“What is it, honey?” Robert reaches out his arm to grab hers in an attempt to stop her aimless wandering. “What’s wrong? You’re lucky that patch of grass is still dead because you’ve trampled it repeatedly.”
Deborah can’t help but grin at the term of endearment, often said by her husband but not meant. It was a force of habit and now sounds different coming from Robert.
Natural, even.
She blushes like a teenager, beaming with pride. “I’ve really been enjoying my time with you.”
He squeezes her arm. “I feel the same.” He’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “I know that’s not all.”
“No. It’s not.” She shrugs. “You can read me like a book.”
“Always have.” He guffaws.
Looking down at the brown grass, she murmurs, “I have something to tell you.” She hurriedly adds, “I got a couple letters in the mail. Three now, actually.”
Deborah tells Robert about the letters while his fishing pole bobs up and down, the rippling water movement the only sound. She can tell he’s unnerved by the red flush that spreads from his face and down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
He finally responds, “Did you write back?”
“No.” She bites her lip. “I’m not sure what to say.”
“Do you think there’s an ulterior motive for reaching out?”
“Yes.” She rests a frustrated hand on her hip. “Money.”
“After all these years . . .” There’s a sharp exhale on his end.
“I thought it was just us there that night.”
“It was,” Robert promises.
“The letter mentions the gun . . .”
“What about it?”
“They claim to know what happened to it.”
“I dumped it in the pond, Debbie.” He shields his face from the sunlight. “It’s someone messing with you.” He reaches a hand out to hold hers. “Everything’s going to be fine, honey. I’m here with you now.”
“Do you ever think about that night?”
“No.” But his abrupt release of her hand tells her he’s being untruthful.
“I hear his shrieks sometimes in the night.”
“Deborah . . .”
She chokes on a sob. “I wish my actions hadn’t hurt so many people.”
“Stop,” Robert demands. “This doesn’t help us, getting all emotional. No one was there but us.”
Deborah inhales a ragged breath, reminding herself all she can do is breathe. Just breathe, Deborah.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whimpers. “I’m worried this can only mean trouble.”
“Not on my watch.” His voice sharpens. “Give me some time. I take it you kept the letters?”
“Yes.” Her voice quivers.
“Give them to me. I’ll think of something.” He nudges her arm gently. “You’ll let me know if another letter comes?”
“Of course, but there’s more.” She hesitates. “The letters are sent from a PO box that supposedly belongs to her.”
Robert grimaces. “After all this time?”
Not trusting herself to speak, Deborah stares down at the hole she’s dug in the barren grass. Before Robert can respond, she watches his hand tremble, the line bobbing up and down. “I think I got something.”
Watching in amazement, Deborah’s impressed at how Robert expertly holds the line almost taut. “Did you get a hit?”
Nodding, he keeps his hand underneath the reel while his index finger and forefinger skillfully press down on the line.
“Nibble or a bite?”
“They might’ve just taken the bait.” Glimpsing tiny swells in the water, Robert lifts the rod up at a ninety-degree angle to reel it in. They both chuckle when they realize the lure is gone, but no fish is attached to the hook.
As they enjoy the solitude, Robert moves closer to her as she snuggles into his side. When he brushes a large hand through her windswept hair, Deborah winces. Nothing seems to get past him, and looking concerned, he tenderly touches a swollen lump on her head.
Sounding alarmed, he asks, “What happened to your head?”
“It was a fall, nothing serious.” Yet Deborah can’t meet his eyes.
“Looks pretty serious to me.” Robert motions to her leg. “You also weren’t limping a couple of days ago.”
Her mouth puckers like she’s tasted something sour. “This getting old is not for the weak of heart.”
He sighs. “How did you fall?”
“Trying to carry a laundry basket down those dreadful stairs.”
“Those stairs are a death trap. How is it that no one’s fallen down them before this?”
Deborah’s mouth drops open and she stammers, then thinks better of it and shakes her head. Robert waits for her to continue, but she stares distractedly out at the water. She’s not sure she wants to tell him what prompted her to lose her balance. She knows he’s already worried about her mental state. Depressed and weepy, Deborah’s unable to sleep, night terrors a constant invasion.
“Debbie.” He softens his voice. “What don’t you want to tell me?”
If anyone else called her Debbie instead of Deborah, she’d automatically correct them. But she finds she doesn’t mind at all when he says it.
Finally, she relents. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I know I’ve heard enough ghost stories to last a lifetime, yet every one ends with more questions than answers.”
“Well, the farmhouse is over a hundred and fifty years old.” She takes a deep breath before she lays it on him. “A lot of people have lived and died on this land.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think my fall was accidental.” Deborah shrugs out of his grasp. “Someone shoved me down the stairs.”
He looks incredulous. “You were pushed down the stairs?”
Her face burns crimson.
Robert’s eyes convey the dread that Deborah feels. “By whom?”
“I don’t know.” She sighs. “But I felt a hand grip my shoulder.”
“Whose hand?” His eyes drill into hers.
“It felt cold . . . too cold, like it didn’t belong in this world.”
“You think a ghost made you lose your balance?” He snorts. “Come on, Debbie, you can’t honestly expect me to believe some evil spirit pushed you down the stairs.”
Deborah silently counts to ten, trying to maintain her composure. She knows how this must sound.
“Maybe it was the ghost of Jonathan,” he adds disdainfully. “Or Edward?”
Ignoring his scorn, she hurries on before she loses her courage. “It didn’t feel as heavy as a man’s touch.
