Chapter 5
Five
Samson slid onto a barstool in front of her that night. She quirked an eyebrow at him, then reached over and poured him a draft without waiting for his order.
“Why are you here again?” she asked, placing the glass in front of him.
He shrugged a shoulder, a movement that drew her attention to how broad they were in that black t-shirt, and lifted the beer to his lips.
She would not, would not look at the flex of muscles in his arms. She’d had to leave the kitchen the other day when he’d been working on the oven because, well, the play of muscles in his arms and back had been like an anatomy class.
A sexy anatomy class. Dang.
Then he snapped her out of her musing by setting the glass down and looking her straight in the eye. “You look terrible.”
Oh. Lovely. She’d been mentally drooling over him, and he thought she looked like hell. She wished for more customers so she’d have a distraction, but alas, not a busy night.
“You not sleeping in that house?” he pursued.
“I’m sleeping in the house. Where else would I sleep?”
“No, I mean, you’re not getting a good night’s rest?”
She shrugged. “An air mattress isn’t the most comfortable bedding.”
“What’s wrong with the beds?”
She angled her head to glare at him. “Would you sleep in a bed in a house that’s been abandoned for that long? No telling what’s in those mattresses.”
He nodded. “Well, I can drive you to town to get a new mattress if you want. I have a truck.”
If only she had the money, she would jump at the chance.
Well, maybe, because that would mean she’d accepted help from him.
Again. She didn’t like relationships without a balance of power.
Too easy to lose, no matter which side of the power spectrum you were on.
“Thanks, but I’ll just order one online.
It hasn’t been a priority.” Because she didn’t have the money.
“No? What has?”
“Other than the stove and the locks on the windows? Let me make you a list.”
She said it sarcastically, but he didn’t seem taken aback. “Do that. Give me a list, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“I don’t need your help,” she said, the response automatic, one she’d said a hundred times on her way to the top of her field.
He took a deep drink of his beer, holding her gaze, not even a little deterred. She dared not look away from his dark eyes. Why did he have to be hot and thoughtful? Him, of all people.
He set the glass down on the bar. “You have some visitors today?”
She narrowed her eyes. “What have you heard?” She should have known she couldn’t keep a secret in a small town. “Do you know who they are?”
His eyebrows went up. “Do I know who who are?”
“Deputy Thibodeaux thought kids might be sneaking into my house to scare me. Do you know which kids? Because you might want to let them know to keep their distance.”
His spine had snapped straight as she spoke. “Someone’s been coming into your house?” he demanded.
She frowned, tucking in her chin. “What were you talking about?”
“My mom said she was going to go by today to see you. I was wondering if she’d made it. What were you talking about?”
A different kind of tension took over her chest, and she shifted her weight. “No, I haven’t seen your mom since I’ve been back.”
“So what were you talking about?”
“Just…there have been some weird things going on, so I had Deputy Thibodeaux come out and look over the house to make sure everything was safe. That picture? It was back on the wall when I got home from the bar, and all the lights I’d left on had been turned off, and the lightbulb on the porch was unscrewed. The deputy said it might be kids.”
His scowl had deepened as she spoke. “I don’t know who it could be. We don’t really have a lot of kids in town, to be honest.”
“Then why would he say that?”
“I don’t know. To keep from scaring you, I guess.”
That made her heart trip, because she was getting scared. The idea that kids were coming into her house was bad enough, but who else could it be? “What do you think it is?”
“Ah, me, I don’t know.” He braced his hands against the edge of the bar and straightened.
“Ghosts.”
Both of them turned to the man on the barstool next to Samson. The man couldn’t be fifty, but he had the leathery look of someone who had worked outdoors too long. He lifted his beer glass in Erielle’s direction.
“What are you talking about, Pete?” Samson demanded.
“Ghosts. Old man Benoit told me about ‘em. That woman what killed her kids, she was there at your house. Few others. Whole town is haunted, you know. Them pirates what got killed by the British soldiers out yonder.” He waved a vague hand toward the swamp.
“You can see the lights out there every now and again.”
She thought about the light she’d seen in her rearview mirror the other night, but brushed the idea aside. Poachers, probably. “What are the lights meant to be?”
“Well, it’s them. The pirates. Your granddaddy knew. He wanted to bring ghost hunters out here.”
Oh, Lord. Her grandfather had told her these stories, had been intrigued by them, but she’d just let him tell the stories. She remembered the delicious thrill of fright his low, somber words invoked as he told her about the pirates in the bayou. She didn’t think he’d believed it, not really.
“Did any ghost hunters actually come?”
“Ah, he never got that far along in his plan, far as I know. ”
“What did he say about the ghosts in Erielle’s place? The Benoit place?” Samson asked.
She glanced at him, surprised by the edge in his tone. Cajuns could be superstitious, but someone close to her age? Most people in her generation had cynicism down to an art form. She didn’t think Samson actually believed in ghosts.
“He’s got the woman in white up there in the house, you know. That’s what they call her, the mayor’s wife. The mother who killed her kids and then comes looking for them. He told me he’d seen her, heard her crying.” Pete narrowed his eyes at Erielle. “You seen ‘em?”
She shook her head. “I’ve only been here a few days. I haven’t seen anything.” And she hoped to keep it that way.
What was she talking about? Of course she’d keep it that way, because ghosts didn’t exist.
She was pretty sure.
“Starts that way, is what he told me. They move stuff around on you. Make you think you’re losing your mind.” Pete tapped his temple.
Guilt swamped Erielle, making her heart ache.
She should have come to check on her grandfather more often.
Clearly that was the beginning of his dementia.
No wonder her mother had moved him into the senior care facility.
Erielle should have taken time off to consult with her mother, make sure he was happy, settled.
Instead, she’d told herself she didn’t want to remember him that way, and she’d stayed away.
She’d had enough ghost talk. She took Pete’s empty glass and walked over to the sink to wash it out. She wasn’t going to let their talk scare her—or make her sad.
She was absolutely wiped when she got home.
The work wasn’t hard, but she was alert all the time.
The bar hadn’t even been that busy, but she had just felt like she needed to pay extra attention in a way she hadn’t had to do when she worked in restaurants.
No one had been threatening, or scary. Just guys who wanted to unwind after a long day with a beer or two or four.
She’d chased Samson off around midnight, even though she wished now she hadn’t.
She kind of liked that he was looking out for her, but she couldn’t let herself depend on him.
She’d walked home from restaurants in New York City, Detroit, Los Angeles.
She could handle a short drive home down a quiet street in a small town.
She mounted the steps to the Victorian wearily, but the hairs on the back of her neck stood up when she unlocked the front door and pushed it open.
She was just extra wary after the conversation with Pete earlier. He got her imagination running away with itself.
She stepped into the hallway, where she’d left the light on the entryway table burning.
And saw the picture she’d left on the front porch was hanging back in its place.