Hawthorne Page 3

  Emma Grace hadn't said anything when he told of the rumors swirling about Margaret's involvement in Alma's death. Of course, one bit of hearsay didn't make for an absolute truth, but Margaret's hand-written rundown of the grapevine gossip did nothing to dispel his curiosity. But he couldn't speak for what Emma Grace thought, and at this point neither had she. She'd merely exited the stuffy attic, leaving behind the warm scent of honeysuckle and a longing within him for the way things used to be. Her departure filled his heart with a panic that she might keep right on going, taking the last pieces of him with her.

  It wasn't a matter of if but when.

  Still, him facing those particular demons would be no less difficult than Emma Grace facing her own — of that he was certain. Death had such a way about it.

  Noah remained in the attic after she left, unsure of where she'd go, but giving her a good head start to wherever it was. He sensed she might need it. Finding out a grandparent had been accused of murder — let alone to think the accusations might be true — would derail almost anyone. Even though the past was long buried and the truth, whatever it may be, lacked any real impact on the present, it had to shake up Emma Grace a little to hear her family wasn't what she thought. She had no one else in the world. Her mother had died when Emma Grace was just a toddler, marking another tragic accident in the history of Hawthorne — a history which got a bit darker with each envelope he breached in search of any clues to Margaret's missing documents.

  But as powerful as the need grew in his throat to escape the plantation home and its dark secrets — in particular before he had the misfortune of joining the ranks of its victims — Noah couldn't walk away without doing one last thing for the place: offering it the closure he'd spent the last decade so desperately wanting for himself.

  Although Hawthorne was the only home he'd ever known, he wasn't attached. More of the fondness and sense of responsibility he held for the place vacated his conscience with every secret unfurled, but the fact remained that the greater part of Noah left when Emma Grace did. Anything he had left in Hawthorne, he didn’t want. He just didn't want anything else, either, so he stayed.

  As for the missing will and the rumors of his inheritance, he couldn't deny his curiosity but no amount of supposition would change one thing: he didn't desire the house. He didn't want its ghosts or its tragedies, and he didn't want to carry the weight of its sordid past on his shoulders. He'd rather play host to the good memories, even though they weren't enough to keep the myth of the majestic Hawthorne alive — at least not in his mind. He'd probably never drive by and admire the gleaming white façade with the tunnel of live oaks and the fingers of Spanish moss like the tourists so often did. Not without thinking of a blue Mustang, anyway.

  Nor would he ooh and aah over the sprawling staircase. Instead, he'd see it and remember the thrill of sailing down the banister after Emma Grace. Other folks might see the grandeur of the front hall, but he was much more likely to remember the string of profanity forced on his young ears when Margaret realized they'd oiled the rail to make the slide faster — not with the expensive English oil she preferred. Rather, they'd used cooking oil from the kitchen, spurring Margaret to use the broom to chase them in a most unladylike manner clear across the yard, shouting threats and obscenities he'd yet to forget.

  He treasured those memories — survived on them day in and day out — but Noah didn't want to own Hawthorne. What he wanted was to put the house to rest in his past. If the rumors were true and Margaret had left the estate to him, he knew he could sell it to an organization or a person who would appreciate its history. In doing so, he'd be able to give his dad and Gil and Abigail something with which to walk away — a way to restart away from the shadows of the manor. If the will was never found, and without Emma Grace's claim as the last Hawthorne heir, the state would take over the house and they'd all be free of it, but such a resolution would do little to settle the questions rumbling about in his gut. Noah wanted closure, and he knew the same desire was the reason behind Emma Grace's reappearance.

  Not a beginning, but an end.

  Restless, he paced the bland circle of light offered by the dust-coated bulb dangling overhead. He'd been in the attic a few times, but he hadn't ventured far from where he stood. The space was huge, and the variances in the rooflines and pitches left plenty of avenues unexplored. He didn't know why in the world Margaret would stash a will in the attic, but the idea had become cliché for a reason — it must have happened before. But, he reasoned, most folks weren't afraid of an old woman — a ghost, of all things — lurking in the shadows of their attics.

  Noah was.

  He made a move to kill the light, but before he touched it a flicker on the outskirts of his forty-watt island caught his eye. He tipped his head to examine the bulb, wondering if it had somehow moved, but his fingers had yet to find purchase on the pull. He tried to study his surroundings, but a cursory examination of the area proved difficult thanks to the spots marking his vision, leading him to the rather predictable conclusion that staring at a light bulb had not been in his best interest. But whatever compelled him to look past the merger of light and shadow into the dark corner was stronger than his fear — stronger, even, than common sense — so he eased into the darkness.

  And saw her face.

  Indefinable pain exploded through his skull and wracked his body, bringing him to his knees. Through the power of tunnel vision, he was rocketed back ten years in time. There he stood in a nervous sweat, seventeen years of courage all gathered and reserved for the moment he'd ask her for the world. Weeks of planning had come down to a single act: the caretaker's son palming a dime store ring intended for an heiress.

  Emma Grace was his.

  He was close enough to reach for her — to revel in the flirtatious, come-hither grin she wore as she backed away from him on the roof, her hair blazing under the kind of moonlight that set the world on fire. He'd touched his lips to hers, and the weight of a decade had yet to fade the light pressure of her hand stroking his cheek as she fell into his arms. They'd shared their last kiss; it was a reality he never saw coming, and yet he wouldn't change a thing if he had known. Things were like that with them — always perfect.

  Until the moment she'd caught his lip between her teeth in a playful nibble that still drew an intimate surge through him when he thought of it. Then she'd run the length of the walkway, hair flying, bare feet smacking the wood. Two rails stood between them and nothing, and the world was theirs.

  Then he blinked.

  In the infinitesimal moment of darkness Emma Grace screamed, and Noah watched from a helpless distance in disbelief as the form of an old woman appeared between them. The leering, decaying figure carried the scent of swamp rot — a horrific stench on a gentle breeze — and pressed relentlessly closer to Emma Grace. She'd scrambled, running backward, and before he could say stop, before the word forced itself from his brain to his mouth, she'd taken one step too far and plummeted over the railing. The sound of her sliding — screaming — echoed through every why and what if he'd collected over the years, as if any amount of wishing could change a thing.

  Before the echo of Emma Grace's cries had died in his ears, the woman twisted and sneered — a lurid, heartless upturn of her face. It was the last thing Noah remembered before he blew right through her, running in terror to the edge which had taken Emma Grace, as if he could somehow catch her and make things right.

  Then he was on his knees, begging to wake up from the nightmare that had just played before him.

  And that was it.

  The attic grew cold, the brittle air sucking Noah from his past. He blinked, his unfocused eyes settling on a murky disturbance of air. Had he seen the woman at all? Glancing around, he was startled to find himself kneeling on the plank flooring in a deep recess of the attic, far from the relative safety of the light. Then confusion gave way to the cold. Terror crept into his bones, and was left with one simple thought.

  He had to get t
o Emma Grace.

  ***

  Was it the scene of her grandmother's crime? Emma tried to laugh to herself, but it came as little more than a nervous stutter. The widow's walk atop the roof of Hawthorne Manor may have made lasting repercussions on Emma's own life — to say nothing of Alma's — but it was Emma's favorite spot in the entire state of Louisiana. With the roof dropping from underfoot on both sides, the velvet sky seemed to surround her. She used to try to count the stars with Noah, but their attempts to touch the dark always ended with their fingers twined together. There was always a moment where their quiet laughter drifted to an end, and in its place was the kind of awareness which came with falling in love. And oh, how she loved him. And this night… the sound of it took her back and changed her all over again.

  Truthfully, she had no intention of revisiting the spot of her fall. Even as she climbed the winding stairs into the cupola which led to the widow's walk, she resisted the trip. She'd regain nothing but any hard edges time had scoured from her memories. Be they good or bad, the hurt and loss of her recollections would be real.

  But to her surprise — and in spite of her inner protests — Emma's first steps on the walkway in a decade were light, her heart oddly free. Even when her thoughts went to Noah, they came with peace and no trace of the regret she'd harbored for so long.

  Enjoying the sensation, she sank into the familiarity of her home and stared over the railing at the sprawling plantation. In the distance, moonlight skated across the ruddy surface of the Mississippi, the small ripples of waves lobbing on a distinct course to the south.

  She was home.

  Alma.

  Alma's home. Alma, who met her end in that precise spot. Could the irony exist?

  Alma!

  The apparition grew from a shimmer — a mere blip in the atmosphere — to a fully embodied spirit, all in the space of time required for Emma's jaw to drop. The instinct to run kicked in, and with it the terror of her fall came back to her.

  But she didn't run. Emma's spine steeled. She would not back off. Not this time.

  The silence was awkward, Emma unsure. But Alma didn't chase Emma. Instead, she seemed to beckon her.

  Emma took a hesitant step in Alma's direction.

  Then another.

  Alma retreated, matching Emma's distance with some of her own.

  Where was Alma taking her?

  Their cadence took them to the cupola and the entry to the widow's walk.

  "Emma Grace!" Noah's voice cut through from a great distance, frantic. "Emma Grace!"

  From the corner of her eye, she spied him on the lawn. But she didn't dare look away from Alma, as if she could keep the specter from disappearing by holding the woman's form captive in her gaze. I won't fall, Noah, she thought, hoping he'd somehow feel her words.

  Alma gathered her skirts and faded through the small doorway. Literally — she was gone.

  Emma passed through the threshold with caution, finding herself alone in the eight-sided structure. The glass and wood shut out the sounds of the night, and she could no longer hear Noah calling her name. Just dead silence.

  Then, inexplicably, she saw it.

  ***

  Noah had never run so fast in his life. Not even the night Emma Grace tumbled off the rooftop. In those moments, his legs had been concrete. Now, he flew, his feet thunderous on the two-hundred-year-old staircase, his arms tearing at the woodwork as he skidded through doorways trying to get to her. If he stopped to think about what he was doing, he might slow down, but it was as if his body demanded this second chance to get to her in time.

  The crude wooden ladder to the cupola had been replaced at some point with a spiral metal staircase. When he reached it, he grabbed the wrought iron railing and used his own momentum to fling himself around the center pole. The clanging of his shoes in the bare space was deafening, but nothing slowed him. This time he'd save Emma Grace or he'd die trying.

  As soon as his head broke the plane of the cupola floor, he spun in a circle, fighting the last few stairs with sideways and backwards steps. The space was small… she couldn't have gone far. She couldn't be…

  Then he saw her. She knelt on the floor, her attention drawn to a painting leaning against the wall. He immediately recognized the frame and the style of the artistry as one of the Hawthorne ancestral portraits, and it only took a quick glance to know who was pictured.

  "Alma."

  Emma Grace glanced up, as if she'd just noticed him. He could have woken the dead with his chase through Hawthorne Manor — and he had no desire to know how literal that statement might be — and his sweet Emma Grace appeared as pleasantly surprised to see him as if she'd just opened her door to find him waiting with an armload of wildflowers. Instead, he was gulping humid air and dripping sweat on the dusty, unfinished hardwood floor while she sat in some sort of ethereal glow.

  "You think it's her?" she asked.

  "It's her." He nodded, still trying to keep his chest from heaving. He didn't know how he knew. The woman in the picture bore little resemblance to the loathsome, ignoble creature he'd had the misfortune of meeting twice in his lifetime, but the most recent encounter had yet to leave his retinas and the first had been burned on his memory. It was definitely her.

  Emma Grace stared at the image of the ghost, her face an unreadable melting pot of emotion. "This picture wasn't here earlier," she said.

  Of course not. Now things were moving themselves around the manor.

  "Let's put it in the hall, Noah." Her voice quiet, almost indiscernible over his heavy breaths, she added, "Alma should be with the rest of the family. I think she'll be at peace that way."

  Though tempted to question Emma Grace’s logic, he didn't. Truth was, he didn't care where the portrait was. He wanted to go back to her eighteenth birthday — the first for either one of them they hadn't shared — so they could roll their eyes over her sitting with the artist. Her birthday would be the day her portrait was added to the stern lineup greeting visitors to Hawthorne. There should have been a big party and a grand unveiling, but there had been none of that.

  Instead, the house had been a tomb. He remembered it well.

  "Anything you want," he said. And he meant it.

  Noah reached for the portrait, his fingers closing gingerly over the aged frame. He didn't love the feeling of Alma's painted eyes boring into him. In fact, the feeling of being watched was so strong he felt sure she was there with them, but he wasn't going to look. Instead, he focused on the frame, noting without surprise it matched the others downstairs. The realization led to the question of where exactly the portrait would go, but it was one he didn't have to ask.

  It would occupy Emma Grace's vacant spot. There was nowhere else.

  He barely had a measureable grip on the frame when noise ripped through the room. He and Emma Grace traded looks. Then he tipped the portrait forward and peered through the moonlit space to find a manila folder taped to the back. The paper was loose, the light rustle echoing through the cupola. Curiosity growing, he slid a finger under the flap and carefully extracted the contents.

  Inside was Margaret's will.

  Emma Grace's eyes brightened with excitement. "The will! Why would Grandmother leave her will on Alma's portrait?"

  Noah glanced up from the pages in his hand. "There's a note." He paused, scanning ahead before sharing the words with Emma Grace. "She didn't want the estate settled until Alma's portrait had been returned to its proper place on the wall with the others."

  "Then let's put her there." Without another word, Emma Grace rose from her spot on the floor and started down the stairs.

  Noah tucked the documents back into the envelope, then hoisted the portrait. He settled the painting safely in his arms, but didn't follow her. Instead, he watched her go, lost in the bitter sweetness of her leaving.

  She must have missed his footsteps, for she paused and shifted to see him. "Noah?"

  He stood motionless, his heart churning in the utter silence as s
he made her way toward him. She was beautiful. So stunningly beautiful he couldn't breathe. Years of wanting her came together, colliding in that one instant and stealing the oxygen from his lungs.

  Emma Grace's eyes were locked on his. Her return didn't stop at the top of the stairs. She didn't slow when she neared him.

  She didn't stop at all.

  Before his mind fully comprehended what was happening, she'd leaned into him and pressed her lips to his. Her mouth was impossibly cool, an unbearable contrast to the heat simmering between them, skewering his every thought. But he didn't think. He couldn't.

  He could only surrender.

  Every dream, every yearning for her existed in that moment. If he had any sense he'd have dropped the portrait and swept her into his arms. He'd have cradled her face in his hands, stroked her cheek, and buried his fingers in her hair — anything to convince his heart she was real, she was there. But he did none of those things. Instead, he froze, clutching the painting of the woman who ripped apart his world, his mind refusing to believe what sent his body reeling: Emma Grace had always been his.

  Far too soon, she pulled away. She smiled, a sad one full of understanding, and in those precious seconds, he knew.

  She was saying goodbye.

  Noah had the will. He should be thrilled, but there was only one thing on his mind.

  Emma Grace had her closure.

  Soon she'd be gone.

  Chapter Five

  Morning dawned bright — the last kind of day Noah wanted on the horizon. If the universe were the least bit cooperative, it would have drizzled gray rain, but instead the sunrise had poured through the windows, lighting the portrait of Alma where it hung in the front hall along with the others. Twenty-some Hawthorne ancestors with cold stares fixed on the caretaker's son.

  Peace. The notion felt ridiculous, as if another picture along the stern row of faces could make a cosmic difference. But it would only take one. All he had to do was think of how his life would be different if Emma Grace's were there, and he knew.