Heart pounding, Micah scooted over the sheets between them and curled up in his warmth. She trembled, her entire body shaking as she stared unseeing into the pitch black room.
“Bad dream?” Garrett murmured into her ear, his strong arm closing tightly over her abdomen as he pulled her against his front.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she answered, covering her cheek with a hand.
He snuffled at her neck before pressing a kiss into the curve of her shoulder. “Try me.”
“It happened last night, too,” she started quietly. “I woke up thinking it was Elliott. Cold fingers. Here.” She took his hand and laid it over her cheek.
“I’m sure it was just a dream,” he said with a chuckle, squeezing her tightly. “It’s a big, unfamiliar house. And your mom and aunts didn’t do you any favors with their stories.”
That word again—unfamiliar. But the fact of the matter was there was nothing about Bowridge that felt unfamiliar. In fact, it felt eerily familiar, more and more so every minute she remained.
Just as it had the night before, Micah stayed silent as her daughter’s quick footsteps hurried down the hallway, and she and Sticks burst into the bedroom. The girl repeated her flight and wormed her way between Garrett and Micah.
There wasn’t a storm to be found in Savannah, so Micah figured only one reason could have sent Elliott running for their bed. She propped her head up on one hand as Garrett tucked their daughter in close. “Tell Daddy what you told me last night.”
“There is a little girl in my room who whispers when I’m trying to sleep,” Elliott told him, acutely knowing what her mother was asking, as always.
Garrett raised an eyebrow in Micah’s direction, but she just shook her head. Looking down at her daughter’s wispy face in the dark, Micah asked, “Was she bothering you again tonight, baby?”
Elliott nodded. “She wants me to play with her, but I’m so sleepy.”
Micah caught her husband’s gaze over Elliott, but neither of them spoke. Not in front of Elliott, at any rate.
Cuddled against her child’s steady breathing, Micah drifted into dreams of a phantom child.
*
Micah woke late the next morning—obviously trying to make up for sleepless nights. She stretched in a beam of hot sun coming through the front window, her arm meeting empty space where her husband and daughter had been.
Tucked into her favorite cotton robe, Micah walked in bare feet downstairs. Elliott was sprawled on the couch in the living room, her feet kicking at the air as she munched on a bowl of corn flakes.
“Don’t spill that on the couch,” Micah warned.
Elliott took a bite and smiled, showing off flakes in her teeth.
Rolling her eyes, Micah followed the scent of coffee to the kitchen where Garrett was seated at the small round table, paging through the newspaper.
She dropped a kiss to the top of his head before moving on to pour a cup of coffee. “Sleep well?”
“Like a rock,” he answered without looking up. “It’s peaceful here. You wouldn’t think we were in a city.”
Micah hmm’d, not trusting herself to answer. She found no peace at Bowridge—all she found were doors that opened by themselves and a phantom child that haunted her dreams and her daughter.
“What are your plans today?” she asked, opening the fridge to grab the half-and-half.
“I was thinking about tackling the basement,” Garrett said, turning a page. The swish was familiar and comforting. He’d read the newspaper every morning of their marriage, even on days when he was sick in bed.
Micah shivered. “It’s creepy down here.”
He laughed. “You’ve always found basements creepy, love.” He paused to take a sip of coffee. “I may take a look at the fence first. This morning before it gets hot. Some of the rods are bent out of shape and rusted all to hell. I’d hate for Sticks to get caught in any of them.”
“I doubt he can climb the stone wall to get to them,” Micah laughed, joining Garrett at the table with her own sugared-up coffee.
“Dog jumps like a champ.” He folded his newspaper, and then took his coffee mug to the sink. Giving Micah a sloppy kiss on the lips, he said, “I’ll be outside if you need me.”
*
“What are you doing, baby girl?” Micah stepped out onto the covered porch, cradling her jumbo mug of steaming coffee.
She’d already cleaned the main bathroom from top to bottom, and was taking a break before moving on to the next.
Elliott sat in the wicker chair, her knees pulled up to her chest as she gazed out into the morning. “Do you see them?”
Micah crossed the creaky floor and drew up before the glass as she took a sip of coffee. A group of young children played in the park next door. “Yes, of course.”
“May I go play?” Elliott turned pleading eyes to her mother.
Micah smiled; there was no way she could tell her “no” today. “Of course, love. Put some sunblock on your face first, please. Oh, and your arm—don’t forget your arm. It’s going to get hot fast.”
“Yay!” Elliott squeezed her mother around the waist and rushed away.
“Look both ways before you cross the road!” Micah yelled.
She groaned. She really needed to tackle the other bathrooms, and if Elliott was going to play outside for the next few hours, it would be prime time to do so. Garrett was in the backyard and could watch their daughter as he worked on the broken railings of their rod-iron and stone walls.
Micah gathered supplies from the main bath—sponges, tub cleaner, a scrub brush—and took it to the en suite in her and Garrett’s room. She hit the power button on her docking station, and her mp3 player came to life. Grabbing the Soft Scrub and a sponge, she tackled the toilet.
She was elbow deep in toilet water when the front door clicked open and Elliott screamed, “Mom! Mom!”
Micah’s blood ran cold. She abandoned her cleaning and nearly tumbled down the stairs, her heart racing.
Elliott stood panting by the front door, her hands on her knees.
“What is it, baby? Are you hurt?” Micah put a hand to either of her daughter’s cheeks and turned her face to the left and then right, searching for evidence. If those kids had bullied her…
Ellott’s eyes were wide and her cheeks flushed. She grasped Micah’s arms with her tiny hands. “They’re gone.”
Micah stared down at her daughter, baffled. “Who’s gone?”
“The kids in the park.”
*
The upstairs was silent as a tomb. Micah had left a distraught Elliott on the couch with a bowl of strawberry ice cream and a Disney movie in the DVD player. The girl was certain the kids in the park had run from her. She had been so sensitive ever since the fire, and for no good reason. It had been a complete accident—a freak accident that had almost taken Elliott’s life, Micah reminded herself. It wasn’t the school’s fault.
In a way, maybe it was the school’s fault. Elliott had been a normal child, albeit a little shy. But the fire had changed all that. It had nearly killed her, and if it weren’t for the amazing burn unit, it would have maimed her. Micah and Garrett had spent everything they had to get Elliott the treatment she needed.
Micah sighed. The jury was still out on whether Bowridge was a curse or a blessing.
The door to the porch was standing open when Micah walked back through her bedroom on the way to finish cleaning. She paused, brow wrinkled. She didn’t remember the door being open before Elliott came running home.
The heat wafting in was substantial, so she crossed the room, intent on closing it, but the sound of kids at play made her stop and double-take. She stepped onto the porch, the heavy weight of Georgia summer settling around her, and made her way to the window.
The wicker seat still sat in the same place as always, facing the park. The cushion was flat as a pancake—no imprint.
But outside, across the street in the park, the same group of kids was back in action.
Fury filled Micah. Had they really run from her daughter? Those little brats.
She threw her yellow plastic gloves into the bathroom and left, making a beeline for the park.
She didn’t hear Elliott follow her out the door. She didn’t notice her daughter until they both stood at the gate to the park, staring at an empty playground where a single swing swung gently on a breeze-less day.
*
Micah sat at the kitchen table, nursing a small glass of whiskey and water. She looked up as Garrett came through the kitchen door.
“Hey,” he said, stepping out of his dirty boots. “I think I got most of the messed up rods marked. I’ll call later and find someone to come out and replace them.”
“This house is going to cost us a fortune,” Micah murmured.
Garrett grabbed a bottled water from the fridge and sat down across from her. He smelled like earth and sweat. Combined with the way the whiskey had gone straight to her head, Micah felt an urgent need to climb into his lap and connect with him, make love to him. Something real instead of surreal.
“Micah?” His tone was questioning.
She caught his worried brown eyes. “Something weird happened.”
He laughed, the bottle hovering near his lips. “Again?”
“Elliott wanted to play with the kids next door, on the playground. But when she got there, they were gone,” Micah told him, feeling as if the words were coming from outside of herself. She really was a terrible lightweight when it came to alcohol. “She came home in tears because she thought they ran away when they saw her coming. But Garrett, when I went back upstairs, I saw the kids in the park again. And I ran over there—I was mad, so mad that they’d hurt Ellie’s feelings. They were gone. As if they were never there in the first place.”
The worry that marred her husband’s brow remained for a split second, and then a curtain fell. His face twisted, hard and cynical, until he didn’t even resemble himself. Garrett stood, slamming the bottle to the table. “Why did you let her go?” he demanded. One strong, long-fingered hand shot out and grabbed her bicep in a bruising grip. He shook her until her teeth rattled. “Why?”
“Garrett, what is the matter with you?” Micah bit out, trying to shake him off. Her free hand hit the glass of whiskey, sending it sliding off the table. It shattered on the linoleum. “Let me go!”
“She is better than some commoner ragamuffin!” he roared, letting go of Micah so fast she stumbled backwards and into the counter. Her head hit the edge of the cabinet, and she saw stars. “Our child will not be seen with them!”
A sob ripped through Micah as she cowered against the counter. Garrett lifted a hand, his fist clenched as if he would hit her, but then he changed again. As quickly as the madness crossed his face, it was gone.
Garrett blinked, confused. “Micah? Honey, I thought you were cleaning the bathrooms?”
*
Garrett had no idea what she was talking about. He had no recollection of yelling or shaking her, but the growing bruise on the back of her head from connecting with the cabinet was harsh proof that it had happened.
He didn’t recall the conversation that led to the outburst, either. And Micah—sober as if she’d never had a drop after the harrowing experience—decided not to tell him again.
A dozen apologies and one promise to get checked out by a doctor later, they parted ways to get back to work on the house.
Micah checked in on Elliott and found the girl sound asleep on the couch, her favorite pillow pet—a stuffed dolphin—on her chest, and Sticks asleep under her knees. Micah couldn’t help but feel relieved that her daughter and her usually sensitive dog had slept through the strange domestic violence episode.
Garrett had never raised his voice to Micah or their daughter, much less raised a hand. Micah couldn’t explain what had happened down in the kitchen, but whatever it was, it was not her husband.
What if it was, God forbid, a tumor? Micah had heard stories before, of people plagued by full personality changes because of the pressure of a tumor on their brain…
Micah shook herself from such morbid thoughts. It could have been the unforgiving Georgia heat, for all she knew. She pulled an afghan from the hall closet and covered Elliott, then headed upstairs to finish the bathroom.
*
Micah lay on top of the covers, one arm thrown over her eyes to block the sun coming through the bedroom windows. Her head ached despite a mixture of ibuprofen and acetaminophen. With her other hand, she probed the tender area and winced. She needed ice, but didn’t have the energy or the inclination to walk two floors down to get it.
There was a soft knock at the door, and Micah opened her eyes to find her husband hovering in the doorway. He smiled wanly. “How you feeling, love?”
Micah lowered her arm, unwilling to let him know she was hurt. “Fine. What’s up?”
“I found something in the basement I thought you would want to see.”
She delicately sat up and got out of bed, then followed him downstairs. Through the living room archway, she noticed Elliott was no longer on the couch.
“Where’s Ellie?” she asked, a burst of worry making her heart skip a beat.
“She’s fine,” Garrett assured her, giving her a funny look. “She took Sticks outside.”
“The backyard?” Micah clarified.
He paused before the steps to the ground level. “Micah, is this about earlier?”
She shrugged, a flush rising to her face. She’d never felt unsure of Garrett being able to keep an eye on their daughter, and the emotion bothered her.
He grasped her shoulders gently, as if she would break, and stared into her eyes. “Love, I don’t know what happened. I can’t explain it, nor can I explain why I lost that time. But I would never, ever harm you or Elliott intentionally.”
Micah sighed and sank against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She didn’t answer. She didn’t trust herself to answer.
As Garrett released her and started down the stairs, Micah was hit by a wave of dizziness. She gripped the doorframe, staring down at her husband’s retreating back. His bright red t-shirt shimmered in her vision. Rage flooded her, and she felt absolutely certain that she should shove her husband down the stairs.
She stepped forward, lifting her hands to push him—and her vision righted itself. The rage was gone, and Garrett was standing at the bottom of the stairs, staring at her.
“Micah? Honey, what’s going on?”
Micah shook her head, pressing a hand to the bruise. “I…don’t know.” She focused on the man she loved and wondered what on earth had come over her. “Will you throw some ice in a baggie for me?”
He nodded and disappeared from sight.
Micah made her way down the stairs unsteadily, and by the time she came to rest near the kitchen table, Garrett handed her the baggie.
She pressed it to the back of her head as he asked, “Are you thirsty? Did you take anything?”
She shook her head. “No. Just show me what you wanted to show me so I can go lie back down.”
He put a hand to her forehead and then slipped it to her cheek. “You don’t feel hot. But I don’t think you should lay down, love. You might have a concussion.” He cradled his head in both hands and tore at his hair. “God, I can’t believe this has happened.”
“Quit worrying.” Micah hugged him, inhaling the comforting scent of his cologne. “I love you.”
She followed him through the swinging door into the further recesses of the basement, where he entered a small, windowless room. A box was open on the floor in front of a wall of filled bookshelves. There were two armchairs against the other wall, separated by a small table and illuminated brass lamp.
“I don’t know why I wanted to open this,” Garrett said excitedly. “I wasn’t even going to come in this room tonight. But I just had this crazy feeling…” He picked up a leather-bound book from the floor and put it in Micah’s hands.
The cover was old, the leathe
r peeling away from the cloth inside. There was nothing but a date on the front, gold-embossed—1868. Micah sat in one of the chairs, ignoring the cloud of dust that drifted up around her.
The first page was faded, the ink yellowed with time. A lilting script declared “General Benjamin W. Jones and Mrs. Adele Langley Jones, with their daughter Beverly, 1868.” Turning the page, Micah landed on an old black-and-white photograph.
A dour, older man with dazzling white hair stood military-straight over a seated woman with the kind of breathtaking beauty that belonged in a magazine. On her knee sat a smiling young girl with a round face and laughing eyes.
Micah turned a quizzical look to her husband. “A photo album.”
“Better,” he said, turning the page. He tapped an image of Bowridge, the edges of the photo burnt and blackened. Beneath it, the same flowery script declared “Bowridge upon purchase, January 10th, 1868.”
Micah turned another page and found an image of the daughter on the covered porch, her chubby legs on tip-toe as she peered out the window. “She’s young here. What do you think? Five?”
Garrett nodded. “Yeah, that was my guess.”
“They look so happy. Well”—Micah laughed—“Mrs. Jones and Beverly do. The general is… um… sour.”
Garrett laughed.
Micah flipped through half the book, and then the pictures just ended at a final photo of Beverly sitting on the wicker chair on the covered porch.
“They stop.”
“And look…” Garrett tugged a stack of papers from inside the box, handing them over.
It was a certificate of sale for November 1868. “They only lived here for ten months?”
“Looks that way. I tried to find out what happened. If they moved away. But there’s nothing. The house traded into the Ness family.”
“My family,” Micah mused. She traced the profile of the little girl in her last picture at Bowridge. “I wonder what her story is.”
Garrett took the album from her, setting it gently on top of the box before he offered her his hands. “Come on. I’ll tuck you in with a fresh bag of ice.”
*
She sat, silent in her worries. She had dreaded leaving her father alone; he had been married to her mother for so long that he could hardly care for himself. But she missed her daughter.
The carriage trundled through the city, the familiar sights easing her nerves. She tugged at her high-necked dress; the heat was nearly unendurable. If it weren’t for Benjamin’s assignment to Savannah, they never would have left the more agreeable climate in the north.