brother—" She paused. "May he rest in peace." She took a breath and continued, "And your stupid friends, the whole world knows we have one hundred and thirty-seven of them."
"One hundred and thirty-eight," Gabe said in a quiet voice.
"What?"
"One hundred and thirty-eight," he repeated. "The Lady of the Falls was certified yesterday."
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed in suspicion. She took a step back, tottered in her ridiculous shoes, then caught her balance and glared. "The Lady of the..." Her voice trailed off. "Your friends are loons."
"That's the pot calling the kettle black, Elizabeth," he said. "The town's hauntings will bring in tourists and business."
Her blazing eyes focused on him. "It's not working, Gabe. And I don't care if the supernatural fringe has brought in big money to back them up. The gig is up, and there's nothing you can do to stop it."
"Elizabeth," he started.
"Never mind," she said between clenched teeth. "I'm going home. I'm meeting a client early in the morning." She straightened her spine and tightened her lips into a grimace that was probably meant to be a smile. "Nice to see you again, Gabe." She paused. "Goodbye."
Then she turned around and walked toward a small, beat-up car, a painfully familiar orange Honda. He knew that car very well. He'd spent many weekend afternoons trying to fix that deathtrap with Cole. He couldn't believe Elizabeth was still driving it. That thing was a suicide wish on wheels. He should stop her. It was definitely unsafe. But he paused because he wasn't sure whether he'd be stopping her because of the safety issue, or because he wanted to pull her back into his arms and kiss the hurt out of her eyes.
And maybe find out what was underneath that lacy bra.
Of course, the one thing he was terrible at was trying to kiss, or hug, or even awkwardly pat, any hurt away. And the one thing he couldn't allow himself to do was find out what was beneath Elizabeth's bra. Damn, he used to buy her pimento cheese sandwiches after school. He'd wait with Cole until she got out of the interminable Drama Club meetings, and they'd all go to the Hungry Owl diner and feast on spicy tomato soup and the diner's trademark cheese sandwiches. He shouldn't be fantasizing about her underwear.
Nun shoes. He had to think of nun shoes.
So he just watched her drive away. He would find a house tomorrow and leave town. Once he got back to Manhattan, he'd figure out a way to take care of the Banshee Creek Historical Preservation Committee. But right now he needed to get as far away from Elizabeth as possible.
Now that was a plan.
C HAPTER S EVEN
E LIZABETH STOOD on the gravel driveway, leaned her head back, and assessed the gargantuan house with a professional eye. The early morning light fell on the stained glass windows and she felt a surge of confidence.
The Hagen House towered over the neighboring bungalows with majestic grace. Which was noteworthy, since "majestic" wasn't a word usually associated with Banshee Creek's real estate inventory. Quaint and picturesque, yes. Charming, sure, often in the literal sense. Majestic, no.
The street wasn't bad, either. It was narrow, and the houses were stacked one next to the other like cedar-shingled sardines in a can, but the gardens were well taken care of. The bright flowers of summer were gone, but red-flecked Japanese maple trees and wild grasses added muted color.
It all looked splendid, and she felt a wave of relief. Holly was depending on her, so failure was not an option. She needed to sell this house today. To that end, she'd dug up her most conservative clothes—plain dark slacks, a shirt the color of pasteurized skim milk, and the pearl necklace she'd bought when she'd auditioned for that serial killer suburban mom role. She wished she owned a pair of sensible pumps to go with the outfit, but all she had was a pair of pin-up girl peep-toes with towering heels.
Oh well, at least the pants hid the shoes. She never wore pants
"One hundred and thirty-eight," Gabe said in a quiet voice.
"What?"
"One hundred and thirty-eight," he repeated. "The Lady of the Falls was certified yesterday."
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed in suspicion. She took a step back, tottered in her ridiculous shoes, then caught her balance and glared. "The Lady of the..." Her voice trailed off. "Your friends are loons."
"That's the pot calling the kettle black, Elizabeth," he said. "The town's hauntings will bring in tourists and business."
Her blazing eyes focused on him. "It's not working, Gabe. And I don't care if the supernatural fringe has brought in big money to back them up. The gig is up, and there's nothing you can do to stop it."
"Elizabeth," he started.
"Never mind," she said between clenched teeth. "I'm going home. I'm meeting a client early in the morning." She straightened her spine and tightened her lips into a grimace that was probably meant to be a smile. "Nice to see you again, Gabe." She paused. "Goodbye."
Then she turned around and walked toward a small, beat-up car, a painfully familiar orange Honda. He knew that car very well. He'd spent many weekend afternoons trying to fix that deathtrap with Cole. He couldn't believe Elizabeth was still driving it. That thing was a suicide wish on wheels. He should stop her. It was definitely unsafe. But he paused because he wasn't sure whether he'd be stopping her because of the safety issue, or because he wanted to pull her back into his arms and kiss the hurt out of her eyes.
And maybe find out what was underneath that lacy bra.
Of course, the one thing he was terrible at was trying to kiss, or hug, or even awkwardly pat, any hurt away. And the one thing he couldn't allow himself to do was find out what was beneath Elizabeth's bra. Damn, he used to buy her pimento cheese sandwiches after school. He'd wait with Cole until she got out of the interminable Drama Club meetings, and they'd all go to the Hungry Owl diner and feast on spicy tomato soup and the diner's trademark cheese sandwiches. He shouldn't be fantasizing about her underwear.
Nun shoes. He had to think of nun shoes.
So he just watched her drive away. He would find a house tomorrow and leave town. Once he got back to Manhattan, he'd figure out a way to take care of the Banshee Creek Historical Preservation Committee. But right now he needed to get as far away from Elizabeth as possible.
Now that was a plan.
C HAPTER S EVEN
E LIZABETH STOOD on the gravel driveway, leaned her head back, and assessed the gargantuan house with a professional eye. The early morning light fell on the stained glass windows and she felt a surge of confidence.
The Hagen House towered over the neighboring bungalows with majestic grace. Which was noteworthy, since "majestic" wasn't a word usually associated with Banshee Creek's real estate inventory. Quaint and picturesque, yes. Charming, sure, often in the literal sense. Majestic, no.
The street wasn't bad, either. It was narrow, and the houses were stacked one next to the other like cedar-shingled sardines in a can, but the gardens were well taken care of. The bright flowers of summer were gone, but red-flecked Japanese maple trees and wild grasses added muted color.
It all looked splendid, and she felt a wave of relief. Holly was depending on her, so failure was not an option. She needed to sell this house today. To that end, she'd dug up her most conservative clothes—plain dark slacks, a shirt the color of pasteurized skim milk, and the pearl necklace she'd bought when she'd auditioned for that serial killer suburban mom role. She wished she owned a pair of sensible pumps to go with the outfit, but all she had was a pair of pin-up girl peep-toes with towering heels.
Oh well, at least the pants hid the shoes. She never wore pants
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