A Valentine Wish
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Gina Wilkins
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12
Chapter 1
January 3, 1996
DEAN GATES, new owner of the soon-to-be-restored Cameron Inn, didn’t believe in ghosts. So it was all the more annoying when he saw one less than an hour after moving into his new home.
He stood in the center of the mildew-scented, dimly lit attic of the inn, the only part he’d yet to fully explore. He’d just made a quick survey of the stacks of old junk and boxes that had been stashed up here for who knew how long. He added them to his long mental list of things to take care of as he began his renovations.
Preoccupied with that list, he ran a hand through his brown hair and made a slow circle in the center of the room, scanning the rafters for signs of weakness or water damage, half his attention focused on his growing hunger. He hadn’t eaten anything since a light breakfast some eight hours earlier.
The ghost was standing in one corner of the attic, watching him with a distinctly curious expression.
Dean blinked. He was absolutely certain that corner had been empty only moments ago. Now it was occupied by a slender woman in a long white dress that made him think of flappers and rumble seats. Her hair was dark, chin-length, crimped into stylized waves around her beautiful face. She had large dark eyes, flawless fair skin, a slightly dimpled chin and a rosy mouth that looked tailor-made for kissing. She was, without doubt, the most stunning woman Dean had ever seen.
He couldn’t quite believe he was seeing her now.
He reached up to rub his eyes, thinking perhaps it was a trick of the shadows, a manifestation of his weariness after a long drive, maybe even a hallucination brought on by hunger. When he opened his eyes again, she was still there, looking at him with a slight frown creasing her forehead.
Deciding she was a trespasser who’d somehow slipped into the attic without him hearing her, he opened his mouth to ask who she was... and then closed it abruptly when he realized he could see the walls of the room through her dress. Through her.
“Oh, man,” he said, his voice sounding husky in the silence of the attic. “I need something to eat.”
He turned on one heel and headed for the stairwell. “Aunt Mae?” he called out as he took the stairs two at a time. “Hey, Aunt Mae? Let’s go have some lunch, okay?”
ANNA TURNED quickly to her brother. “Ian, I think he saw us!”
Ian didn’t look so sure. “He must have seen something that startled him.”
“He was looking right at us.”
“No. He was looking at you.”
Anna waved off the distinction.
“You know, it was odd,” she mused aloud, gazing toward the staircase which the man had so abruptly descended. “I had the strangest sensation when he looked at me. Almost as if—as if I could have spoken with him, if I’d tried. He didn’t seem as far away as the others.”
She knew she didn’t have to explain. Ian was all too aware of those invisible barriers that stood between them and the mortals they’d occasionally encountered during the passing years. Only rarely had the barriers lowered enough for the others to see Anna and her brother, and on those occasions the contact had been extremely brief and decidedly unsatisfying.
But this time ... this time it had felt different.
“Maybe I should have said something,” she murmured.
“Even if he’d heard you—and I’m not at all sure that he would have—he would have merely screamed and taken to his heels,” Ian responded cynically. “The way all the others have when they’ve spotted us.”
For some reason, Anna was annoyed by his presumption. “He didn’t look so fainthearted to me. There’s something different about him, Ian. Something ... I don’t know...”
Frustrated by her lack of words, she grimaced. She could still picture the man’s face, strong-boned, firm-jawed, not quite handsome, but definitely intriguing. And his eyes—a deep, piercing blue. Eyes that saw much and betrayed little. “He had kind eyes,” she murmured. “Maybe he’s the one who can help us—if only we can find a way to talk to him.”
Ian snorted, typically impatient with her fancifulness. “He’s just like the others, Anna. He bought the inn on a whim, and now he’ll throw too little money into it, too little interest, and when he becomes bored or financially strapped—as they all do eventually—he’ll abandon it. No one really cares about this place. And no one cares about us.”
Anna tossed her head in annoyance at his pessimism. “Don’t talk like that! We’re here for a reason, Ian. I’ve always believed that someday, someone would come along who would help free us. This man could be the one.”
Ian’s eyes softened as he looked at her. “You always have been the dreamer.”
She smiled back at him. “And you the doubter. We shall just have to see who is right, won’t we?”
His own faint smile faded. “It’s not as though we have anything better to do,” he muttered.
Ignoring the underlying bitterness in his tone, Anna turned away and looked at the staircase again, wondering how she could communicate with the man with the kind blue eyes.
TWENTY MINUTES after leaving the attic, Dean stepped out of his car and glanced around his new hometown. Destiny, Arkansas. Population 5,462—a number he mentally amended to 5,464 now that he and his aunt Mae had arrived.
From the sidewalk where he stood on the east side of Main Street, he could see the two-story, white brick city hall building, the tiny redbrick post office, a convenience store with four gas pumps in front, the aging native-stone building that housed the local newspaper, Destiny Daily, three churches of different denominations, several less-than-flourishing retail establishments and what appeared to be a thriving video-rental store. The Destiny Diner was behind him, where only a few customers remained inside since it was a couple of hours past the usual lunch hour.
Tired Christmas decorations drooped from posts and window frames. Dean suspected they’d been up since shortly after Halloween. There was nothing more dispirited-looking than Christmas decorations in January, he thought wryly.
“I’m starving,” his aunt Mae said fervently, moving to stand beside him. “We must stop by a grocery store on the way home so we’ll have supplies for dinner this evening.”
Dean smiled at his comfortably plump, sixty-year-old maternal aunt. She was an eccentric-looking woman, with her profusion of jangling bracelets, dangling oversize earrings and enormous, stuffed-to-overflowing purse. Her fuchsia sweater clashed cheerfully with her copper-dyed hair, her black slacks were a bit too tight and her eyeglasses were a godawful design of gold wires, red plastic and tiny rhinestones. Dean was well aware that beneath the unusual exterior was a sharp mind, an even sharper wit and a generously loving heart.
He was crazy about her.
Inside the diner, Dean and Mae were greeted by an ample young woman in jeans and an Arkansas Razorbacks sweatshirt. “Table for two?” she asked while chewing on a piece of gum. “Smoking or non?” she continued before they could answer her first question.
Dean glanced ruefully at the small, one-room diner, in which none of the tables was more than a foot or two apart. “Nonsmoking,” he said, deciding to hope for the best.
The tables were decorated with red paper hearts and red and white silk carnations. The decorations were still clean and appeared to be new, making Dean suspect that someone had replaced the Christmas trappings that very morning. It wasn’t hard to imagine that these would soon look as tired and worn-out as the garland and tinsel he’d noticed outside.
“They’ve already decorated for Valentine’s Day,” Aunt Mae said as she took her seat. “It will be here almost before we know it, I suppose.”
Dean picked up a plastic-coated menu and muttered something noncommittal. Valentine’s Day was not a topic that interested him in the least.
Mae sighed. “You should have someone special to celebrate the occasion with.”
He forced a smile. “I do have someone special. You.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. I’m talking about a significant other, or whatever they call them these days. Just because your marriage didn’t work out is no reason to cut yourself off from all romantic possibilities in the future. You’re only thirty-five. There’s still plenty of time for you to fall in love and have a family.”
“We’ve had this conversation before. Many times. Don’t start it again, please.”
She sighed again. “I can’t help it. I’ve always loved Valentine’s Day. My Walter never let one pass without fanfare.”
“My ex-wife never let one pass without fanfare, either,” Dean said dryly. “The occasion always cost me a fortune in roses and diamonds, not because I particularly wanted to buy them, but because I knew she’d sulk for at least a month if I didn’t. The whole charade is just a bunch of bull, as far as I’m concerned, dreamed up by jewelers, florists and greeting-card companies.”
“So cynical,” Mae murmured sadly, watching him with eyes as blue and perceptive as his own. “Gloria burned you very badly, didn’t she? I wonder at times if the scars will ever heal.”
Dean was relieved when the waitress reappeared to take their orders. As much as he loved his aunt, her unabashed romanticism sometimes made him uncomfortable. He was the practical, pragmatic type, himself. The most audacious and quixotic thing Dean had ever done was to leave a six-figure-a-year marketing career to buy a picturesque old run-down inn in central Arkansas.
He’d told himself it hadn’t been as capricious as it had sounded. Dean’s grandfather—Mae’s father—had been a hotelier, operating a moderately successful small chain that he’d eventually sold to a national conglomerate. Dean had always been fascinated by his grandfather’s career, and had thought it was something he might like to do himself. He’d drifted into marketing almost by accident, but the hotel business had always intrigued him.
He’d seen the Cameron Inn pictured in a real-estate ad in a business magazine he’d been reading during a particularly long, boring airplane trip after a particularly long, boring business trip. Something about the photo had captured his attention—and then hadn’t released it. Within a week after seeing the ad, he’d found himself on another airplane, this one headed to Arkansas. He’d told himself that he only wanted to look the place over, with an eye for a possible investment opportunity.
Six months later, the inn was his. Any excuses he might make for his actions notwithstanding, the truth was, he’d taken one look at the place and had known he had to have it.
Even then, he’d tried to convince himself that the decision hadn’t been totally impulsive and impractical.
Tourism was growing in this area, located in the naturally beautiful hill country only a few miles north of Hot Springs National Park, and the inn should do well, once Dean restored it to its former elegance and established a reputation for fine cuisine and restful accommodations. Despite what some people were saying about him lately, he hadn’t completely lost his mind when he’d made the decision to pursue a new direction in life.
He couldn’t even imagine what those same people would say if they learned that he’d seen a ghost on the very first day of his new career. The thought made him wince.
“Dean? Is something wrong with your food?” his aunt asked as the waitress walked away after bringing them their meals.
He cleared his expression and shook his head. “No, it’s fine. Quite good, actually,” he assured her, taking a bite of chicken-fried steak smothered in cream gravy, and ignoring the twinges of his nutritional conscience.
A tall, lanky man with sandy brown hair and smiling green eyes stopped by their table on his way out of the diner. “You must be the new owners of the Cameron Inn.”
“My nephew is the new owner,” Mae replied. “This is Dean Gates. And I’m Mae Harper, his first official employee.”
The man smiled. “Nice to meet you both. I’m Mark Winter, owner and publisher of the local newspaper, the Destiny Daily. Welcome to town.”
“Thanks,” Dean said. “Sign me up for a subscription to your paper. I’ll want to keep up with the town news.”
Winter’s mouth kicked up in a lazy, rueful smile. “Oh, we cover all the big events. Just this morning, I received an invitation to cover the Destiny Elementary School’s annual St. Valentine’s Day Pageant next weekend. A hundred of our youngest and finest citizens plan to recite poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Rod McKuen and mangle—er—perform pop love songs. It should be inspirational. You have to experience it to truly appreciate it. Why don’t you plan to attend?”
Dean managed not to shudder. “Sounds ... enthralling. I’ll have to check my calendar.”
Winter chuckled. “Do you have children to add to our local talent pool?”
“No. I’m not married.”
“Me, neither,” Winter admitted. “Things like this always remind me why.”
Dean grinned.
Aunt Mae sighed and muttered something about “bachelors.”
“Say, would you mind if I interview you once you’ve had a chance to settle in?” Winter asked Dean. “The townsfolk are always interested in new residents. And they’ll be particularly curious since you’ll be restoring the old Cameron place.”
“I’m not sure there’s that much of interest to tell them.”
“Of course there is. Your plans for the place. What made you decide to move here. Anything you’d like to tell us about your background.” His smile turned mischievous. “How you feel about ghosts.”
Dean nearly overturned his water glass. He steadied it quickly. “Er—ghosts?”
“You were told that the Cameron Inn is haunted, weren’t you? It’s one of the favorite legends around these parts.”
“The real-estate agent mentioned the rumors in passing,” Dean admitted. “I told her I wasn’t particularly interested. I don’t believe in ghosts,” he added firmly.
His aunt was looking at him with wide, indignant eyes. “You knew the inn was supposed to be haunted and you didn’t tell me?”
Winter looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Sorry,” he said to her. “I assumed you’d already heard. I hope I haven’t worried you. I assure you, it’s only a—”
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful to see a real ghost?” Aunt Mae interrupted with a blissful look of anticipation. “What fun! Think how good this will be for your business, Dean. Once the tourists find out the place is actually haunted...”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Aunt Mae, I want guests to come to our inn because it’s restful and comfortable and efficiently run. I want to provide a place for them to get away from the bustle and stress of everyday life, a place for lovers and honeymooners to take long, peaceful walks in the woods, return for an exquisitely prepared meal and then retire to the privacy of their own tastefully furnished rooms. I do not want to attract a mob of crystal-carrying, New Age ghost-groupies.”
Winter chuckled. “Ghost-groupies. I like it.”
“Well, I don’t,” Dean muttered. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” he repeated, shoving aside an eerie mental image of a beautiful dark-haired woman in a long, white dress. A hunger hallucination, he reminded himself. Nothing more.
“Yeah, well, I’ll give you a call about that interview.”
Dean forced a smile. “Sure. Anytime.”
Winter ambled away. A man in a dark gray suit that hung oddly around his thin frame approached the table just as Dean and Mae finished their meals. “I’m Mayor Charles Peavy Vandover,” he said, the name rolling majestically off his tongue. “Welcome to our town.”
Dean offered a hand. “Thank you. I’m Dean Gates, and this is my aunt, Mae Harper.”
The mayor, who appeared to be in his mid-forties, shook Dean’s hand and nodded politely at Mae. “I’ve heard of you, of course. Glad to have a chance to meet you. We’re always pleased when new business comes to our area.”
Vandover jerked his head toward the door, through which Mark Winter had exited a short time ago. “I was sitting at the next table and I couldn’t help overhearing some of what Winter was telling you. I hope you didn’t take all that garbage about the ghost legend seriously. Every town has its foolish rumors, of course, but we’ve never encouraged that sort of folderol around here. It isn’t good for our image, if you know what I mean.”
“I was just telling Winter that I have no intention of making an issue of the legend,” Dean said firmly. “Many old buildings have such rumors connected to them. Once the inn is restored and we’re doing business, I’m confident that we’ll put the legend to rest.”
The mayor nodded in satisfaction. “I look forward to holding a ribbon-cutting ceremony when you’re ready to open. My great-grandfather once owned that inn, and his son after him. My family has strong ties to the place.”
Dean lifted an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware of that.”
“Never been a hint of scandal connected to our name,” Vandover added flatly. “Any rumors you might hear to the contrary are just that. Unfounded rumors. Don’t you listen to’em, you hear?”
“Er—sure.” Dean decided right then to find out exactly what “rumors” were connected to his inn. He needed to be prepared. Maybe Mark Winter could supply him with details in exchange for an interview.
THE WAITRESS in the Razorbacks sweatshirt took Dean’s money at the cash register. “I heard what the mayor said,” she commented, making Dean think ruefully that eavesdropping seemed to be an acceptable hobby around here. “About the ghosts?”
“What about them, dear?” Mae asked when Dean would have let the subject drop without comment.
“They’re real, all right. My mom knew someone once who knew someone who saw them.”
“Them?” Mae repeated avidly as Dean suppressed a sigh.
The young woman nodded. “There’s two of’em. A man and a woman. S’posed to be twins.”
Dean almost groaned at that. Not only was he expected to believe his inn was haunted by ghosts, he had twin ghosts. Great.
“If you’re going to see’em, it’ll prob’ly be on Valentine’s Day,” the woman added. “It’s their birthday. And the day they died.”
“Valentine ghosts,” Mae said with a sigh, her eyes gleaming impishly. “Isn’t that romantic, Dean?”
He muttered something incomprehensible, threw some money on the counter and left the diner with little more than a grudgingly polite nod at the waitress.
“I don’t know about you,” Mae murmured as they climbed into the car. “But now I’m more cunous about the ghosts than ever.”
“We’ve got a lot more to worry about than ghosts. Plumbing and wiring, dry rot, modernizing the kitchen, refurbishing all the rooms. Paint, wallpaper, carpeting, wood to be stripped and resealed, fixtures to replace...”
Mae smiled. “lt’s going to be great fun, isn’t it, Dean?”
He relaxed enough to return her smile. “Yes,” he said. “I think it will.”
HAVING FULLY EXPLORED the inside of the inn, Dean concentrated on the outside while his aunt put away the groceries they’d purchased on the way home.
The sprawling two-story structure opened into a large lobby and reception area, with the public dining room off to the right. The kitchen, a smaller dining room, four small bedrooms, two baths and a private sitting room were at the back of the ground floor. The ten guest rooms were on the second floor, each with a tiny, but adequate, private bathroom not much larger than a walk-in closet. Above that, of course, was the attic.
Dean didn’t want to think about the attic right now.
Built in 1892 by James Cameron, a British immigrant, the inn was country-style, with multiple shuttered windows and dormers, and an inviting wraparound porch. It had been mostly unoccupied for the past six years. Some of the windows were cracked, shutters were crooked, paint was peeling and faded and boards were splintered and rotted in places.
A few renovations had been made over the years, but general neglect had finally taken its toll. The grounds were a mess of dead weeds, sprawling bushes and unpruned, winter-denuded trees. The driveway was rutted, the footpaths broken and uneven, and the once-flourishing garden was overgrown and run-down.
Dean looked at the place and saw the simple elegance that had once been, the same look he hoped to achieve again.
So far, only the kitchen, two of the back bedrooms and the private sitting room were habitable. Freshly painted, papered and furnished with antiques and reproductions, the rooms had been decorated according to Dean’s instructions while he’d finished up his business in Chicago during the past month. He had considered the private living quarters the first priority; after all, he and Mae would be making this their home.
Stuffing his hands into the pockets of his heavy jacket, he strolled around the side of the building, mentally adding to his list of needed repairs. Had it been summer, the garden path would have been so choked with weeds and vines, walking down it would have been difficult. As it was, he sidestepped the thorny branches that threatened the fabric of his wool slacks.
A rotting, precariously leaning shack that was little more than a stack of old boards lay at the back of the grounds, at the very edge of the woods through which Dean planned to cut nature trails and hiking paths. He’d have to clear away that shack, eventually. It looked as old as the inn, and had long since deteriorated past usefulness.
There were a couple of other dilapidated outbuildings on the property, all of which had to go. He had vague plans to build a few guest cottages once business picked up enough to justify the extra investment—honeymoon cottages, perhaps.
He didn’t have to be a romantic to know how to capitalize on that human weakness.
It was late afternoon now, and long shadows stretched across the path in front of him. He had almost reached the old shack, when something made him stop.
Compared to Chicago at this time of year, it wasn’t a particularly chilly afternoon. The temperature hovered in the low fifties, but Dean was suddenly cold, right through to the bone. Instinctively, he moved back a few steps. The coldness went away.
Frowning, Dean moved slowly forward. The coldness hit him again in the very same spot on the path, a deep, skin-tightening chill that made him decidedly uneasy. He wasn’t standing in a shadow, nor in a low spot, and there was no other apparent physical explanation as to why it would be colder here than it was five feet away. But it was.
The hairs at the back of his neck rose with a tickle of premonition. Reluctantly, warily, he turned.
She was standing on the path right behind him, so close he could almost touch her.
He kept his hands in his pockets. He had a nagging suspicion that his fingers would go right through her if he reached out.
The outline of a straggly, winter-dead rosebush was dimly visible through her, as though seen through sheer white fabric. Only her face was perfectly clear—and as beautiful as it had been when he’d seen her in the attic.
“I,” he told her stupidly, “do not believe in ghosts.”
She smiled. Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged. At least, nothing that he could hear. She looked suddenly frustrated, as though annoyed that he hadn’t responded to whatever she’d tried to say.
Which, of course, was ridiculous. “I am not going crazy,” he said emphatically.
She shook her head, her expression reassuring.
He wasn’t reassured.
He thought of the people who’d questioned his sanity when he’d quit his fast-track career in Chicago and announced that he’d bought a run-down old inn in an off-the-beaten-path town in central Arkansas. He thought of his ex-wife’s recent telephone call, not so subtly inquiring if he was having a nervous breakdown following their divorce a year ago. Irritably, he’d assured her that he wasn’t.
He hoped to hell no one would ask him that question now. He wasn’t at all sure he could answer so positively.
“This is absurd,” he said, his eyes never leaving the woman’s face. “It’s a joke, right? A twisted way of welcoming me to town? Someone’s idea of having fun with the newcomer? What are you, a projection?”
A look of sympathy crossed her face, overriding what might have been exasperation.
Great. Now even his hallucination felt sorry for him.
He raised his voice a bit. “Whoever is behind this, ha, ha. Great joke. You’ve really pulled a good one. You must introduce yourself sometime so that I can fully express my appreciation for your inventiveness. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do inside. You can turn off your projector.”
The woman didn’t leave. She reached out a hand to him, her dark eyes beseeching.
“Great effect,” he muttered, shaken despite himself by the appeal in her...well, her haunted eyes. “But wouldn’t it have been spookier at night?”
He shrugged. “I’ll make it easier for you,” he said to whoever was listening. “I’ll turn around. When I turn back, the ‘ghost’ will have vanished, okay?”
Her lips moved. He thought she said, “Wait.”
He turned. Counted to fifty. Then to seventy-five, just to make sure he’d allowed the prankster plenty of time to comply with his demand. When he turned back, the woman was gone.
Exhaling in relief, Dean briefly considered searching the grounds, finding the practical joker and rearranging his teeth. He restrained the uncharacteristically ferocious impulse with a proud lift of his chin. Dean Gates could take a joke as well as anyone. He wouldn’t have his new neighbors snickering and saying otherwise.
“Welcome to Destiny,” he muttered, shaking his head as he strode impatiently back to his supposedly haunted inn. “Home of ghosts and fruitcakes.”
He sincerely hoped his first day here hadn’t set a pattern for the rest of his stay, however long that might be.
“I TOLD YOU he wouldn’t be able to hear you,” Ian couldn’t seem to resist pointing out.
Watching wistfully as the man strode angrily down the path toward the inn, Anna sighed. “At least you have to acknowledge that he saw us that time.”
“You,” he corrected. “He saw you.”
“I’m sure he saw us both. It’s just that I was the one trying to speak to him. I was so sure he’d be able to hear me.”
“Sweetheart, you are a ghost. He can’t hear you. I’m not even sure he really saw you.”
“He saw me,” Anna insisted stubbornly. “And somehow, I’m going to make him hear me. I just have to try harder next time.”
“Anna—”
She whirled on him. “Do you have any better suggestions?” she demanded. “What do you want to do, drift around in limbo for eternity? At least I’m trying to free us!”
“I just don’t want you to be disappointed. It’s hard enough not knowing what happened to us, or why. We don’t know why we’re here, we don’t know what, if anything, can free us—or where we’d go if we could leave.”
“I know why we’re here. I’m certain it’s to clear our names, change the lies that we’ve heard told about us all these years. All we need is someone to help us find out the truth, someone who’ll tell everyone what really happened, and we’ll be free. It’s the only possibility that makes sense to me.”
Ian refused to argue with her anymore. After all, they’d been having this same pointless discussion for three-quarters of a century.
Anna turned away. Her brother was as tenacious as the blue-eyed man she’d been trying to talk to. She couldn’t help smiling as she thought of the man’s adamant insistence that he didn’t believe in ghosts, despite the evidence in front of him. He was a stubborn one, she mused.
But then, so was she.
