Walk In Moonlight - Kiss Me Forever Part 3

"I walk here all the time."

Ten minutes later they stood by Emily Reade's front gate. He waited. Surely he didn't expect her to invite him in? He was going to be disappointed.

"Thanks for the escort. I think I can find the way next time." She held out her hand.

A strong, cold hand grasped hers. "Take care, Dixie. I'll be seeing you around."

He waited at the gate as she walked up the path. Dixie turned and waved as she reached into her jeans pocket for the key. It felt warm after his fingers.

Without turning on her light, Dixie watched from her bedroom window as Christopher retraced his steps across the Green. Had he spoken the truth? Was that path by her house a shortcut to his? A few questions or a check on a map could answer that.

She watched him halfway across the Green until his silhouette faded in the dark.

Christopher Marlowe paused in front of Orchard House and willed himself to think about the library inside. He wouldn't think about its new guardian, her copper curls, her skin smooth as clotted cream, or the warm green eyes that glittered with intelligence.

Most of all he'd ignore the warm rich blood that coursed though her veins. Temptations like that could ruin everything. With her ancestry, she was more likely adversary than ally. He wouldn't forget that. He'd learned that much in four hundred years.

"You're an incompetent idiot! What this time? Scaredy cat frightened by a ghost? Give me strength!" Sebastian felt the blood rise up his neck as he snarled at James.

Pale eyes glowered back. "You try it! Nothing's there. I've gone through that room twice."

"Make it three times!"

"You try poking round that mausoleum in the dark. I'm not going back."

A nasty chuckle vibrated in Caughleigh's chest. "You will. I'm taking LePage round the property in the morning. It'll be on the market by tomorrow afternoon. You've got one more night to find everything."

"Or, dear Uncle?"

"Or you'll find we're not as benign as you thought. We can be quite nasty when roused and crossed. As the old ladies found out."

That hit home. Sebastian smiled. He had James where he needed him.

"It's beautiful." Dixie ignored Caughleigh's benevolent amus.e.m.e.nt. She'd need more than a morning to grasp the reality of owning such a house. Mysterious and eerie last night, the red brick glowed a welcoming warmth in the mid-morning sun. The cracked paving stones were worn, not hazardous, and the garden looked neglected, not sinister. But the elegance of the house remained, like a weary dowager resting her tired bones in the sun. "How old is it?"

Sebastian shrugged. "Hard to say exactly. Too heavy to be Georgian. Maybe Queen Anne. The local historical society might know something. I think it's listed. The back is much older of course."

Dixie held out her hand for the key; it was four inches long and weighed several ounces. The lock turned slowly but it clicked.

Dixie grasped the dulled bra.s.s k.n.o.b and pushed open the heavy black door.

A musty smell and cold, damp air hung about the wide shabby hallway. Dustcovers protected the heavy furniture but a film of dust covered the marble fireplace and obscured the windows. Cobwebs decorated the crystal chandelier and the banister rails. It didn't take much to imagine mice nesting in the rolled up carpet by the wall. "Miss Haversham would feel quite at home here."

Sebastian Caughleigh smiled. "Your aunts had a reputation for eccentricity."

"Surely they didn't live like this?" She remembered Gran's obsessive spring cleaning and her insistence on linen napkins and polished gla.s.sware.

"Miss Faith died almost two years ago, she tended to be the organizer. I'm afraid Miss Hope didn't manage too well and the house has been empty since October."

Sebastian strode from room to room like a zealous realtor. Dixie followed, collecting impressions: a wide, airy drawing room with faded pastel curtains, a dining room with a heavy, black oak table and exquisite pale wood paneling with a carved fireplace to match. The breakfast room looked out on an overgrown flower garden. A small parlor with worn modern furniture and an ancient TV looked like the Misses Underwood's everyday room.

The kitchen was dark, low-ceilinged and several steps down from the rest of the house. "Much older," Sebastian said. "They built the new house onto an old farmhouse."

Upstairs were four bedrooms and another room filled with books from floor to ceiling. Dixie figured that must be the collection Christopher had referred to. A sixth room held an immense claw-footed tub, a pedestal washbasin large enough to bathe a small Doberman, and twin toilets with a double mahogany seat.

Dixie stared. "Why double toilets?"

Sebastian coughed. "Old-fas.h.i.+oned. You'd never see it nowadays. Whoever buys the house will have to modernize."

"But worth it. With some money spent on it, this would be a beautiful house."

"We need to get back. I promised the key to Mike Jenkins before lunch."

Dixie wasn't about to be hustled out of her own house. "I'm staying. He can meet me here."

Those dark eyes almost popped. "Staying? There's no water or electricity."

"I can manage for a couple of hours."

He frowned. "Fine. Drop the key by the office later."

The house settled back into quiet as the noise of his engine faded. An hour of signing papers in his office had settled her possession of her property. She wanted time to herself to enjoy owning this wonderful house before she did the practical thing and put it on the market. How much would a house like this fetch? More than enough to buy and furnish a nice, sensible house back in South Carolina. She'd ask Mike whatever-his-name when he arrived.

He never turned up. But James did.

Busy removing dustcovers in the breakfast room, Dixie heard the front door open and footsteps cross the hall and start up the stairs. "Hi, I'm back here," she called, a.s.suming it was the realtor. She opened the door into the hall and James stared at her from the third step.

"You're here?" he asked, gaping. Why shouldn't she be? Hadn't he heard of knocking on doors? "Don't let me disturb you if you're busy." He took another step up.

"I won't." A half-dozen strides took her to the foot of the stairs. "Going somewhere?" she asked, one hand on her hip. He squeezed out a laugh. "Sorry, I thought Uncle told you. I'm looking at the furniture. A friend of mine is interested in making you an offer."

"I'm not interested in selling." At least not to any friend of his.

That slowed him down. "Well... surely... I mean..."

"My furniture isn't for sale."

He stepped down. "If you change your mind, let me know." He stood far too close to be polite in any language.

"It's not for sale, and not likely to be in the near future." Dixie held open the front door.

Even James couldn't miss the heavy hint.

He held out his hand. Dixie took it out of common courtesy and wished she hadn't when he squeezed. "See you at the Barley Mow tonight?"

Dixie grunted as she shut the door. Why had James just walked in? He'd seemed right at home. Was he used to coming and going? She shrugged and went upstairs. The bedrooms could wait, but she did want to look at her books. If Christopher was to be believed, her aunts had an interesting collection.

The book room proved too much for one afternoon. She'd come back tomorrow with a flashlight if she couldn't get the electricity turned on. She looked around at the packed shelves, the stacks of books on the center table and the scattered footprints in the dust. Someone had been in here. Who? The person she'd seen, or imagined last night?

She looked at her watch. Her two hours had become four and no sign of Mike the realtor. She'd go back to Emily Reade's and get a much needed shower and find somewhere other than the Barley Mow for dinner.

She walked around the backyard before she left. Tool sheds, half-collapsed coal stores, and an old washhouse spanned one side of the kitchen garden. The gate she'd run through last night stood open but she couldn't close it. The wood at the bottom jammed on something. She hadn't imagined those lights last night. A heavy, black flashlight lay in the ankle-deep gra.s.s.

"I think that's everything for now, Miss LePage."

Dixie smiled at the bank manager and the chief cas.h.i.+er. Her breath didn't come clear enough to speak. With a couple of signatures, she'd just received ten times as much money as she'd earned since grad school. And that was only a beginning. "This is rather a surprise." Rather a surprise! She was getting British. They were lucky she wasn't dancing around like the sweepstake winners on TV.

"You'll need to make some investment decisions." Dixie nodded. "I know. It's just this will take some getting used to."

"Of course." The manager smiled, delighted to have her as a customer, no doubt. "Contact us when you're ready. You have several options. With your non-resident status, there are some very attractive offsh.o.r.e opportunities."

"How about I get back with you next week? Same time next Friday?" Dixie shuffled through her bag for her appointment book but she couldn't find it. She took the business card he offered and scribbled a note on the back before tucking it in her pocket.

She needed to get out of here and think.

Two buildings down High Street stood the Copper Kettle. Dixie chose a wheelback chair by the window, searched in vain for the elusive appointment book, decided she'd left it at Emily's, ordered a pot of tea, and contemplated her future.

She had a small fortune in the bank and more to come after the sale of securities and the maturity of some bonds. More money than she'd imagined saving after a lifetime of work, and still more if she decided to sell the house.

It didn't make sense. Gran had struggled with Social Security and the little bit Grandpa had left, while her sisters had sat on a stash. True, they hadn't lived high on the hog; the house showed years of neglect. A couple of old scrooges. What else was new? Gran had despised them. "A pair of old witches!" she'd once replied to a teenaged Dixie's questions about her English relatives.

A smart person would sell the house to the highest bidder, grab the money and take the first plane home. But where was home? She'd as good as blown her job. The man she'd loved had thrown her over for a richer (okay, not richer now!) woman with social connections. Her worldly belongings filled her neighbor's garage and still left room for his lawn mower and workbench. And she didn't possess a living relative on either side of the Atlantic. She'd give herself a month's holiday. She had the money and a roof over her head. Why not stay awhile?

Sebastian Caughleigh's face appeared distorted through the old bottle gla.s.s of the bow window. He took Dixie's answering wave as an invitation. As he sat down on the chair he'd pulled out, Dixie suppressed a wave of irritation. She didn't want to talk house, or money, or furniture. She wanted to luxuriate in financial independence.

"Fixed up things at the bank?" He signaled for the white-haired waitress. "Good to get it settled before you leave."

"Pretty much. I'm going to take my time. Thought I'd stay a few weeks. Maybe a month or so."

"Oh?" He frowned. Then smiled that smile. Did he practice in front of a mirror? "That will be nice," he said. "Since you're staying, would you like to meet some people this weekend? A couple I know, Janet and Larry Whyte-he's in insurance-are having people over tomorrow. How about I pick you up round seven? We can go over for drinks, you'd meet some of the locals and have dinner."

Why not? If she was staying awhile, it would be smart to get to know someone other than Emily and Smarmy James. "Sounds nice. I'd love to come. What does Janet do?"

"Janet?" Sebastian frowned.

"Janet Whyte, is she in insurance like Larry?"

"Oh no, she does something in one of the hospitals in Guildford." He made her sound like a candy striper. He stretched out his long legs under the table and sipped his coffee. "Do you have plans for this afternoon?"

"Just exploring my house." His legs s.h.i.+fted against hers. Dixie stood up. "Sorry to run but I've got things to do."

The house was as cold as a damp towel and this was early May. What would it be like in November? Or February? But the hour she spent in the phone booth on the corner paid off. By four o'clock Dixie had electricity and water reconnected and a promise of telephone service in the next week or so. She'd also discovered the impossibility of cleaning house with cold water.

"Could you make sure the water heater's working?" Dixie asked the service man from the electric board.

"You don't have one," he replied in the sort of voice used on a slow-witted child-or a foreigner. "That Aga of yours does the water."

"That thing?" Dixie asked, looking at the cream-colored behemoth that rilled the kitchen fireplace.

"Yup," he replied, s.h.i.+fting his tool belt. "One of the originals, that is. Looks like a prewar one to me." Which war? The one with the colonies? " 'Course, you could get it converted. Be a lot easier if it ran on gas or oil." He showed her the location of the meter at the back of the cupboard under the stairs, behind mops, brooms, an antique vacuum cleaner and a pair of wooden skis, and the location of the fuse box in the bas.e.m.e.nt. "Need to get the place rewired," he warned her as he left.Dixie stared at the Aga in the empty kitchen. She'd barely come to terms with the china sinks and wooden draining boards, to say nothing of the open fireplaces in every room and the absence of any form of furnace. Now it seemed she heated water on a stove. Would she have to chop down trees to get a decent shower? Her great-aunts had a fortune in the bank and lived like pioneers. If she had a phone, she'd call Sebastian Caughleigh and insist on selling the house before Monday.

"h.e.l.lo. Mind if we come in?"

Dixie opened the door to her acquaintance from the car park.

"Oh, it is you," she said. "I knew it had to be. I'm Emma Gordon, your neighbor, just across the way." Her head nodded towards the new houses on the other side of the lane. "And this is Sally Smith."

The second woman smiled. "Welcome to Bringham. Thought we'd pop over and see if there's anything we can do."

"Have you any idea how to get that thing going?" Dixie pointed to the lurking Aga.

They had.

A search through the outbuildings discovered a shed of what looked like coal but which the others called "anthracite." Emma ran home for charcoal and a box of three-inch-long matches. "Swan Vestas," she explained. "They're easier for things like this."

Dixie took her word for it.

Lifting what Dixie imagined must be a cooking surface, they tipped in a bucket of anthracite, a good couple of handfuls of charcoal and a few twists of paper. Satisfied the fuel had caught, Emma dropped the lid back and smiled. "Give it a couple of hours and you'll have it going. My mum had one. Just top it up twice a day. It'll be brilliant in the winter."

Dixie decided not to stay long enough to find out.

Emma went home a second time and returned with a large, brown teapot, a bottle of milk and a tin of gingerbread. "You look as if you need it," she said, setting everything on the kitchen table.

Dixie didn't argue, but felt a stiff gin might do even better.

"Staying to sell the house?" Sally asked.

"I don't know. I thought I'd take a month or so to decide."

"It'll be nice to have someone living here," Emma said. "Ian and I worried about vandalism or squatters."

"Vandals?" Dixie asked, remembering Wednesday night. "Have you seen anything odd?"

Emma shrugged. "Lights sometimes. The villagers say the old ladies haunt it. More likely local yobs out on a lark."

"I thought I saw a light, the night before last."

"You were here after dark?" Emma seemed either impressed or horrified.

"Just strolled by. Admiring my property, I suppose."

"It is a beautiful house," said Sally, "or will be after a lot of work. It's a shame they let it go so, but it must have been hard for two old ladies on a fixed income."Dixie wasn't about to tell the level the income had been "fixed" at. It still gave her s.h.i.+vers when she thought about it.

"I'd be careful around here at night. It's a bit lonely. Get good locks if you're staying." Emma sounded like Gran. "And let Sergeant Grace know. He'll keep an eye on things. The police house is on the left, past the church."

Between the two of them, they'd have her life organized-but it didn't feel like an intrusion. They were two women concerned about a third being alone. They knew the neighborhood and Dixie sensed she'd need friends if she stayed.

After they left, Dixie ran the geriatric vacuum over the ground floor and took down all the drapes and heaped them on the backseat of her car. She'd find a cleaner in the morning and get in touch with the locksmith, and Stan Collins. She'd need the car for at least another month.