The House on Serpent Lake (Ghost, Romance, Fantasy) (9 page)

“You’ll have plenty of room up there to do anything you want, and since I’m going to be busy in my office, you’ll also have complete privacy.” He eyed his watch. “You show me exactly where you want the bookcases, then relax while I measure.”

After resting an hour and downing more coffee, Lindsay stood in front of the bathroom mirror. She ran a comb through her hair and applied lipstick, and after smoothing lotion onto her hands, she reached for her watch in the blue dish. It wasn’t there. That was odd. She always placed it in the dish when washing her hands or while taking a bath or shower. Now where could it be? Although she never put it in a drawer, she pulled out the three vanity drawers just to make sure, but it wasn’t there. The watch was special to her, the last thing her mother bought for her before she died. They’d picked it out together, both admiring the rose gold bracelet and pink dial. She’d had it almost ten years and couldn’t bear to lose it now.

In the bedroom, the first thing she saw was her watch. Right in the middle of bed. Suddenly she remembered taking it off at the kitchen sink and placing it on the window sill. Eric must have brought it up for her. Sliding it on her wrist and grabbing her handbag, she vowed to be more careful.

A few moments later, they walked the tree-lined dirt road until they came to the pavement fronting the modern homes lining Serpent Lake. Some houses fronted the road, but most sat further back on the property and faced the lake. Lindsay loved the glimpses of the blue water between the houses. She felt as if she were on a perpetual vacation.

“Thanks for bringing up my watch,” she told him. “I didn’t remember leaving it downstairs.”

“Your watch? What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you put my watch on the bed?”

“Honey, I went straight to my office until I could get into the bathroom.”

“Oh.”

“Which reminds me. We may need to think about a half- or three-quarter bath before the kids visit.”

Could she have absentmindedly put her watch on the bed and forgotten? It was possible, but why would she do something so foreign to her routine?

“You mentioned a gazebo,” Eric said, nodding toward a small one sitting on one of the home’s spacious lawns. “I like that idea, so after I get my office set up, I’ll think about building one.”

“You honestly don’t remember one here? I was sure there was a white one, hexagon-shaped I think, just a few feet from the water.”

He shook his head. “I would’ve remembered. You must be thinking of someplace else.”

“Hmm,” Lindsay said, thinking about the spot where she thought it once stood, just on the other side of that big maple tree near the beach. “Do you have any old pictures?” she asked.

“Not any more. Whatever I had has disappeared over the years.”

It was happening again. She had thought the strong feeling of déjà vu she’d experienced when she first saw the house was because she’d seen some old pictures.

If not, how did she know details about the house?

Chapter Thirteen

When they reached City Hall, a red-roofed brick building next to the shoreline, they cut right instead of strolling further down the road to City Park. Two blocks later, they were downtown.

Main Street was busy, but as they discovered before, it lacked the frantic pace of Southern California.

“Just listen,” Eric said. “No horns honking, no screeching sirens. A man can breathe here.”

Cars lined the curbs on both sides of the street. As soon as one pulled out, another took its place. There were no parking meters; people just pulled in front or behind other cars. But Lindsay didn't get a feeling of hustle and bustle. People on their way to the drug store, the bank, or one of the many antique stores stopped to talk to each other or wave a greeting to someone else.

Lindsay took a deep breath, determined to shove aside her unease and enjoy the day with her husband. She had so much to be thankful for and she didn’t want to revert back to her doom and gloom persona. She’d already wasted too many years living apart from the world.

“Ready for some pie?” Eric asked. “Bertha’s is just up the block.”

“Always ready for homemade pie.”

Although Bertha’s Diner wasn’t crowded, two men and one woman, each dressed in casual office attire, sat at the counter. They had turned around in their seats and were talking to a young couple with two small children in one of the six booths. The clatter of pots, pans and silverware and the wonderful aroma of good food, all mixed with the friendly chatter, made Lindsay feel this diner would be one of her favorite places. They took a booth up front.

Suddenly, all conversation died.

Lindsay smiled at the people at the counter and they nodded a greeting, yet each one of them turned around. The couple with small children were behind Lindsay so she couldn’t see them, but she could feel their silence—except for the children, who chattered on to each other.

“What is it with these people?” Lindsay asked Eric. “Do we look like aliens or something?”

Eric, busy glancing over the paper menu, didn’t look up. “I’m sure it’s nothing to do with us. What are you going to have?”

Lindsay took another glance around the room, thinking of Shirley’s reaction that first day, the old woman, and some other strange looks they’d received since arriving. She’d always heard that small towns were friendly, so what was it about them that the locals didn’t like?

By the time a server, a heavy woman of about fifty with short kinky hair approached their booth with water, Lindsay was nearly in tears.

“Just in time for the buffet,” the woman said. “Hope you’re hungry.”

Lindsay swallowed. “We’re here for the pie, although I’m not sure we should stay. For some reason, we may chase off your customers.”

“Oh, some people need a refresher on manners,” the server said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. She smiled. “You the new folks at the Peterson place?”

“I’m Eric Peterson. My grandparents build that house,” he said.

“I know. I’m Bertha and this is my place. Seems I remember something about you moving to California when we were kids. Actually, we went to elementary school together.”

“We did? Sorry, I don’t remember.”

“You wouldn’t. I wasn’t in your league. Besides, I was a couple of grades ahead. Welcome back. It’ll be nice to have the house occupied with people again.”

“
With people?
” Lindsay asked. “What does that mean?”

Bertha flushed. “Nothing.”

“Please, I need to know.”

Eric gave Lindsay a questioning look, but she ignored it.

“Oh, you know how rumors start in a small town,” Bertha hedged. “Hobos tend to camp out in vacant homes and it starts all kinds of talk.”

“Like what?”

A young male voice yelled from the kitchen for her. She yelled back, “Be right there! That’s my grandson,” she told Eric and Lindsay. “I’m breaking him in to the restaurant business. I’d better see what’s the problem.” Bertha nearly ran in her haste to get to the kitchen.

“What was that all about?” Eric asked.

“Oh, just wondering what people think about the house.”

Bertha returned to their table carrying two plates of thick slices of pie, each mounded high with whipped cream.

“Juneberry pie,” she told them, placing them on the table. “Try it.”

Lindsay forked aside some of the whipped cream and crust to reveal a purplish filling, similar, she thought, to a cherry pie, only slightly smaller berries. The first bite reminded her of grape with a touch of cherry and almond. It was wonderful. And slightly familiar.

“I’ve had this before.”

“Really?” Eric asked. “I didn’t think you’d been out of Southern California.”

”They prefer more of a wetlands to thrive,” Bertha said, “although I suppose nowadays the nurseries grow them. Glad you like it.”

Lindsay took another taste. How
did
she know that flavor?

“The grandkids pick them and I freeze them for pies,” Bertha told them, “that is, when I have any left after making wine. You’ll have to try some.”

“Can’t wait.” Lindsay found herself warming to the woman and hoped she’d get a chance to talk to her alone. Bertha knew something about the house, something she didn’t want to talk about.

“Once you folks get settled, you should stop by the Woodtick Inn in Cuyuna for the wood tick races. Lots of good fun and some darn good fishing in the area.”

Lindsay gaped at her. “Wood tick races? You’re joking, right?”

“No joke. They’re a big deal around here.”

“People actually handle those horrid little insects that suck your blood? And everyone thinks we’re strange.”

Bertha laughed.

On the porch glider after dinner at home that evening, Eric talked about adding a new bathroom. Lindsay nodded vaguely, thinking about going to the library the next day, hoping to find something to explain what had been happening in the house. And if she went alone, she’d stop at Bertha’s. She knew something, and maybe without Eric with her, the woman would open up about the rumors.

“I think I’ll go to the library tomorrow and see if they have any information on the house.”

“Great idea,” Eric said. “They might even have some old photos
.
Take your time and enjoy yourself, maybe stop in for another piece of pie. And bring some home for me. Bet Bertha will introduce you to some local women and get you into the social life there.”

“Not sure I’ll have the time for much of a social life, at least not right away. Julia’s been after me to get some paintings together for a showing, and I promised her I’d get some together after I got settled.”

“Maybe Crosby has an art gallery that would show some of your paintings. That’s something else you could check.”

“Good idea, although Julia’s been so nice that I’d hate to show someplace else.”

Eric’s cell phone jangled. “That’s Mark. Don’t wait up.” He headed for the front door.

Lindsay hesitated, reluctant to go inside. What if she smelled that scent again?

She spent the next hour watching the moon rise over the lake, listening to the soothing night sounds, but eventually, fatigue won and she headed for bed.

Tomorrow, she hoped, she’d find some answers.

After an uneventful night, her first stop the next morning was at Bertha’s, but she was told the owner had taken the day off. Disappointed, Lindsay resolved to check later in the week.

As before, people were walking the sidewalks, and when she passed a diner on Main Street, the sound of laughter carried through the open door.

She stopped at the small drug store, and while admiring the Precious Moments Collectibles, a tall glass bottle with a purple label on the toiletries aisle caught her eye. Lavender bath salts. It was more than she normally paid, but feeling as if she’d found a lost treasure, she grabbed the last jar and, along with a spiral notebook, made her purchase.

Outside, she crossed the street to the city block housing the library. Tall pines shaded the modern single-story building and several park benches offered pedestrians a place to stop and rest.

She hoped she’d be lucky enough to find photos of the house and gazebo so she could show Eric. Surely they would have some record of the Peterson house, even if it was over eighty years old. But as she approached the front door, she hesitated, suddenly aware of an uncomfortable knot in her stomach.

What if she did find proof of the gazebo? How could she explain it, even to herself, especially since Eric didn’t even remember one? In her mind she could see it, a small white structure, hexagon-shaped, with a pointed top like a spiral. It stood near the water and she used to sit on one of the padded cushions with …

“Oh, God,” she whispered, cutting across the lawn to one of the benches.
Padded cushions?
What was wrong with her? What were these sudden thoughts of a past she never had? Was she truly going crazy?

Chapter Fourteen

Then she remembered a magazine article she’d read on the trip back to California about a young man who developed a brain tumor. One of the symptoms was phantom smells and hallucinations.

Oh, Jesus, she couldn’t have a something horrible like a tumor, not now. Not when she was finally able to live the life she’d always dreamed of with her husband by her side and a house that felt like a real home.

But that would explain why she could smell the scent when Eric, even when in the same room, could not.

And feel things that weren’t there.

A
brain tumor?
Some of them were inoperable. That would mean she could soon die.

No! Not now, she wasn’t ready. She had to make Eric love her again, had to fix up the old house, had to see her son again. She couldn’t die now. She had to …? She broke out in a cold sweat. Nausea doubled her over.

“Young lady, are you all right?”

Embarrassed, Lindsay looked up. A man in his late seventies was standing in front of her, his loose trousers held up by suspenders, a look of concern on his weathered face. He grasped a cane in his right hand. She tried to smile.

“I’m okay, thanks. Just taking a moment while exploring the town.”