CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

 

The next day, Jennifer went to Roundmore and Innes to see how Mr. Innes was feeling. He gave her a sheepish, embarrassed glance, but she pretended to be concerned about the state of his health—as if a bout of dizziness had overtaken him, causing him to fall.

At this, Innes perked up and gallantly stated he was feeling remarkable. They then were able to talk with ease, and by the time Jennifer left, they could continue to be good friends—and nothing more.

She had stopped to see Innes while on her way to Mrs. Petris’ place with Beau and Jock. Mrs. Petris had telephoned a few days earlier that she had decided to mate Beau to one of her loveliest females, and it was time to leave Beau with her to “do his duty,” as Mrs. Petris called it.

When Jennifer and Jock left to return to Squire House, Jock was upset at leaving Beau behind, but obediently followed Jennifer.

When they reached Squire House, Jennifer patted Jock. “I guess it’s just you and me for a few days.” At that, he went bounding off to check the grounds and to make sure nothing had been disturbed in his absence. It had normally been Beau’s duty to peruse the grounds while Jock inspected the house whenever they had been away for any period of time.

Jennifer entered the house through the back door, which opened to the kitchen since she’d bought a few groceries in Brynstol. She actually felt a little strange entering the house without Jock going first to be sure everything was okay.

After putting away the groceries, she made herself a cup of tea and headed toward the living room. As she neared it she stopped. The distinctive scent of pipe tobacco was in the air. She felt her heart thrum with anticipation as she walked the rest of the way.

He was there. She stood in the doorway, staring.

“If I’d known you were making tea I would have asked for a cup myself,” he said. “It goes well with a pipe. I never really acquired a taste for coffee. It was always considered a plebeian brew, not nearly as popular as it is today. Although perhaps today there are simply more plebs?”

Jennifer felt light-headed but somehow kept her composure. “The water is still hot; I’ll make you a cup if you’d like.”

“If it’s no trouble.”

She frowned. “You’ll wait here? Or will you leave like last time?”

“Leave? Don’t you realize yet that I never go away?”

His words were disconcerting, and Jennifer must have looked stunned because his mouth spread into a smile and he actually chuckled as she hurried off for his tea.

She stood in the kitchen breathing deeply. She almost wished she were hallucinating. That would be easier to accept than what she suspected was happening. She placed a tea bag in a cup and poured hot water over it. She carried the cup and saucer into the living room and placed them on the coffee table near the big leather chair.

Paul picked up the string and lifted the tea bag from the water. “Wasteful, but clever,” he murmured.

“Take it out when the tea’s the strength you want it,” she said.

He gave her a wry glance. “So I assumed.”

“Do you want milk or sugar?” she asked, watching him dip the teabag a couple of times.

“No. But thank you.”

She sat on the sofa, her eyes never leaving him. He looked remarkably … solid.

He removed the bag then lifted the cup to his lips.

“Be careful,” she said. “It’s hot.”

He cocked an eyebrow and took a sip. “Ah, a brew for the Gods. Forget nectar. It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted tea.”

“You don’t drink tea … where you’re from?” Jennifer asked cautiously.

“I don’t need to drink anything,” he replied. “I don’t need to eat anything either, if you want to know. But despite my, er, state, I do still possess all my senses. Given a sense of smell and taste, food and drink—and my pipe tobacco—are quite enjoyable.”

“Of course,” Jennifer murmured.

He put down the cup and again puffed on his pipe.

Jennifer cleared her throat, then said, “May I ask something without you getting excited and carrying on like you did last time?”

One eyebrow lifted. “Me get excited and carry-on? How blatantly absurd the very idea is. But I’ll ignore your poor character analysis this time. Yes, you may ask anything you would like, and I will answer that which I choose. A fair bargain, wouldn’t you say?”

Instead of answering, or arguing, she simply asked, “Why have you returned?”

“Why? You’re asking why?” he said disgustedly. “You’re the snippet who announced that my company was desired, that I was welcome here. I heard you quite distinctly last night. But now, you brazenly ask why I’ve returned?”

“You heard what I said last night?” Jennifer was incredulous.

His lips pursed. “Haven’t you understood a word I’ve said to you? Of course I heard. You were speaking to me, weren’t you? Who else were you thanking? Just how many people do you think are hanging around this house anyway?”

Jennifer’s head was swimming, her world suddenly rocky.

“The old fool was making a complete ass out of himself,” he said. “It was pitiful. The way he was going on he probably would have tried to molest you right here in my living room. If I were divested with a very sick sense of humor, I might have allowed the scene to continue. However, that is not my character. I determined it was best to stop it before it started.”

The image of Mr. Innes trying to ‘molest’ her was beyond appalling. “You have a sick sense of humor,” Jennifer could barely spit out the words. “You really have some nerve.”

“Is that any way to speak to the one who came to your rescue?” he asked. “If you ask me, I’m a veritable knight in shining armor.”

Jennifer stopped, stood up, her hand pressed to her forehead as she went to the window. “What am I doing? I’m here either talking to myself or to the world’s best charlatan. There’s no one else in this house. Right?”

“Wrong.”

Jennifer spun around. “Who are you and what are you trying to do to me?”

“You know who I am, Jennifer. Sit down.” He leaned back in the chair and crossed one long leg over the other. “Such histrionics bore me to tears. Accept what your eyes and ears tell you is true. I, for one, am not trying to do anything but live in harmony and peace”—he steepled his hands together—“as befits my calm and placid nature.”

“You are not Paul Squire.”

“Wrong again.”

“Paul Squire is dead.”

“Right, finally.”

“You are not Paul Squire,” she insisted.

“This is tedious. Hand me some paper, Jennifer, and a fountain pen if you have one. Those new ball points allow no character to come through.”

Jennifer found some paper and remembered seeing an old fountain pen and ink in the kitchen. Amazingly, the ink hadn’t dried up. She placed them on the table. Paul walked over to them, filled the pen, tested it a bit to get the ink to flow properly, and then with a flourish signed his name. He handed the paper to Jennifer.

She walked to the bookshelf and took out one of Paul Squire’s books. Opening the fly leaf she found a nameplate with his signature on it. The signatures looked the same.

“That book, by the way,” —Paul peered over her shoulder, but she hadn’t heard him walk toward her— “is full of underlining toward the end. An acquaintance once borrowed it and he had the nasty habit of underlining what he considered important. Either he considered nothing in the first two-thirds of the book of any importance, or thought if he read only the end of it he didn’t need to know what happened earlier. I never lent him another book.”

Jennifer skittered away from him, strangely nonplussed by his nearness. He was much taller than her and far too corporeal to be the ghost he wanted to convince her that he was. Sure enough, as she flipped through the pages of the book there was no underlining in the first part, and quite a bit, in pencil, toward the back.

“And that one,” he said pointing to a poetry collection, “has a light check-mark in pencil in the outer corner of page 23, where you’ll find one of my favorite poems.”

As he sat back in his leather chair, Jennifer opened the book, and found the mark. Damn.

“All this proves is that you’ve lived here and practiced Paul Squire’s signature and read through his books,” she said guardedly. “Besides, if you were a ghost—and I’m assuming that’s what you expect me to believe—then why are you so solid looking? I thought ghosts were wispy and floated about.”

“We are energy, pure and simple. Depending on circumstance, we can draw in more or less energy. The all-but-transparent spirits who can pass through walls use very little energy. To be solid, to touch objects, even people—or to have them touch us—that uses an incredible amount of energy and afterward we might spend many hours, even days, recuperating. During that period, we're quite invisible. But it doesn’t mean we’ve gone away.”

There was no arguing with the man, Jennifer decided, and she had other things to find out about him—like why he was here at all. “All right, I’ll accept what you’re saying … for now.”

“Good, then let us put aside this nonsense. It is degrading and wasteful of our time. Time is a precious thing, which is something you are too young to realize.”

She still had the book open in her hands, and as she went to shut it, she stopped as she noticed the poem that was marked. It was by Emily Dickinson:

Of all the souls that stand create I have elected one

When sense from spirit flies away,

And subterfuge is done ...

“I didn’t realize men liked Dickinson. I think of her as a woman’s poet,” Jennifer commented.

“In my day—she and I were contemporaries—Dickinson was considered almost scandalous. How a woman could express such thoughts about love, death, and the loneliness in life was remarkable. Many people dismissed her poetry as the blithering of a frustrated spinster.”

“Spinsters are pathetic creatures, aren’t we?” said Jennifer hotly. She returned the book to the shelf.

“I’m just repeating what others said. Obviously I admire Dickinson. Some of her insights regarding death were wrong, but for one of this world she was remarkably sensitive about the other side.”

“Hmm,” Jennifer looked at him with suspicion again. She sat down once more on the sofa, but she simply could not get her mind to accept the reality of all this. “All right. Let’s say I believe you. And you are Paul Squire.” Even saying it was preposterous. “Tell me how you intend to live in this house. And since, obviously, much of the time you’re supposedly here, I can’t see you, how am I supposed to know where you are? I mean ...”

“Stop.” Paul laughed. “My good woman, I am not a Peeping Tom. Have no fear. I respect your privacy.”

His laughter was more than a little annoying. “I’m glad you find this all so funny,” she said with a huff. “I suppose I’ve taken over your bedroom. So … where do you sleep? Do you even need a bedroom? I hope you don’t want it back? Or … or anything else? I mean ...” All this was suddenly overwhelming. “I mean … this is all rather …” She knew she was babbling. Finally she gave up with a shake of the head.

“Please.” Now, he was the one who sounded exasperated. “I’ve managed for decades without intruding on your life or anyone else’s. I can do the same now. Although…” He turned thoughtful as he regarded her, then he stood and raked his hand through his hair. “God, I’ve been an idiot. How did I not consider your position in all this? A young woman, alone. It was wrong of me. I’m sorry, you see, I’ve come to feel I know you, being here with you. I never thought … I should go.”

She stood as well. “I don’t understand.”

He cocked his head slightly, his pale gray eyes sad and troubled. And at that moment, something about him touched her heart. “Goodbye, Jennifer. You’re free to live here as you please. I won’t disturb you again.”

He’s leaving? After all this time trying to convince me he’s real and should be welcome in this house, he’s going to simply walk away?

“Wait,” she said, her single word stopping him.

He didn’t look at her, but simply asked, “Yes?”

“You don’t disturb me,” she said. “You say you’ve gotten to know me over these past weeks, but don’t you realize I’ve gotten to know you as well?”

He turned, and she saw surprise and something more on his face.

“Of course I have,” she explained. “Living in your house, the house you designed and built, surrounded by your furniture, your books, your paintings. Each choice you’ve made tells me something about the man you are.” She thought back on his choice of poetry, and capturing his eyes with hers. “You don’t have the market cornered on loneliness, Paul.”

“How can you ...?” He seemed about to deny her words, but then he stopped. “What are you saying?”

She stepped toward him. “We’ll work it out.”

He rubbed his jaw. “I wouldn’t mind trying. My life, my death, both if I were to be honest, have been”—he smiled—“somewhat dull, may I say?”

She smiled back, and somehow believed him. “Would you like some sherry?” she asked. Gresham Innes had brought over a bottle a while back.

“That would be quite nice.”

Jennifer went to the kitchen for sherry glasses, but when she returned the room was empty.

She poured one glass and set it on the mantle. Had he gone? Had he even been here? Was she going mad?

If she was, it was all-in-all, a pleasant madness. She walked to the center of the room, and in a loud voice announced, “Perhaps this evening after dinner Mr. Squire will join me for some dessert and conversation?”

Then, feeling decidedly foolish, she ran outside to look for Jock.