Chapter 9
Nine
“—in the wake of the storm, the mansion seemed utterly deserted. No lights. No movement. Nothing. It was like the family had vanished into thin air. Well, the townsfolk, thinking maybe the Hathaways had been hurt, headed out to check on them. The night was much like this one, cloudy, with a half moon and a little bite to the air. When they arrived, the front door was ajar.”
Aspen leaned toward Brooks as she settled on a log with a roasting stick and a bag of marshmallows. “So we’re telling ghost stories now?”
“Seems like,” he murmured.
Not exactly her preferred form of entertainment, but she’d tolerate it in the name of s’mores. After all the time on the lake today, she deserved at least two.
“They shoved the door open with a mighty creak that seemed to echo well beyond the house, and when they stepped inside, everything was shrouded in darkness and silence. No one answered their calls. Thinking something most foul had happened to the family, they began to climb the grand staircase. And suddenly, a chill wind gusted through the house, dousing their lanterns and leaving them in the pitch black.”
As if to echo the point, a breeze kicked up, making their own fire dance. Aspen shuddered despite herself, barely remembering to rotate her marshmallow before it caught fire. Brooks scooted closer, wrapping an arm around her, as if he sensed her discomfort.
“And in the dark came a soft, haunting melody from somewhere in the depths of the mansion. The brave among them followed the music to the grand ballroom, where a figure sat at at the piano, fingers wringing a tune from the instrument so mournful it made every man among them weep. And as they watched, the clouds parted so moonlight streamed through the window illuminating the musician as she lifted her head and looked at them with hollow, soulless eyes.”
Aspen’s hand shook just a little as she squashed her marshmallow between two slabs of graham cracker and a piece of chocolate. Why did they always have to go with the creepy stuff? Why not romantic stories?
“One of the party stepped forward, reaching out toward the woman who could be none other than Eliza Hathaway, but as he did, she vanished, as did the music. In an instant, the room turned to ice, and a voice whispered, ‘Leave… now…’”
Brooks’ breath was warm against her ear. “We don’t have to stay.”
She leaned into him, focusing on the warmth of his arm and his solid presence beside her.
It was stupid to be freaked out by a story.
The guy was probably just making it up on the spot.
But truth was, she hated this stuff. She hadn’t even been able to watch the spoof of The Exorcist without having nightmares.
“I’m fine. I want my s’mores.”
“Let me know if that changes.”
Aspen bit into her s’more, appreciating how Brooks seemed to see her in a way no one else ever had. What a gift that was. He understood without having to be told that she wasn’t comfortable and sought to do something about it. Sweet man.
“Well, you can bet your ass they ran hell for leather out of that mansion. But as they looked back at the house from the relative safety of the forest, they saw Eliza at the window, watching them with eerie blue eyes that glowed in the dark.” The storyteller sat back.
“The Hathaway mansion never was occupied after that, and it fell into disrepair. But they say Eliza’s spirit still haunts those ruined halls.
Hikers sometimes hear a lonely piano echoing through the hills.
So, when you’re out here in the Berkshires, if you ever hear the faint strains of the ivories…
remember the tragic tale of Eliza Hathaway, and whatever you do, don’t follow the music. ”
As the speaker sat back, letting the crackle of the fire punctuate the end of the story, Brooks shifted, scooping Aspen onto his lap.
She cuddled in, not truly afraid but appreciating the closeness, nonetheless.
Finishing her first s’more, she let him help her add another marshmallow to the end of her stick and extended it over the fire to toast.
It was yet another memory she’d have of him.
There were so many now. It felt greedy to want more.
Yet, here she was. Tipping her head to his, she let herself indulge in the “What if?” What if she went back home and Linnea was right?
What if the biopsy revealed that there was a completely benign reason for the lump?
What if she didn’t have cancer? What if it turned out she had a whole lot more tomorrows?
Would Brooks consider spending them with her?
That didn’t feel like a reasonable thing to ask him.
Certainly not without knowing the truth about her condition.
She refused to bring up the potential for cancer with him.
They didn’t have that kind of relationship.
This hazy, potential future wasn’t a thing she’d even consider pursuing without having an answer.
But as she sat warming herself by the fire, she let herself consider the possibility that there could be a future. And she allowed herself to actually want it. To want him beyond this week. Beyond the farce of their engagement.
He hadn’t yet decided what he was doing about his career, but if he went back to hockey, the reality was that it wouldn’t be in Georgia.
There was no hockey in Georgia, so far as she knew.
If there was, he’d have mentioned it. Which meant that if she wanted to pursue this, it would mean leaving Georgia herself.
Leaving the house and those memories of her mother it represented.
That was no small thing and triggered a cascade of potential grief she wasn’t prepared to deal with.
No sense in going down that path right now.
She couldn’t allow herself to give in to the hope of a future.
Not without having all the information. No matter what hurdles she’d overcome, she wasn’t brave enough to do that.
But she acknowledged to herself that if there was a chance, she’d love to take it with him.
Because he’d be worth it. She suspected he’d be worth everything.
“Had enough s’mores?”
“Yeah. I think two is enough for me. I’m not quite ready to go back to the cabin.
” There’d be better lighting there, and he might realize something was wrong.
Not that anything was wrong, exactly. Not that she could tell him or would tell him, given how close his own grief over his mom’s loss still was.
“We’ll have a walk then. Let dessert settle.”
Which was how she found herself strolling along the lake, tucked close to his side.
“Did you always live in Georgia?” he asked.
“I did. Born and raised.”
“Do you like it there?”
“Love it. I’m a creature of the South, for sure. I’ve lived in the same house most of my life.”
“Even now?”
“Even now. My dad remarried a few weeks ago, right before I took this trip. He gifted me with the house because he’s moving in with his new wife.”
“Lotta memories there, I imagine.”
“Yeah. Deep roots. What about you? You said you grew up in Michigan?”
“Yeah.”
“Big city or small town?”
“Some of both. We moved around a bit. Spent a lot of time in the towns on the outskirts of Grand Rapids. But I left for my hockey career, and Mom followed me.”
“Do you ever want to go back?”
“No. Mom’s house is—was—near where I landed. There’s nothing left for me there.”
Aspen couldn’t imagine being that kind of rootless. Did he feel unmoored? His mom had clearly been his anchor. She’d been his home. Not a place. With her gone, he was bound to feel emotionally adrift, whether he’d acknowledge that to himself or not.
Aspen found herself wondering if life could possibly work out in such a way that she could share her roots with him.
She wanted to give that to him. Not that it would be an option if he continued to play hockey.
He’d have to retire, and she’d never ask that of him.
Ending his hockey career was a decision he’d have to make on his own, with zero pressure.
And why was she even obsessing over this?
She herself wouldn’t know for probably several more weeks whether she had the possibility of a future, and she didn’t know how to handle it.
If they maintained contact after camp and the news was the worst, how could she possibly tell him?
And yet, not telling him would be tantamount to ghosting him when she died.
Both routes would hurt him, and that was the absolute last thing she wanted to do.
Maybe better to keep this to herself. Then, if she got a reprieve, she could find a way to contact him.
They hadn’t swapped contact information at this point.
There’d been no need since they’d essentially been joined at the hip.
But he was more or less a public figure.
She could find a way. More, she wanted to find a way because he represented the potential for a future she hadn’t even known she wanted.
She just had to find the guts to reach for it.
Brooks tried to doze as the hammock rocked gently in the breeze.
He was alone for the first time in days, Aspen having availed herself of a massage at the spa.
Not that he wouldn’t have been up for a couple’s massage, but he’d gotten the sense she wanted a little time to herself.
They’d spent practically every waking—and sleeping—minute together since their arrival, so that was more than fair, considering she’d booked this trip solo.