“Some white wine?”
He glanced down. “Grandfather?”
The older man answered with an imperious wave, and Thane sauntered off. I was then summoned to a seat next to the wheelchair, and I perched on the edge, as uneasy as a rabbit caught in a snare.
“So you’re the restorer I’ve been hearing so much about,” he said. “The one who’s come to save our little cemetery.”
I glanced at him sharply, searching for evidence of animosity or sarcasm, but I found nothing in those black eyes but a mild curiosity. “I don’t know about that. I’m just here to do what I’ve been hired to do.”
“Have you seen the cemetery yet?” His voice, more than the wheelchair, gave away his frailty. It had a brittle quality that couldn’t be masked with a throw.
“As a matter of fact, I spent the day there photographing headstones.”
“And what did you think of it?”
It was the same question Thane had asked earlier, and like then, I had a feeling Thorngate was merely a blind. The man was after something else. But then I wondered if my uneasiness—more than his words—had created the suspicion. “I was just telling Thane earlier how much I admire the statuary. The faces are so expressive. They remind me of some of the statues I saw in a Paris cemetery once.”
“Père Lachaise?”
“Yes,” I said. “Have you been there?”
He nodded. “You have a good eye, my dear. Many of the statues in our cemetery were sculpted by European artists. They’re priceless.”
“Then it’s lucky there’s been no vandalism,” I said. “You can’t imagine the kind of damage that can be done with a can of spray paint.”
“No one would dare.”
The comment was so offhand I almost missed the supreme arrogance, but it was there in the haughty glitter of those obsidian eyes, in the thin, mirthless smile that sent another shiver up my spine. I hadn’t come here expecting to like Pell Asher. His greed had destroyed a cemetery, and in my eyes, that was an unforgiveable sin. But despite his past deeds, despite the pomposity, I was strangely intrigued by the man. I’d fallen victim to his mystique even as his very nature repelled me.
“Tell me more about your travels,” he said smoothly. “As you can imagine, I don’t get out much these days. I tend to live vicariously. You mentioned Paris. Do you travel abroad often?”
“Whenever I can. But Paris was some time ago. A high school graduation gift from my aunt.”
“A very generous one, I’d say.” His smile was now warm and inviting, almost eager. I couldn’t help responding.
“Too generous, according to my father,” I found myself telling him.
One dark brow rose in sympathy. “He didn’t want you to go?”
“He’s always been…protective.” And I would say no more on the subject. My relationship with Papa was a private matter, but that brief conversation had stirred a hornet’s nest of memories. He’d been so dead set against that trip. I’d rarely seen him so angry. Looking back, I understood why. The notion of my straying so far from the hallowed ground of Rosehill Cemetery must have terrified him. He’d always kept such a watchful eye. But Mama and Aunt Lynrose had been relentless. They’d had their own worries about me. They didn’t know about the ghosts and so couldn’t understand why a girl of my age was all too content to sequester herself in an old graveyard with only her books for company. It was high time I had an adventure, they’d said. A bit of culture. So off to Paris I’d gone. And while my aunt toured the Louvre and Notre Dame, I’d slipped off by myself to wander the pathways of Père Lachaise where the likes of Chopin and Jim Morrison and Édith Piaf had been laid to rest. I’d had a wonderful time despite the ghosts—Paris had been full of them—and when we returned, the chasm between Papa and me had grown even wider. To this day, I didn’t understand that distance. I still didn’t know why that first sighting of a ghost had changed our relationship forever.
The old hurt flitted away as Thane placed a glass of wine in my hand. I looked up with a smile. “Thank you.”
His gaze on me was attentive. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, fine.”
“You sure?”
I nodded.
“You need to see about Maris,” his grandfather said darkly. “She’s started to drink, and you know she can’t hold her liquor. Go head her off before she makes a fool of herself.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Thane murmured.
I took a sip of the wine—a dry, crisp Riesling—and savored the acidity on my tongue as I watched Thane over the rim. He’d gone straight over to Maris and bent to say something in her ear. She looked up with a grateful smile and nodded, her hand fluttering to his sleeve. I was reminded of the way Angus had nuzzled against Thane earlier. It seemed he had a way with strays, and I wondered if he regarded me as such.
Hugh had drifted out to the veranda with Luna. I could see the two of them out there talking through the open doorway. There was nothing inappropriate about the way he stared down at her. Nothing particularly intimate about her answering smile. But it hit me like a thunderbolt that Hugh Asher was the man who had been with her in the library. I thought now of the laughter and whispers, those animalistic sounds of pleasure. His voice was nothing like Thane’s, but they had a similar accent, a certain inflection in the long vowels that had caused me to jump to the wrong conclusion.
My gaze shot back to Maris. Did she suspect? Maybe that was why she’d clung to Hugh so proprietarily during my introduction. But allowing her husband’s mistress into the house? I couldn’t imagine a more cutting humiliation. However, it wasn’t my place to judge her marriage or her forbearance. I couldn’t help feeling sympathy for her, though, and a deepening appreciation for Thane, who had managed to coax a smile and some semblance of animation from her.
Pell Asher said something at my side, and I turned with an apologetic murmur. “Sorry. I was just admiring this room. The whole house is incredible. A far cry from my modest place.”
He adjusted the throw over his legs. “Thane tells me you’re from Charleston.”
“I live there now, but I grew up in Trinity. It’s a small town just north—”
“I know where Trinity is,” he said. “A very good friend of mine lived there for years. After she died, I used to drive down every so often to visit her grave.”
“Where was she buried?” I inquired politely.
“Rosehill Cemetery. Do you know it?”
My brows shot up. “My father was the caretaker at Rosehill for many years. I grew up in that white house near the gate.”
He gave me another of those strange smiles. “I remember that cemetery very well. It was always so beautifully maintained. I used to marvel at the grueling hours it must have taken to keep all those graves so pristine.”
“And that was only one of several cemeteries he cared for,” I said proudly. “But Rosehill was by far the largest.”
“I recall seeing him during some of my visits,” Pell Asher reminisced. “Tall, stoop-shouldered, hair as white as cotton. We spoke on occasion. A very dignified man.”
“Yes, that’s Papa,” I said with a pang of loneliness.
“He sometimes had a little girl with him. A solemn, golden-haired child who seemed quite at home among the dead.”
What an odd way of putting it, I thought. And how unnerving to catch a glimpse of my childhood self through the eyes of this stranger. The whole conversation edged toward the surreal…to think of such a happenstance meeting with Pell Asher all those years ago.
“Are your parents still living?” he asked softly.
“Yes. My father’s retired, but he still helps out in the cemetery from time to time.”
“It must be a comfort to them to have you nearby. Charleston is what…an hour’s drive from Trinity?”
“If that. But I don’t get back home as often as I’d like. Even when I’m working in Charleston, the hours are long.”
