psycho and outlet malls,” Cheryl said with a wide grin. “Sounds like a fair enough deal to me.”
“You don’t like it,” Miranda argued.
Cheryl shrugged. “Not all that much, but it is nice and quiet there, and Roger’s right. You look like you could use a little nice and quiet. A couple of weeks—”
“A couple of weeks?” Miranda interrupted shrilly. “I was thinking of maybe a long weekend.”
“So you were thinking of taking a few days off?” Autumn asked, a hint of hope in her gentle voice.
“I said maybe.” Did she look that bad? Could everyone around her see that the work of talking to ghosts was draining her, robbing her of sleep, making her feel much too old for her twenty-six years?
That was certainly possible. It was as though she didn’t only understand the emotions of the spirits she talked to, she experienced them. She didn’t only hear and see how they died, she felt their pain. She was tired all the time, and lately if she got four hours of sleep it was a good night. It wasn’t all that unusual that those closest to her might see the effects of the strain.
“Maybe is a start,” Roger said. He took the burgers off the grill and put them on a platter. “We should’ve done steaks,” he said beneath his breath.
Thank goodness, a change of topic. “It’s my birthday and I wanted your burgers,” Miranda said.
“And chocolate cake!” Jackson called, walking out of the kitchen door and into the backyard bearing a huge birthday cake complete with fudge icing and decorative yellow roses.
“What more could a girl ask for?” Miranda said, her eyes flitting from Autumn and Jared to Roger and Cheryl. Two couples, each so different, each so close—each a part of something intimate and special that Miranda had given up on ever knowing. She finally pinned her eyes on Roger and sighed. “Fine. A long weekend will be enough, though.”
“Two weeks would be better,” he countered. “Fresh air, complete quiet, outlet malls…”
“A psycho,” Miranda added.
“Korbinian’s not a psycho,” Roger argued with a sharp and slightly censuring glance to his wife. “He’s just odd as hell, and he’s pissed because I won’t sell him the cabin. You leave him alone, and he won’t bother you. I’ll run you up on Saturday.”
“Can I go?” Jackson asked, his voice bright and his eyes lighting on Miranda briefly. Fifteen-year-olds were not particularly good at hiding their emotions, especially where women were concerned. Roger’s son had had a crush on Miranda for the past several months.
A living being liked her for herself, and he was really cute. Too bad he was a starry-eyed kid.
“We’re not going to stay long,” Roger warned his eldest son.
“That’s okay,” Jackson responded.
Roger nodded. “Sure, you can ride with us.”
“What about you, Cheryl?” Miranda asked.
“No thanks,” she answered quickly. “I’ll leave it to the Talbot men to see you there. The girls have dance class on Saturday, and besides, I suspect we won’t be in Tennessee long enough to make a visit to Pigeon Forge and the outlet malls.” She sighed in feigned distress. “Another time. Now, let’s eat!”
With the window to his four-wheel drive truck rolled down to let in the cool mountain air, Bren heard the chatter of change on his mountain. Birds flew; critters scrambled. Either some tourist had taken a wrong turn and was horribly lost, or Talbot was at his cabin. Damned, stubborn man. Sure enough, there was a familiar car parked in the drive of the small, red-roofed cabin that marred the side of Bren’s mountain. He drove by slowly, and as he did the front door opened to frame the big man who owned the place—and refused to sell. Bren’s last offer had been ridiculously high, and still Talbot had turned him down without even taking time to consider selling.
Bren braked a bit when he caught sight of a smallish woman standing behind Talbot. That was not Mrs. Talbot, who was a tall, thin brunette. This woman was a short, shapely blonde. Was she a mistress? A new wife? Hell, a cabin this isolated would be the perfect place to carry on an affair. No wonder Talbot wouldn’t sell!
Spotting the truck, Talbot stepped onto the porch and waved, almost as if he wanted Bren to stop. Bren kept his eyes on the curving road ahead as he drove up the mountain road. No way would Talbot be able to drive all the way to the house at the top of the mountain, not without four-wheel drive—not that he’d ever been all that social.
It was no mistake that getting to the Korbinian house was such an effort. Bren didn’t want visitors; he didn’t like surprises.
He glanced in the rearview mirror just in time to see the blonde woman step onto the porch. She had long, straight hair that was as pale as Bren’s was dark, and she was smallish without being frail-looking. She had a womanly shape he could appreciate even from this distance. Nice. He couldn’t see her face well, and still he felt something unexpected. A pulling, almost. A draw that made him consider turning around and driving back down the hill just to see her better. He fought the urge and kept going, slowly.
Behind her was a teenager Bren recognized as having been here before. If Talbot had brought his son along, the blonde wasn’t a girlfriend. For some reason that hit him with a rush of relief. Maybe she was entirely unattached. Maybe she was free. He shook off the thought. When the sight of a passably pretty stranger made his thoughts wander this way, it was time to get laid.
With that realization, his thoughts returned to the woman down the hill. If the pretty blonde wasn’t with Talbot, then why was she here? Not that he cared.
Unless Talbot planned to sell the cabin to her, in spite of his refusals of Bren’s generous offers. These days many people made permanent homes in the mountains, rather than just vacation homes they visited a few times a year. What if the woman planned to stay? Attractive and shapely or not, that would be a disaster.
Miranda settled in after Roger and Jackson left. There was more than enough food for the week in the cupboard and the fridge, and while she didn’t have a vehicle of her own—she didn’t care much for driving since the accident, especially on winding mountain roads—Roger had made arrangements with Duncan Archard, who owned the gas station at the foot of the mountain.
The cabin was small, and it was furnished with a collection of mismatched pieces that had been discarded from the Talbot household over the years—and perhaps, she suspected, picked up off the side of the road. Many of the pieces were in rough shape, though they were still usable. There was no style to speak of, and Miranda’s design sensibilities itched. She couldn’t help but look at the small rooms with an eye to possibilities. There were four rooms and one horrendously small bath. The two bedrooms were utilitarian at best. The main room was comfortable but sparsely decorated. A bookcase stuffed with old books had a figurine of a black bear sitting atop it, and there was a chipped bowl sitting in the center of the coffee table. The kitchen was small and was stocked with the barest of necessities, as well as the groceries she had bought on the way into town. The curtains in the kitchen window were made of a fabric that sported a repeated image of ducks. Shudder.
Perhaps the cabin was too small to ever be grand and impressive, but with a little imagination and some work it could be attractive
