Ghostlight (2 page)

I did an excellent job of ignoring Blake at dinner that night, but afterward I must have been banging pans in the dishwater because Grandma gave me the stink eye as she walked past the kitchen.

The next morning, Blake actually took it upon himself to
talk
to me while we worked in the garden. I'd been focusing every ounce of my attention on the ripeness of the peas, so it threw me a little when I heard him scramble to his feet and speak from the next row.

“Hey, check out this caterpillar. It's got spikes on it, like it's wearing armor.”

I kept my eyes firmly locked on the peas and didn't say a word.

“Earth to Avery—I'm trying to show you something.”

I dropped a handful of pea pods into my bucket.

“Are you still mad about Kingdom?”

Blake doesn't exist. Blake is nothing.

After a moment he sighed. “Real mature, sis.”

“Not like you,” I snapped. “You're
way
out of my league.”

His gloating laugh made me wish I'd kept my mouth shut.

But, hey, at least I had a life. While Blake was stuck in the house with nothing but his summer-reading list and a pile of stupid football magazines, I'd be
scouting locations
with Julian. But first I had to make an official welcome visit to Hollyhock Cottage with Grandma.

I always looked forward to visiting the cottage, even if it was just for cleaning and collecting bed linens between tenants. It was sweet and friendly, with its white wood siding and blue trim, not to mention the clusters of tall pink and white flowers bordering the wide porch. It didn't sit as high on the hill as Grandma's house, but it had two full stories and a detached two-car garage.

Grandma gave me the once-over as she rang the doorbell. “Stand up straight, Avery May.” Once I'd pulled my shoulders back to her satisfaction, she smoothed her face into a pleasant smile.

The door opened promptly. A man with white teeth and movie-star hair smiled back at us. “Well, hello, Mrs. Hilliard. It sure is a pleasure to see you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Grandma said. “Mr. Wayne, allow me to introduce my granddaughter, Avery May.”

I extended my hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.” His palm was dry and smooth, but his fingers had calluses.

“Likewise,” he said. “You can call me Curtis if you like.”

I could practically hear Grandma's eyebrows leap upward.

“I'm certain Avery May would feel it proper to address you as Mr. Wayne,” she said.

“As you wish.” He snuck a wink at me. “Come on in. It's much cooler in the house.”

Everything about Curtis Wayne seemed expensive. His jeans were soft and distressed in that artistic way that “reeked of boutique,” as Mom would say. His hair had blond streaks, and he'd used product to make it stick out in all the right places. He was tanned, but his color was so even I figured it didn't actually come from the sun. If he'd been rude to me, or scary, I'd have said he looked like a Ken doll who'd inherited Barbie's millions. But his wink had seemed real—like he and I were on the cool team and Grandma, with her prissy manners and church clothes, just wasn't.

He led us into the living room and toward the brown sectional couch and braided rug. Mr. Wayne had added his own touch by placing a wooden chair and music stand in front of the window. A guitar stood next to the chair. I didn't know much about guitars, but this one seemed well loved. I mean, it didn't look
new
—there were places where the finish had worn away—but it didn't have any nicks or dust on it. All I could think was that it looked
healthy,
like it got plenty of exercise and was proud of itself.

“Julian's upstairs,” he said. “I know he's eager to meet you, Mrs. Hilliard.” He gestured toward the couch. “Have a seat while I go unearth him.”

Once Mr. Wayne had left the room, Grandma eased herself onto the edge of the sectional. “How refreshing that he did not bellow up the stairs at the boy. I appreciate his manners.”

I took the spot next to her and looked around the room for more clues about Julian. The house smelled
male,
but not in a disgusting way, like Blake's sneakers. I caught the spicy whiff of men's deodorant and hair products, the scent of leather, coffee, and other mysterious male things. Nothing flowery or powdery. Where was
Mrs.
Wayne?

Julian came down the stairs first, wearing baggy shorts like a regular kid. His T-shirt had a cartoon of a bearded man with a really high forehead and angry black eyebrows. I'd have asked him about that, but he only looked my way for a second. Even then I saw the jitters in his eyes.

What did
he
have to fear? His dad wasn't embarrassing, and my grandmother couldn't be that scary. When Mr. Wayne nudged his shoulder, Julian stepped forward and offered his hand to Grandma.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hilliard. I'm Julian. I should have introduced myself yesterday, but I lost my way on your property. Avery was nice enough to show me around.”

Grandma smiled and gave his hand a dainty shake. “I hope you'll be staying on the hill the whole summer, Julian. Every year Avery May and her brother come all the way from Dallas to visit, but until now they've never had anyone their age nearby. Usually we get retired couples or writers on retreat at the cottage.” She turned to Mr. Wayne. “You're our very first musician. I hope you'll consider joining us at Sycamore Road Church of Christ this summer. The congregation would be honored to hear you sing.”

“That's awfully kind of you, Mrs. Hilliard,” he said. “I'm quite fond of hymns. I started out singing in church, you know.”

Grandma leaned forward. “Did you really?”

“Best training I could have had. I even toured with a Christian group when Julian was little, and he used to sing with us from time to time. Good work for the soul, but not so great for the bank account.”

“Oh, I see.” Grandma took a breath and smiled again. “Do you have grand plans for the summer? Any questions I can answer?”

Mr. Wayne took a seat on the sectional, his body lean and supple like a cat's—if a cat could sit upright and rest its paw on an armrest. Julian joined him, but he perched stiffly on the edge, similar to Grandma and me. I tried to send him a smile that said “This stinks, right?” but his jittery look didn't soften.

“My plan for the summer,” said Mr. Wayne, “is to get some songs written. I need a place without distractions. No cable TV, no Wi-Fi. Your neck of the woods is perfect, and Julian needs a break from the city, too.” He didn't even glance at Julian when he said that last bit, which I found interesting.

Grandma nodded. “And will your wife be joining you?”

Most of the time Grandma's personal questions made me squirm, but this once I appreciated her nosiness. I wanted to know, too.

Mr. Wayne didn't bat an eye. “My wife is a record producer, and she's booked up with studio sessions this summer. Our daughter should be coming soon, though. Lily's swim camp just ended, and she needs a space where she can run wild without distracting her mother. She's only eight.”

For a second I'd perked up at the idea of another girl coming to our hill, but eight was practically a baby. And with Julian acting so strange, I was starting to wonder if I'd be on my own for the summer after all.

Julian spoke then, and his voice was so unexpected and loud that I nearly jumped.

“Dad, can I show Avery something in my room? It won't take long.”

Mr. Wayne glanced from him to me and smiled. “Assuming it's okay with Mrs. Hilliard. Just keep the door open.”

“Dad.”

“Be back in ten minutes, Avery May,” Grandma said. “I can answer all Mr. Wayne's questions about the house during that time, and then we'll have to move along.”

Julian practically bolted for the stairs, and after a quick nod at Grandma, I followed him. Obviously I'd been in Hollyhock Cottage many times before, but his room still managed to surprise me. The single bed was pushed against the wall on one side of the room—no big deal there. But the opposite wall looked like a display in an electronics store. A laptop sat on a wide desk with a massive external hard drive plugged into its left side. A monitor the size of a wide-screen TV sat at the center of the desk. The leftover desk space was filled with Julian's camera and all sorts of other expensive-looking gadgets peeking out of padded cases. Wires and outlet strips snaked across the floor. Everything seemed to hum and flash and give off heat. A plump leather office chair faced us, as if waiting to fold Julian in its arms.

He obliged by slumping into it. “Okay, first of all, do you need to scream or something? If so, just get it over with.”

“What do you mean? I've been in a boy's room before.”

“I mean my dad.”

“What about him? He seems okay.”

He studied me for a long moment, like some interrogator from a spy movie. “Are you messing with me?”

“Messing how?”

“Oh, come on. Curtis Wayne?
Country music star
Curtis Wayne?”

“Country music? I never listen to that stuff.”

His body actually crumpled a little, and I wondered if I was going to have to call for help or do CPR. It turned out to be a good kind of crumpling, though. It finally forced the jittery look off his face.

“You're being serious?”

“I guess his name sounds familiar,” I said. “But I don't pay much attention to who's who in country music.”

“Wow. I mean…that's great. I get so sick of people talking about him at school.” He shrugged. “I know it's stupid, but I was hoping you'd never have to meet him. I didn't want to be ‘Curtis Wayne's son' to you.”

“Is that why you asked me up here? To rant about your dad?”

I sounded crabby, I know. It's just…I'd be sitting pretty if the only confession I had to make about my dad was that he was
famous.

“Actually, I wanted to show you something. Pull that chair over here by the computer.” He jiggled his mouse and opened a gallery of thumbnails, clicking on the first one. “Check out this photo.”

“That's Hilliard House,” I said, leaning closer. “But…you didn't take this yesterday. It's dark outside.”

“I snuck out there last night. Don't tell my dad.”

At any other time I would have smiled at that—a shared secret was the cornerstone of friendship—but looking at that photo made me think of Grandma's rules about Hilliard House. More important, Grandma's biblical levels of
wrath
when she learned I'd broken those rules. Still, I couldn't help staring at the shot. Julian must have been standing on the road in front, so the house seemed tall and spooky. Behind it the sky was a swirl of black and gold.

“I didn't want to use the flash, so I took my tripod. It looks cool, doesn't it?”

“I guess.”

He clicked through a few more photos—all pretty much the same as the first, but from different angles. “There's one in particular I want to show you,” he said. “It's the best of all, but it's a little creepy.”

I was already creeped out by the thought of Grandma learning I'd followed Julian to Hilliard House. I didn't think another photo would make a difference.

It did.

“You see it?” he asked.

Of course I did, and it made my throat close up. A light glowed faintly in the first-floor window, the one to the far left of the front door.

I turned to him, my face a little hot. “What did you do?”

“I didn't do anything.”

“You must have got inside somehow.”

He leaned back in his chair, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “It freaks you out a little, doesn't it?”

I swallowed a few times and looked at the photo again. “What is it? Some flash effect?”

“I wasn't using a flash, remember? And it's not a reflection. It's like someone lit a lamp in that room.” He clicked his mouse again. “But the light is gone in the rest of the shots.”