The House on Serpent Lake (Ghost, Romance, Fantasy) (16 page)

With a sob, Lindsay woke and sat up. The forest was gone. So was he.

More tears welled and she grabbed a tissue from her nightstand. The clock’s numbers flipped to 3:00 a.m.

It had been a dream, only a dream. So why was she feeling the woman’s heartbreak? Why she did want to go back to sleep and dream of him again, to be with him just one more time?

The woman had been so completely in love. Just looking at him had brought joy beyond anything Lindsay had ever experienced.

Bliss? Not quite. The woman’s eyes had been heavy with tears as she imprinted his image into her mind, her heart, knowing he would soon be lost to her.

Still torn from the woman’s melancholy, Lindsay grabbed another tissue. She paused. Her eyes widened.
The woman had imprinted his image …

No, it wasn’t possible. Still, she had to find out for sure.

She took the stairs to the attic and to the portrait she had painted.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The image staring back at Lindsay was the man from her dream.

Every instinct told her it was Galen, but how could she have known? How could a man who had died at least sixty years before invade her thoughts, her dreams?

After the first one in which he’d made love to her, she had tried to paint him, but she couldn’t remember how he’d looked. But something,
someone,
had guided her strokes. How? By invading her subconscious to lend his memories? That was bizarre, beyond reality. Nevertheless, there it was. She stood before the portrait, knowing she had captured the man from her dream.

Like the woman who had watched him carve the initials, Lindsay gazed lovingly at each feature, at the sadness in his eyes and wanted to kiss it away. Even now, the longing for him pulled at her, causing a fresh wave of tears.

How could she yearn for a man she never knew? If the man in her dream was Galen, then the woman had to be Frida.

Why was she dreaming about two lovers who had lived over sixty years ago?

Knowing she wouldn’t sleep the rest of the night, she headed downstairs to the kitchen. Perhaps after some strong coffee she would be better able to figure out what was happening.

Once the entire twelve cups dripped into her carafe, Lindsay filled her mug and took it to the dining room window.

Everything looked so normal. The morning sun was brightening the horizon, painting the forest with a golden light. Squawking crows circled the treetops to claim their branches, and sparrows went about their daily routine. So peaceful, so ordinary.

She spotted the black ash and pictured the initials surrounded by the carved heart. How could she possibly dream about an incident that may or may not have happened to someone else?

But the carved heart
did
exist. How could she explain that?

One possible theory, according to articles and lectures she’d attended in the past, was that she might be sensitive and picking up psychic impressions from the house.

If it were true, she had no idea why it might be happening. She didn’t want to know about another person’s life; she had enough to handle with her own. But that explanation was better than the old accusations, allegations she had stamped out and repressed for most of her life, accusations that had made her feel like a freak, like someone so peculiar she didn’t deserve to live.

Lindsay sipped her coffee, refusing to give credit to old wounds. But if there was something to psychic impressions, if she had, somehow, entered Frida’s mind, her emotions, why was the woman wondering how she could survive a life without her fiancée? They were planning to marry, so why would she lose him? It didn’t make sense. She couldn’t know then he’d soon die of a gunshot, one from her own hand at that—unless she were planning to kill him. But the woman in the dream had been so in love she’d never even consider harming him. So what had happened?

So many unanswered questions.

She had to find Harry. He might have heard something about Galen and the sisters and what had happened to cause such a tragic outcome. If she could find out more about the sisters, perhaps she could discover why she was so involved in their lives.

With only a passing thought to her husband and his business woes, she hurriedly dressed. She felt slightly hungry but was too impatient to find Harry to spend the time for breakfast. Maybe later she’d stop in the diner where Shirley worked.

Too edgy to walk, she took the car to the library, but it didn’t open until ten. Two long hours.

Good Lord, was everything conspiring against her?

She drove the block to Main Street, parked in front of the first diner, rushed in, looked around, and before the young waitress could greet her, spun around and left.

On to the next one. Please, please, Harry. Be there.

But she didn’t find him.

Forty-five minutes until the library opened. How could she pass the time without going insane?

Her stomach rumbled, so she stopped at the bakery for coffee and toast. Twenty minutes later, she walked to the library door and peered in. The inside lights were on and Karen Midthun was bent over some paperwork on the counter. This time the door opened.

Lindsay straightened her blouse and ran her hands through her hair. Had she even combed it this morning?

“Good morning,” she said. “You may not remember—”

Karen looked up with a smile. “Of course. You’re Mrs. Peterson.”

“Lindsay, please. I won’t keep you long, but I’m looking for Harry Halverson. I thought he might be able to tell me about …” she trailed off, wondering if she should divulge the true reason.

“About what?” Karen asked helpfully. “Perhaps I can help you.”

“He said he knew everyone, and I thought, I thought he could tell me more personal things about the town’s history.”

“Harry is out of town right now. He just left to visit his son. He goes every year about this time, but I’d be happy to select some books for you.”

Lindsay nearly wept with frustration, but she managed to talk to Karen and even left with some books, although she doubted she’d ever read them.

She wandered aimlessly downtown, looking in store windows, not seeing anything. She could call Eric, but while she wondered how he was doing, she couldn’t tell him what was happening. He would, she knew, still ridicule her and she couldn’t handle that now. She needed someone with whom she could confide, to voice her confusion, her fears.

Two women about her age walked by, talking and laughing, each carrying a package from a local gift shop. Lindsay watched them walk down the street and felt envious. Until she met Eric, she had spent most of her life feeling alone, isolated, as if she were observing people from behind a glass wall.

She wished she had a close friend nearby, but since she’d first arrived in Crosby, too many strange things had been happening to take her time and energy. Plus her concern over her failing marriage. She could admit it now. Her marriage was failing, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

Now she wished she had someone for the camaraderie, the sharing of secrets. Just to be able to voice her concerns to someone who cared would be cleansing. But there was no way she could introduce herself to someone. She could just image how that would go:

“Hello, I’m Lindsay Peterson, whose husband inherited Crosby’s haunted house, and I’m so sorry I haven’t met you before, but you see, I’ve been so busy with a ghost trying to seduce me and dreaming events from the sisters’ lives who lived there before that I haven’t had time to join anything or make myself known. But I’m happy to meet you now.”

She almost laughed at the mental picture that made.

She had always been a loner, so it wouldn’t be new for her to now do the best she could on her own.

Still, she wished she had someone who could help her.

In her kitchen, just as she was opening a can of tomato soup, Eric called. He said the normal things such as he missed her, and Lindsay automatically responded.

But did she miss him?

She realized with a start she hadn’t given him much thought.

Ever since they had first met, she had hated his business trips and counted the minutes until he called. Now she was listening but not hearing what he was saying, as if his life didn’t concern her. And, she had nothing to say to him.

“—and when we confronted him,” Eric said, “he finally broke down and admitted he’d taken the money. With some hard work, Mark and I may be able to save the company after all, thank God. It’ll mean I’ll have to stay another week or two, but it’s something I have to do.”

“That’s good,” Lindsay said absently, pouring cream into the can, then adding enough water to fill it. She emptied the liquid into the soup and stirred, wondering if any of the library books had any information she could use.

“It’s good I’ll have to stay in California?” His tone changed, sounded wary. Wary enough to jar her back to their conversation.

“I meant good you might be able to save the company.” She struggled for more to say, to be encouraging. After all, he was her husband, but he wasn’t interested in hearing about the strange events happening in her life, so she felt at a loss. She finally asked him about his stay and that got him talking. She made the appropriate responses, and soon after, they hung up.

After pouring her soup into a mug, she crumbled crackers in the mixture and walked into the dining room. Her conversation with her husband had been awkward. Not only did she lie about missing him, but she hadn’t even wanted to talk to him. Was she still upset because he hadn’t believed her? Of course. She desperately needed an ally, someone who could help her through one of the most difficult times in her life. But it was more than that.

She realized her feelings toward him had changed. While she still felt affection for him, it was a fondness similar to what she could feel toward a brother, uncle, or a friend.

No, she reasoned. A friend would at least listen to her even if he didn’t believe her story.

Never would she have thought this would happen. She had been so in love when they’d met.

Something had attracted her from the instant she first saw him, and when he took the empty seat next to her at the donut shop, she had nearly thrown her arms around him. Her reaction shocked her as she had seldom dated and preferred good movies, books, and her art to an active social life. True, he was nice-looking, but that wasn’t it. Animal magnetism? Yes, they’d made love many times in the beginning, but that still wasn’t it. Thinking back now, she realized she had felt love, just not necessarily physical—which would explain why she wasn’t that concerned over their now-sexless marriage.

When he returned home, they’d have to talk, to decide if they wanted to work on their marriage or to end it. But as before, she’d wait for a more appropriate time.

To end her marriage
. Never would she have considered she would be the one to fall out of love. But she had, she realized. Her obsession with a man who had lived and died before she was born was shutting out everything else in her life.

She took bites of her soup, the perfect mixture of the rich, tomatoey broth loaded with bits of crunchy saltines, and sought the ash tree. When she found it, she felt as if she were greeting an old friend.

She smiled, remembering the look Galen had given Frida, so filled with love. Frida had gazed at the heart, the initials, and … her mug halfway to her lips, Lindsay paused. There was something about the initials … That letter, the first one in the last set of initial, appeared strange for an ‘F.’ How had it looked? She concentrated, trying to see it better, but it was fuzzy, like dreams usually are. She tried to remember what she had seen that day Eric had led her away, something she hadn’t consciously observed.

Think, Lindsay. It’s important.

She remembered finding the heart that day, the initials, thinking that on the last set, the first initial she’d assumed was an ‘F’ looked strange, as if there were more to the faded-out letter. How could there be more to an ‘F’?

A sudden idea made her catch her breath. Could that letter have possibly been a ‘B’? No, it wasn’t possible. Yet it would explain so many things.

She had to check.

She ran to the kitchen, dropped the mug onto the counter, and dashed out the back door. Without worrying about brambles, insects, or anything other than the initials, she cut through the forest to the ash tree. Standing on her toes, she studied the first letter in the last set of initials, tracing the top of the ‘F’ with her finger. It did extend, and so faded it was barely noticeable, the mark curved back into another curve. A ‘B’! GH loves
BP
, the initials read.

Berina Peterson?

How could that be possible?

Galen had been engaged to Frida, not Berina. Yet Lindsay could still see the love on Galen’s face when he had looked at the woman, the woman Lindsay assumed was Frida.

Obviously, if she was correct and the ‘B’ was for Berina, Galen and Berina had fallen in love. If so, that had to be why Frida never married, yet Shirley said Frida shot him. Why? Jealousy?

Lindsay stood back and gazed at the heart, barely comprehending what she had discovered.