d had any doubt before, he felt certain now that he couldn’t bear to see his mortal counterpart have her when
he
could not.

The fellow was--for some unimaginable reason--observing the ceiling. He pulled his gaze down and nodded to the lady.

Geoff frowned at the indifferent greeting. Didn’t his descendant know that a man should always make a woman feel like she was the sole object of his attention?

In return the lady flashed him a smile that made her face radiant and--Geoff thought with pain--boded well for the recipient.

His descendant didn’t even seem to notice, looking back up at the ceiling. As he observed some unfathomable feature of interest there, the fool actually strode away from her into the center of the room.

Geoff stared, amazed that it looked as though he might be spared the anguish of further jealousy after all. What was wrong with this fellow? Could it be that he was dutifully leg-shackled? But no, a glance at his left hand showed he wore no wedding band.

Uncertain what to think of the mortal, Geoff resolved to stay and watch what transpired. The fellow was now turning about the room, apparently surveying the walls. Though he seemed disinterested in the lady, Geoff would not take any chances. If his descendant made a move on his Lara, he swore he would foil the man’s efforts.

* * * *

Mark Vereker made a slow pass around the parlor, only half-seeing the antique crown molding he meant to study. The proximity of Lara Peale behind him was too distracting for him to concentrate on anything. She must have been eager to hear what he thought of the house, but with her so close to him he couldn’t even think straight. The woman was so gorgeous and glowing with life--unlike him these days--that he felt in danger of making a fool of himself.