Hawthorne (4 page)

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 she 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.

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.

She was gone
.

Noah
stood in the garden watching heavy purple and yellow blooms sway in the soft morning air. He gripped his coffee cup, clinging to it because there was nothing else left on which to hold. Not even the plantation. Margaret had left it to some sort of preservation group — a puzzling move considering she'd spent a small fortune updating and modernizing it. A visitor hoping for a glimpse of life in the eighteen hundreds would be sorely disappointed by the state-of-the-art amenities, but perhaps the grounds and outbuildings would prove to be a bit more suitable for tourists.

Even though the rumors regarding the
deed to Hawthorne Manor hadn't been true and Noah wasn't granted the keys to the estate, Margaret had been more than generous with him, his father, Gil, and Abigail. Aside of leaving a small stipend for the house, Margaret split her fortune between them. They each had more than enough to start over, to leave Hawthorne Manor and its secrets and ghosts behind. After putting up with Margaret's demanding nature, the windfalls had arguably been well-earned. More importantly, they were much appreciated.

All that was left was goodbye.

"Found them car owners."

Noah glanced up, startled
, to see Gil standing next to him. He hadn't heard the gardener approach.

The old man shuffled his feet, shoving
his hands deep into his pockets. Even in the sweltering Louisiana summer, Gil stayed true to his uniform of overalls and long sleeve button up shirt. "They were hitchhiking. Said the car darn near drove itself to the estate. As soon as they got it stopped in the driveway, they hit the road and hoofed it. Don't even want the thing back."

"Is that so?
" Noah hid a smile. "You know what they say about these old places. They all have ghosts."

"Mmph.
" Gil leaned down to pluck a weed from alongside a stone set on the ground. "Spirits. If we got any here, don't reckon they'll rest easy with old Missus Hawthorne barking orders. Can't see her leaving this place even now — especially not if that granddaughter of hers is still hanging around." He reached to brush the granite, his fingers lingering for a moment before letting go. "Terrible way to go, falling from such height. From what I hear, the old woman's spirit was dead and gone the day they lowered that child's casket into the ground."

"
I think you're right, Gil." Noah couldn't vouch for Margaret, but he knew he'd lost a great part of his own being that day. They — whoever
they
were — said time had a way of healing old wounds, but it didn't seem much for erasing what his heart knew. Still, he'd been given his second chance.

Noah had found peace.

He knelt before the grave and took in the words, just as he had a thousand times before.

Emma Grace Hawthorne

Beloved granddaughter of Margaret Gray and Doyle Hawthorne

October 20, 1983 - June 30, 2001

A light breeze rustled the landscape, and with it came a breath of closure a decade in the making. Ten years had passed, but finally he sensed Emma Grace was free. Saying goodbye.

"I love you, Emma Grace.
" She wasn't around to hear the words, but he said them anyway. Then the wind curled around him, carrying the scent of honeysuckle, and his heart swelled.

Maybe she'd heard him after all.

About the Author

Sarah and her husband of what he calls “many long, long years” live on the mid-Atlantic coast with their six young children, all of whom are perfectly adorable when they’re asleep. She never dreamed of becoming an author, but as a homeschooling mom, she often jokes she writes fiction because if she wants anyone to listen to her, she has to make them up. (As it turns out, her characters aren’t much better than the kids). When not buried under piles of laundry, she may be found adrift in the Atlantic (preferably on a boat) or seeking that ever-elusive perfect writing spot where not even the kids can find her.

She loves creating unforgettable stories while putting her characters through an unkind amount of torture — a hobby that has nothing to do with living with six children. (Really.) Though she adores nail-biting mystery and edge-of-your-seat thrillers, Sarah writes in many genres including contemporary and ghostly paranormal romance. To find out what she’s up to now, please visit
her website
.