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Then he said, “Let me get this straight. You need the use of my van to record possible ghost sounds?”
“I’m not sure. But it might come in handy.”
“And if we go down there, find this ring and end the curse, your love life will work out?”
Put that way, it sounded ridiculous. Nevertheless, she nodded. “That’s what Granny Ginny said.”
“And you’ll marry somebody?”
“That’s ambitious. Sex would be good.” Maybe just a date on Valentine’s day, she thought, but wasn’t about to call attention to Dermott’s situation again with Carrie Masterson. “I could start with sex,” she joked, the smile growing tight when she realized she was imagining having that sex with Dermott, “and then work my way up.”
Outside, a loud thunderclap sounded, claiming her attention, and she watched as lightning crossed a darkened window. Straight in front of her, she could see the waters of the Hudson swell against empty slips at the Manhattan Yacht Club, and to the right, the space where the Towers had been. She tried to visualize how they’d looked, but she simply couldn’t, just as she couldn’t exactly envision how Dermott had looked to her before five minutes ago when she’d found Carrie naked in his apartment. Now, he seemed like a completely different man.
Suddenly whimpering, Mug burrowed in the hollow of her shoulder. “Look,” she managed. “I’d really better go.”
And then Dermott scratched his jaw and said the last thing Bridget expected, proving that he was still her best bud. “I’ve got a few days off. Then I’m in L.A. for a long weekend.”
She squinted. “You are?”
He nodded. “My agent got me a gig with a new indie director. They want me to go over some of the sound mix and help re-edit it. Right after that, we’re in Kenneth and Allison’s wedding. But between now and the L.A. gig…” He sighed. “Okay, Bridge. I’ll go pack. What time should I pick you up in the morning?”
Her heart soared in a way she’d never imagined it could. Even though Carrie Masterson was here, Dermott was going to help her. “How about seven?”
“EVERYBODY warned me!” Carrie exploded a moment later, her dark hair bristling as it flew around her shoulders.
Dermott, who was particularly sensitive to sounds, listened to the flapping sheet as she snapped it from her body, then to the soft rustle as she reached for her bra and panties. Somehow, it didn’t help that she’d been wearing one of the sheets Bridget had given him for Christmas. “Don’t go, Carrie,” he said, but he knew the words were useless. She was flying around his bedroom like one of Bridget’s poltergeists. What a night! He’d been tied up at work, Carrie had wanted to give him a final fitting of the suit for Allison and Kenneth’s wedding, and it was raining, so he’d been afraid she’d get stranded, which was why he’d told the doorman to let her inside his apartment.
“A wedding fitting on Valentine’s day?” the doorman had questioned, which should have given Dermott a hint.
“It’s the city that never sleeps,” he’d returned, not giving it a second thought. He’d been looking forward to seeing Carrie, too. Gorgeous, rich, talented and ambitious, she was the perfect New York woman. Previously, they’d flirted to survive the awkward moments when she’d checked the fit of his pants, and Dermott had known she was interested, just not this interested.
Before he’d arrived, she’d hidden flowers, champagne and chocolates, and while he’d changed in the bathroom into the suit pants, she’d changed, also, and he’d come out to find her naked.
It had been the perfect opportunity to get Bridget out of his system, a project he’d given renewed effort for the past two weeks, ever since she’d called, saying her Granny Ginny was coming to town. Walking swiftly to Carrie, he’d grabbed her hand and led her to the bedroom, do not pass Go.
“I was afraid I was taking too big a risk,” she’d whispered.
“Oh, no,” he’d assured, hurriedly starting to shuck his slacks and unbutton his shirt, which was the exact moment when Bridget would start ringing the buzzer, in a way too insistent to ignore.
“Bridget and I are just friends,” he said now, frustrated since Carrie was leaving. For the past few days he’d been working his tail off, traveling around the Manhattan shoreline, trying to pick up background recordings of traffic sounds and seagulls flying over the Hudson that wouldn’t sound canned. Finally, he’d gotten something that satisfied a director after he’d mixed it into a sound track for a TV pilot. He was tired, but if Bridget hadn’t blown the deal, Carrie would have been the perfect nightcap.
As she finished buttoning her blouse, he could hear her nails scrape on fabric. She turned a skirt around on her waist to get a better look at the zipper while she pulled it up, then reversed the skirt once more. She glanced up. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really.”
He could hardly tell Carrie, but when Bridget had started babbling about the curse again, he’d realized it was truly hopeless. Nothing was ever going to change between them. He’d never denied that he was in love with her. Everything about Bridget Benning heated his blood, and for years, he’d bided his time, waiting for her to come around. He’d even told her on a few occasions, but she’d only laughed off his advances, never taking them seriously, not even when he’d assured her his emotions weren’t to be toyed with.
Meantime, refusing to live like a lovelorn pup, he’d dated other people, and he’d been focused on work, building a résumé in his field, but now he was successful, which meant he got a lot of social opportunities he had to start taking. Today marked the fourteenth day since he’d last spoken to Bridget. Feeling more determined than at previous times when he’d distanced himself, he was actually counting days. For two weeks, he’d caroused in clubs and called countless numbers scribbled on cocktail napkins.
Couldn’t Bridget see through her own delusions? Didn’t she realize how mercilessly she’d come on to him at the Christmas party at Tiffany’s? She’d needed a date, and he’d played it to the hilt, since her boss favored employees who were interested in settling down, but she’d given as good as he, and it had been difficult—hanging on to her every word, stroking her neck, murmuring in her ear. He’d watched in satisfaction as nipples he’d longed to stroke stiffened under a hot little black dress she’d worn just to drive him mad. He’d whispered, “Why don’t we ever get together, Bridge?”
She’d only laughed—a soft, airy musical lilt that had always driven him crazy—and then she’d elbowed him, as if what he’d said was ridiculous. “We’re best friends.”
He’d modulated his voice, trying to sound more casual than he’d felt, hating these moments that had surfaced so often over the years. “Friends can’t be lovers?”
She’d shaken her head adamantly. “It never works out.”
“I thought you said your love life never works out, anyway.” He’d forced himself to laugh.
She’d chuckled, and that was the end of the conversation.
Carrie’s voice brought him back to the present. “Allison said you’re always at that woman’s beck and call,” she said, a pair of black tights whispering on her thighs as she pulled them on. “You never date.”
“I date a lot of women.”
“Not for long, not seriously.”
It was more true than he wanted to admit. “Bridget only relies on me to pick her up after her own failed romances.”
Carrie was slipping her feet into flats, generating a soft brushing sound. “Which is why you’re going on vacation with her at the drop of a hat?”
Obviously, his love life was going to remain cursed until Bridget was a closed chapter. This gorgeous woman had been right in front of him, naked and holding a bottle of champagne. “Only because I’m going to tell Bridget we can’t be friends.”
Whisking her coat from a chair, Carrie swirled it around her shoulders, then surveyed him. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.” He’d tried to cool it with Bridget over the years, and for just this reason. It never worked. While he suspected Bridget felt attraction for him, she hid it so well, even from herself. Especially from herself. “She relies on me,” he continued simply. Bridget needed him, but he was going to have to take some action. “She denied it, but I think she really believes in the ghosts her grandmother says are haunting her house.”
“I overheard.”
“Maybe if I help her sort this out, she’ll get over the idea that she’s cursed. She dates somebody new every week,” he added, just in case Carrie misunderstood his intentions. “So, it’s clear she’s not interested in me, except as a friend. Maybe one of those guys will work out for her, and she’ll learn to be less reliant on me.”
Carrie headed toward the front door. Once there, she turned. “You actually seem to believe what you’re saying.”
“What’s not to believe?”
When she rolled her eyes, his heart hardened. He really was sick of this. Carrie Masterson was hardly the first woman to object to his relationship with Bridget. Every woman he’d dated expected to find him in bed with her—and never had. Funny, he thought now, most were less threatened by the idea of him and Bridge hitting the sheets than by their twenty-year friendship. That’s what should have unsettled them. But he was tired of playing the best friend. He was ready to give her up.
He eyed Carrie. She was the kind of woman who could have anyone she wanted—and she’d chosen him. She could make a nice home for a man, she was talented and sexy as hell. Once more, Bridget was helping him blow it. “Bridget and I have been close for years,” he found himself saying. “So, I need time.”
“To end the friendship, so you can move on?” Carrie kept her eyes on his. More softly, she said, “She’s getting in your way, Dermott.” As she opened the door, she added, “I almost believe you. Okay. One week. I’ll call your cell while you two are gone.” She flashed a smile, her dark eyes holding the promise of a future if he let go of Bridget. “You know, monitor your trip, Dermott.” Her eyes hardened. “But you need to put an end to this. It’s at a stalemate for you. No sex. No progression. Just her being a buddy, when other women want to give you so much more, Dermott.”
With that, Carrie swept across the threshold; the click of the door seemed to resound in the silence. Alone, Dermott pushed away a recollection of the shocked look on Bridget’s face when she’d caught him with his pants down. She’d actually fumbled in her bag, looking for her glasses to get a better look at Carrie before she realized they’d already met. Yeah, Bridget’s behavior had communicated sexual interest, but then, he’d seen that look at the Tiffany’s Christmas party, too, and on a thousand other occasions.
Carrie was right. Bridget would never allow that part of the relationship to progress. And the way he held on to the friendship made him look like a fool, not that he really cared what other people thought. Still, Carrie had underestimated his frustration. Bridget hadn’t been good for him. While most women treated him like a sexy male—Carrie was hardly the first he’d found naked—Bridget made him feel like a ghost, and while her clear blue eyes might haunt him, he wasn’t going to let her ruin any more of his chances.
Yeah, he was blowing out this torch. No matter what Bridget said or did, and no matter how much she tempted him, he wasn’t going to let her ignite any false hopes again. Yeah. Bridget Benning could rub her thin, sexy body all over him…she could even pull down his zipper, slip a warm hand inside and…
He sucked in a breath. Anyway, the point was, he wouldn’t give in to temptation. When they parted company a final time, he’d miss her like hell. He’d love her forever. But he had to move on. So, he was going to the Sunshine State, and by the time he returned, he and Bridget, just like the supposed ghosts of Hartley House, would be a closed chapter belonging to history.
2
Hartley House,
a dark and stormy night forty-eight hours later…
GETTING Dermott into bed wasn’t as easy as Bridget anticipated, but ever since she’d seen Carrie naked in his apartment, she’d decided she and her best buddy should at least try sex together. If they didn’t, they’d always wonder about it. Hadn’t they voiced attraction before, as Dermott had at the Christmas party? What if he got serious about Carrie, got married and never spent a night exploring the attraction forbidden in his friendship with Bridget?
Last night, when they’d stopped at a hotel in North Carolina, Bridget had planned to make her move, but Dermott had quickly retired to the private room he’d insisted on having to call Carrie. Not that it was necessary. Carrie called every five minutes. So had Bridget’s sisters. Edie was worried, since she was losing business at Big Apple Brides, and Marley kept teasing Bridget, asking if she’d resolved the curse yet, saying she didn’t want to lose the man she was dating, Cash Champagne. Other than that, Dermott had taped sounds at most of their stops, concentrating on those indigenous to the South. It was almost as if he was using work as an excuse not to talk.
“That’s weird,” Dermott said now, just as they turned off the main road onto the shell driveway leading to Hartley House. He’d hunched over the steering wheel to spin the radio dial. “All I’m getting is static.”
“Definitely an omen.” She peered into the darkness as the last finger of twilight glimmered, hardly caring about finding music on the radio since the house was bound to materialize soon. As she dug into a pocket for her glasses and put them on, Mug leaped from Dermott’s lap to hers. “Isn’t this exciting Muggy Puggy?” she cooed. “We’re almost at the haunted house. Do you think we’re going to see Dracula? Or Frankenstein? What do you think of this awful thunderstorm? Is it an omen?”
Wagging his tawny tail furiously, Mug spun in circles on her lap. Along with fishnet stockings and black, pointy-toed “witch shoes,” which she’d worn specifically for the occasion, she’d put on a sunny yellow jumper; because it was made of vinyl, she figured she could wash off Mug’s muddy paw prints once they got inside. “I’m beat,” she offered, rolling her head on her shoulders to work out the kinks.
Peering through the deluge battering the windshield, Dermott said, “Me, too.”
They’d gotten a start later than the appointed 7:00 a.m. time on the previous day, which left Bridget wondering just what Dermott and Carrie had been doing all that night, especially since Dermott had been driving like a bat out of hell—as if he couldn’t wait to get back to New York and Carrie. A couple of hours ago, when they’d finally hit the two-block town of Big Swamp, Florida, they’d picked up groceries and eaten at a greasy spoon diner next to a motel that looked eerily similar to Norman Bates’s place in the movie Psycho. Just thinking of the motel, Bridget felt a sudden chill, as if a cool draft had swept through the SUV’s interior.
“Everybody at Nancy’s Diner said Granny Ginny’s place is really haunted,” she found herself saying conversationally.
Dermott approximated a Transylvanian accent, announcing, “I’m going to suck your blood.”
She hummed sexily. “Sounds promising.”
He shot her a quick, startled glance, then stared through the windshield again, unwilling to acknowledge the flirtation. She sighed. Dermott had never been less fun, and she just didn’t understand it. It was as if he’d decided to put up some impenetrable guard, to protect himself from her, almost as if he’d guessed she had sex on her mind.
At least he’d been talking with a Transylvanian accent, which was amusing. In fact, he’d been doing so when they’d entered the restaurant in Big Swamp, so she’d barely noticed the stir they created. Only after they were seated had Bridget realized she was the only woman wearing a dress, much less a micromini with fishnets. Here, denim and flannel ruled. And when she and Dermott had asked Nancy, the owner, who also doubled as a waitress, to further describe grits and red gravy, everybody had doubled over laughing. At least until they’d realized where the fish-out-of-water couple was heading. Then they’d wheeled around on orange stools to stare, shaking their heads as if to say Bridget and Dermott were out of their freaking minds.
“You can’t spend the night!” Nancy warned, concern in her eyes. “Didn’t Ginny mention the place is haunted?”
During the meal, Dermott had tried to convince Bridget that the haunting was just a local legend which helped people, Granny Ginny included, to pass the time. Now she was beginning to hope so. It was spooky out here. Listening to the wipers move sludge and leaves across the windshield, she took off a black baseball cap, tossed it to the dashboard and tilted her head so that a ponytail fell over her shoulder and down her back. Mug turned and placed his paws on the dash, to get a better look through the rain-sluiced windows.
She still couldn’t see much, so she cast a glance toward Dermott again, wondering how tonight was going to play out. Would they have sex? And what had happened, anyway? One minute Dermott was her best bud, but on Valentine’s night, after she’d left his apartment, she’d dreamed the most down-and-dirty sex dream she’d ever had about a man. A paradigm shift, she thought. That’s what they called it. Suddenly, the world had spun on its axis—and now Dermott was the hottest thing she’d ever laid eyes on. Very definitely, strange mojo was at work.
In the dream, she’d seen Dermott open the door to his apartment again, and once more, she’d glimpsed the dark curling hairs trailing on the hard, bunched muscles of his thighs, and then she’d imagined he wasn’t pulling on the slacks, but taking them off instead—and not for Carrie, but for her. Not that she’d been able to prod Dermott into having a conversation about the other woman.
“Why do you care about whether it’s serious between me and Carrie?” he’d asked last night.
“I always tell you about my boyfriends,” she’d pointed out.
“Right,” he’d said. “But I don’t kiss and tell.”
Was that all he’d done with Carrie? “Oh, please. You say that as if you’re morally superior.”
He’d laughed. “Draw your own conclusions.”
Yes, his refusal to be forthcoming was a bad sign, she decided. She always told him about her boyfriends because they didn’t mean anything and, on the basis of that, she had to conclude that Carrie Masterson was important. She blew out a long sigh now, wondering if magical forces would really come into her life on this trip.
Of course, lust was a factor in how she felt. Dermott looked better than any man had a right to. His hair was mussed, his five-o’clock shadow had moved toward six or seven o’clock, becoming darker and more scraggly. Loose black jeans and a V-necked T-shirt she’d given him on his last birthday hugged his body, looking chic. Sucking in a breath, she wondered if she hoped she’d find the nerve to proposition him. She imagined herself asking him if he wanted to have sex with her. Then she imagined herself simply reaching down and cupping her hand over his jeans fly. Why not?
“See if you can find some music, Bridge.”
She imagined his unbuttoned shirt, the tufts of unruly dark hair calling for her fingers. Shifting Mug in her lap, she squinted through the darkened windshield and spun the radio dial. “Ghosts,” she explained when she found only static. “Don’t they interfere with radio signals?”
Dermott nodded. “Wait until we get indoors. Maybe the insides of the phone have been removed, too.”
She chuckled. “Like in a Twilight Zone episode, cutting us off from the outside world?”
“Exactly.”
Her laughter tempered when she thought about their experience at the diner again. In a long line of pickup trucks, Dermott’s SUV had stood out, and as soon as people had discovered they were visiting Hartley House and driving an SUV containing recording equipment, they’d decided she and Dermott had come for the sole purpose of taping ghosts. The people in the diner, of course, would never guess what was really on Bridget’s mind when she thought of spending the night with Dermott in a haunted house.
The closer they got, the more overgrown the driveway became, and as Dermott slowed, she became more conscious of the sound of shells crunching under the tires. Even though they were inside, she ducked instinctively as they traveled beneath a thick canopy of trees; Granny’s place had gone so long untended that branches were scraping the SUV’s roof. The lawn’s massive trees, far larger than any she’d seen in Central Park, had gnarled, twisted roots that would have done Wes Craven proud. Her eyes followed them as they advanced like marching spiders.
Her breath suddenly caught. “There it is!”
Mug went still in her lap, standing at attention, his paws resting on the dashboard as the house loomed out of the darkness like a giant, but possessing none of the usual features that made a house look scary, such as turrets or a widow’s walk or nearby waves that crashed against a rocky coastline. There was, however, a swamp that opened into tidewaters, and lightning that flashed between trees, illuminating a white-painted brick house that was very square and imposing; climbing ivy framed the windows and crawled into gutters, sending a promising quiver through her. The upstairs windows didn’t disappoint, either, gaping down like vacant, empty eyes. A columned veranda encircled the ground floor.
She inhaled sharply. “The door’s open, Dermott!”
Having seen the house now, he sounded uncharacteristically pensive. “Sure is.”
“Should I call the police?”
He paused. “It couldn’t hurt.”
Swallowing hard, barely able to believe how haunted the house really looked, Bridget punched in 911. The phone rang and rang. Finally a woman picked up and said, “What can I do you for, hon?”
Bridget shot Dermott a glance. “Uh…I’m in Big Swamp,” she began, “visiting a relative, Ginny Hartley. And, well, we got to the house and the door’s wide-open.” She paused. “Have I reached 911, or is this a wrong number?”
“Sure have, honey,” returned the woman. “Trouble is, the sheriff’s on his dinner break, and when he gets back, I already promised Mary Lou Bidden he’d come over and help shut her windows, to keep out the storm. Her house is over a century old and the wood sticks.”
“I see,” Bridget managed as Dermott brought the SUV to a halt under what was probably a willow tree; it was still raining hard and Bridget could scarcely see five feet in front of the vehicle now. Her heart hammering, she wondered if she was really about to see a replica of the ring she wore. Impossible. Dermott’s right. The old family legends are just stories spun for the amusement of country people on rainy days.
A beep had sounded on the line. The woman said, “I’ve got another call, but don’t worry, the sheriff will check your premises in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
As Bridget turned off the phone, Dermott switched off the ignition, and then they both peered at the house. “The cops are coming no time soon, huh?” asked Dermott.
“Guess not.” As she hugged Mug nearer, the enclosed space of the SUV felt claustrophobic. Suddenly, she was conscious of the silence left in the absence of the motor, and of Dermott’s good looks. Unbidden, she thought of the last time she’d visited the place where the Trade Centers had stood. Twining her fingers through the chain link fence, she’d stared at the workers and said a silent prayer for those who’d died, as she always did. And then she’d tried to remember exactly what the buildings had looked like, but no matter how hard she’d tried, she simply couldn’t. She’d felt just terrible.
Now a lump formed in her throat, and even though she knew she was being ridiculously maudlin, she wondered if she could ever forget Dermott. He, too, had been a daily part of her life for so long; what if he was gone and she couldn’t visualize his face?
He was looking at her curiously. “Is something the matter, Bridge?”
No, except that I’m feeling strangely grateful for the pictures I have of you, just in case you’re serious about Carrie Masterson and I never see you again. “Uh…no.” She glanced toward the house, sucking in a sharp breath. “Granny Ginny said the ghosts open the doors, especially Jasper. You know, my biological dad. Her son.”