The Ghosts of Ravencrest (The Ravencrest Saga Book 1) (30 page)

He grinned. “I lettered in swimming, but that was a long time ago.”

“I’d say you’re still a force to be reckoned with. How do you stay in such good shape?”

“I do this almost every morning. Six long laps. Are you ready for another go?”

“I’ll watch this time.”

“Okay, Belinda, but we’ll have you up to six laps in no time.” He paused, looking at her with those thunder-blue eyes. “It’s nice to have a swimming partner again.”

His gaze flicked to the high dive for the briefest instant, and Belinda knew who his last partner had been.
Isobel
, she thought,
I’m not competing with you.
 

“I’ll be back,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll swim a last lap with me when I return?”

“I will.” She watched as he pushed off, first cutting through the water like a shark then going into a breaststroke before his momentum could suffer.
 

Morning sun began to dapple the water and she thought this glorious cobalt pool must be stunning at noon, when the overhead rays would hit the gold and silver swirls of stars and planets deep in the pool. Even now, the early light seeped through the doors and windows to make the pool look more friendly than it had the previous morning, but it was Eric’s presence that put her at ease. He was two-thirds of the way across the pool now, stroking steadily, his feet kicking, covering up any phantom splashes that might occur.
As long as a peacock doesn’t scream again, I’ll get through this.
She watched Eric swim, refusing to dwell on Grant’s theory that the peacock cry might be an echo of a human scream from long ago.

Eric reached the opposite side of the pool, turned and launched himself back without a pause. Belinda thought of Isobel and chided herself for it. Eric Manning was a millionaire, maybe a billionaire, and she was nothing but the hired help.
But he invited you to swim with him. And to picnic with him and the children.
Could he possibly find me attractive?
She blushed at the thought. She looked up at the high-dive again and, for the briefest instant, thought she saw a translucent woman staring back at her.

Breakfast with Momma

Rhonda Moorland sat down at her kitchen table and smiled at her morning repast. An aerosol can of American cheese sat next to a plate of day-old donuts from Wal-Mart, a toasted slice of Wonder Bread slathered with Nutella - the perfect accompaniment to EZ Cheese - and a bowl of Captain Crunch with skim milk and only a single tablespoon of sugar added. Usually she had some bacon or sausage links too, but this morning she feared the meat might give her heartburn because of the stress inflicted upon her by her ungrateful daughter. It was inexcusable how that girl, her own flesh and blood, born after two days of excruciating labor, treated her.
Just inexcusable
. She clasped her hands in prayer and stared at the ceiling. “Dear Lord, thank You for this repast and could You please do something about Belinda? I’m afraid she’s following the path of Judas. Please show her the light. Please make her treat her mother with respect so she doesn’t burn in hell! Sincerely and amen.”

Rhonda turned over the donut box, dumping every single wayward sprinkle on her plate.
Belinda, what’s wrong with you?
She sprayed a dollop of cheese in the middle of the sprinkles then carefully rolled it over them completely coating the EZ Cheese ball in green, orange, yellow, and pink candy before popping it in her mouth. She sighed with contentment as the cheese slowly melted on her tongue. Finally she swallowed the sprinkles and washed them down with a tall glass of cold sweet tea. It tasted good, but it wouldn’t wash the bad taste of Belinda’s behavior out of her mouth.
 

Belinda had always been a wayward child, quietly and stubbornly attempting to go her own way. She’d never appreciated her Catholic girls’ school upbringing the way she should, and by the time she was eleven, she kept trying to go to a horribly undisciplined friend’s house to watch inappropriate movies. The only thing good about Belinda had been her grades, but she’d used them to take secular classes at a coed college, despite the fact that Rhonda had raised her to become a nun. Why, once, when she was just a baby of fourteen years, she claimed she was going to a Disney movie with Randi. Rhonda followed her, just to be sure the girls weren’t accosted in the theater, but her daughter wasn’t meeting Randi. She met another girl and two boys and they went in and sat together, boy girl, boy girl. Rhonda had sat behind them and just before the movie started, made her presence known and dragged her daughter out by the ear before those boys could have their way with her. Belinda never tried that again!

And poor Randi. Belinda had never appreciated her. Randi was a big girl, a squared-boned tomboy who loved to participate in girls’ sports at school. Rhonda constantly tried to get Belinda to join her in playing softball, soccer or basketball - Randi was a star on all the teams - but Belinda stubbornly refused. All she liked was swimming. Rhonda always worried that was because she took after her father and just wanted to show off her body.
A vain man begets a vain child.
Belinda was so unlike Rhonda that it was hard to believe she and Randi hadn’t been switched at birth - but they were born a week apart, so it wasn’t possible. Randi would have been the perfect daughter. She never worried about clothes or makeup or even boys. Randi was a dream come true.

When Belinda entered college, she had scholarships and worked on top of that to afford to live in a sinful coed dorm. Rhonda hit the roof, but there was nothing she could do to force the girl to come home. Undoubtedly, she’d slept around in school, ruining herself and her reputation, and when she graduated, she again refused to come home. Happily, she had a hard time finding a well-paying job, and at last had finally agreed to share a place with Randi Tucker, so Rhonda had been able to keep close tabs on her.

And then Belinda took the job allegedly teaching children at a millionaire’s house out in upper-crusty Devilswood, leaving Randi high and dry. She even threw the millionaire’s money at her to cover the rent. Rhonda sipped her sweet tea and shuddered at the thought of what Belinda must have done to get that money. Obscene images danced through her head. She belched.
 

Randi - a good girl, the daughter of Rhonda’s best friend - had been devastated when Belinda ran out on her in the middle of the night. Just devastated. Poor Randi had called Rhonda that very night and the two had talked until the wee hours, trying to figure out why Belinda would do such a thing.
Maybe that millionaire put a spell on her. Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s in league with the Devil. Maybe he’s a sex pervert. Probably both.

After weeks of being ignored by Belinda, Rhonda decided that Randi needed to go out to Ravencrest and drag the girl home, by force, if necessary.

Randi readily agreed and had gone last night, but then she’d simply disappeared. She didn’t answer her cell phone, hadn’t so much as acknowledged a single text. Randi - unlike her own daughter - was a polite young lady who always answered her phone and replied to texts immediately, even if that meant she had to pull over while driving. Rhonda had texted three helpful messages while Randi was on her way to the mansion and she had stopped and replied every single time, right up until she arrived in Devilswood. Then she went silent: Something was wrong.
 

Rhonda’s stomach twisted. She had already called the police to report Randene Tucker missing, but they’d told her she had to wait a full twenty-four hours. After giving them a piece of her mind -
What the heck are my taxes paying for?
- she’d hung up and made herself breakfast.
 

She crunched into her Nutella-slathered toast, then paused to spray a dollop of EZ Cheese on it.
Everything’s better with cheese.
Belinda had always hated EZ Cheese - maybe that was a hint that something was wrong with her. “Hmmph,” Rhonda said around the toast. In the living room, the
God Club’s
theme music started up. “Praise God,” Rhonda called to the television. “Praise God!”  She picked up her bowl of cereal and began pouring it carefully into her mouth. By the time the music ended and Reverend Felcher began the opening prayer, the Captain Crunch was only a memory. Grunting, she pushed herself to her feet and took her sweet tea, EZ Cheese, and plate into the living room, where she plunked down into the Barcalounger and set her breakfast on the TV tray beside it.
 

After turning up the volume, she eyed Reverend Felcher. A man in his late forties with a thick, dark, perfectly coiffed head of hair and white sideburns that flared like angel’s wings, he wore a navy suit and emerald tie that brought out his amazing turquoise eyes. It was a color rarely seen, an obvious sign of being touched by the Lord. “Hello, Reverend Bobby,” she said, wishing she’d worn lipstick. “Your cheeks are so rosy I wish I could pinch them.”  While she felt a twinge of guilt because he wasn’t Catholic, the good reverend did speak for all religions, so it was probably okay. She hoped he wasn’t celibate. “You’re the best, Reverend Bobby!”

“Let us sing,” replied the preacher. Behind him a green-robed choir broke into a rousing rendition of
Rock of Ages
, set to a jazzy rhythm backed up by a similarly-robed bongo player.
 

“Rock of Ages, Come on me,” Rhonda sang through her Nutella, “Reverend Bobby, you’re nice to see.” She felt herself blush and knew she’d have to confess her impure thoughts to Father Ignatius on Sunday. The thought made her blush harder.
 

She wiped away a bead of sweat that had formed under her second chin and returned to her donuts, wishing they’d put the words to the hymns along the bottom of the TV screen. She could never remember them.
 

On screen, Reverend Felcher was talking about all the poor people who needed food.
He’s such a liberal
, she thought, and wished she could win a private breakfast with him. Someone won once a month but she’d had no luck. If she ever won, she’d tell him that people needed to earn their food - not have it handed to them - in order to appreciate it. She’d earned every bite of food for herself and Belinda since the child was six months old and her husband had run off. She’d never begged or taken welfare. The Lord wouldn’t approve of such lollygagging and this was something Reverend Bobby needed to learn. People didn’t need handouts, they needed discipline. She finished her toast and licked Nutella from her fingers, then rewarded herself with a jelly donut, biting almost to the center then sticking her tongue in to lap out the cherry filling.

Reverend Bobby started praying for the poor and unemployed, silly man, and Rhonda’s thoughts returned to her wayward, ungrateful daughter. She wiped her fingers and reached into her housedress pocket to retrieve her cell phone. She speed-dialed Randi’s number. Receiving no reply, she tried Belinda’s. It went directly to voicemail, which probably meant the girl was on the phone, so she tried six more times, leaving messages to call her and tell her if she’d seen Randi. That would get her attention.

Reverend Felcher had finished his prayer and was now giving his sermon. Today, he talked about family and how a person needed to be good to his or her parents. Rhonda nodded vehemently and wished she could make Belinda listen. “My friends,” said the preacher, “Reach out to your parents, reach out to your sons and daughters, your brothers and sisters. Show them you care. Show them you love them even if they don’t show it back.”

“Amen!” Rhonda shouted. “Amen!” If Belinda wouldn’t come to her, and if Randi didn’t return soon, she would gas up Scooter - her little blue 1985 Le Car. It had faded to a pale turquoise over the years and she loved it even more because that was her very favorite color. If she had to, tomorrow she would drive out and get Randi and Belinda and bring them back. She bit into her last donut, relishing the powdered sugar that clung to her lips. She would take care of her family as Reverend Felcher - and God - had commanded.

Old Peckerhead

As Eric Manning drove the little white golf cart along the narrow paved roads traversing the estate, Belinda kept reminding herself to keep her mouth closed. With every rise and every turn, her jaw tried to drop - the estate was far bigger than she’d dreamed. In the rear seat, Cynthia grumbled that she was too hungry for this pre-picnic tour while Thad excitedly pointed out various statues and fountains.
 

“That’s the Profeebius!” he cried as they passed a white statue of a god chained to equally white rocks.

“I think you mean Prometheus,” Belinda said.
 

“Why’s he chained up?”

“You know very well why,” Eric said over his shoulder. “You just like an excuse to say it.”

Thad giggled. “He’s getting his liver eaten by birds!”

“That’s right,” Eric said.

Cynthia made disgusted sounds. “I want to eat. Let’s eat! What’s in the picnic basket, Daddy?” She paused and giggled. “It better not be liver!”

Thad cracked up.

“I don’t know, sweetheart, but it will be great. Niko said he packed it with extra special treats.”

“I wanna see!” Thad turned to climb over the back seat.

“Thad, sit down. You’ll see soon enough.”

They came to a crossroads. “The duck pond is straight ahead,” Eric told Belinda. “We have a nice big picnic table there as well as a barbecue.”

“And lots of ducks,” Thad added.

“Yes, lots of ducks and geese and several swans.” Eric turned the wheel. “We’ll head there in a few minutes. First, I’m going to show Belinda the farm.”

“Farm?” Belinda asked.

Cynthia groaned.
 

He drove down a mild incline, then turned and rounded a low hill. Suddenly, at least an acre of garden appeared. “Much of the produce we eat at Ravencrest is grown right here,” Eric explained as they approached rows of corn, knee-to-neck high.
 

The light green stalks and leaves waved in the breeze and Belinda could see white-blond silk poking out of some of the ears and the dark form of a scarecrow standing sentry above them in the distance. “This is the biggest garden I’ve ever seen,” she said.