“Amazing how she’s re-created the gown in such detail,” Corrie murmured. “Even the bustle and the accessories.”
She was staring at the portrait with rapt interest. Frowning, Lucas looked at the painted gloves, the slippers with the ornate buckles, the fan. Then he studied Corrie’s face again. He was obviously missing something. Her comment had been a complete non sequitur. “What do you mean by ‘re-create’?” he asked.
“Well, it says here”—she pointed to a small brass plate set into the bottom of the picture frame—”that Adrienne was born in 1847 and died in 1897. So obviously she’s not the one wearing this dress tonight.”
“No one is wearing this dress tonight.”
“Someone is,” Corrie insisted. “Or one very like it. I saw her standing right here not twenty minutes ago.”
“I don’t believe so, Ms. Ballantyne. A trick of the light, perhaps? You saw the portrait and thought Adrienne was a real woman?”
He could see in eyes the color of the first forget-me-nots of spring that she was annoyed by his comment. Her reaction intrigued him. Perhaps, he thought, she wasn’t any more enthusiastic about being the subject of a matchmaking experiment than he was. And yet she was not indifferent to him. In the instant before she blinked and looked away, he caught the reflection of his own desire in her beautiful eyes.
She’d be there only a short while and then gone again, he reminded himself. He’d always made it a policy not to indulge in flings, and he’d long since vowed never to marry again.
Lucas Sinclair had no intention of letting history repeat itself.
“I know what I saw,” Corrie said.
“There is no one here tonight portraying Adrienne,” he told her, sure of his facts. “I would know. I arrange for all the costume rentals.”
“Are you positive you’ve seen every single person at the party? There’s quite a crowd.”
Lucas’s genial veneer slipped a little. He felt off balance, oddly uncertain in Corrie’s presence. Most uncharacteristically, he spoke his first thought aloud. “Just how much of my mother’s famous rum-laced eggnog did you drink before you saw this woman?”
As soon as the words were out, he knew the remark had been both rude and uncalled for. Even if it was the correct explanation, Corrie would be fully justified in taking offense. Instead, although her eyes narrowed, she remained calm, and what she said showed remarkable insight.
“I suppose you think if you irritate me, it will discourage me from being interested in you. There’s no need. Let’s not beat around the bush. We both caught that look your mother and my friend Rachel exchanged when we were introduced.”
“They meant well. Still, I—”
Corrie waved off his attempt to apologize. “They may have romantic ideas, Mr. Sinclair, but I do not. I am not in the market for a husband or a love affair.” She hesitated, as if uncertain she wanted to go on, then blurted out the rest of what was on her mind. “Just because you’re reasonably good-looking and obviously wealthy, you needn’t think that every plain little woman in the world will automatically fall at your feet!”
Plain little woman?
Startled to hear her speak of herself in those terms, Lucas forgot that he’d been looking for an excuse to put some distance between them. Suddenly he wanted to pursue this conversation.
A commotion at the entrance to the Fireside Room prevented him. Once he saw what was happening and recognized their unexpected and unwelcome guest, he had no choice but to abandon Corrie and resume his duties as manager of the hotel.
“Excuse me,” he muttered, and left Corrie’s side with more abruptness than was polite.
He was still peripherally aware of her, staring after him in confusion as he walked away. He was also cognizant of other guests at the party, and smiled pleasantly at one and all as he wove his way through the crowd toward the door. But the focus of his attention was an obsequious little man in a black suit, a man who was raising Joyce Sinclair’s hand to his lying lips and kissing it in a mockery of that gallant gesture of respect.
With speed and efficiency, Lucas intervened, slipping an arm around his mother’s shoulders and easing her away from the oily grip of Stanley Kelvin. “I’m surprised you had the nerve to show up here, Kelvin,” he said.
What Lucas wanted to do was pick the rat up by the scruff of his neck and hurl him into the nearest snowbank, but the hotel didn’t need any more bad publicity, and Kelvin was just the sort who’d jump at the chance to file a lawsuit. Lucas contented himself with a threatening glower.
“This is an open house,” Kelvin said with a smirk. “You invited the whole town of Waycross Springs. That means I’m welcome too.”
“Everyone
is
welcome,” Joyce said before Lucas could deny Kelvin entry. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Stanley, I must go check on Hugh. I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting him.” With a speaking glance at her son, she hurried off. Hugh, Lucas’s father, was confined to a wheelchair, but he had a clear view of all the goings-on. If he’d witnessed Kelvin slobbering a kiss on his wife’s hand, he’d be upset. That had probably been Kelvin’s intention.
“How is old Hugh?” the intruder asked.
Controlling the urge to throw a punch that would erase that supercilious smile, Lucas kept his voice level. “My father is recovering.” No thanks to you, he added silently. “Why are you really here, Kelvin?”
The bitterness in the other man’s voice took Lucas aback. “I can’t afford to pass up free food, Sinclair.” With that he pushed past his reluctant host and headed for the buffet table.
* * * *
“Trouble in paradise?” Rachel asked as she joined Corrie at the hearth. “I thought you’d have tall, dark, and handsome eating out of your hand by now.”
“I’d rather he use a plate.”
“Oops. He didn’t like being set up, huh?”
“You could say that. Neither did I.”
“Darn,” Rachel grumbled. “I’d have sworn I saw sparks between the two of you.”
Corrie said nothing. She didn’t want to encourage her friend, yet she couldn’t deny to herself that something had been simmering between them, a powerful attraction that defied reasonable explanation. She couldn’t imagine why she should be drawn to Lucas Sinclair, not when he had that superior, know-it-all attitude. She hated that in a man.
A stir in the crowd signaled that Lucas was making his way to the Steinway situated in one of the room’s many window alcoves. The singing was about to begin.
“Come on, Corrie,” Rachel said. “If I have the chutzpah to sing Christmas carols on Christmas Eve, you can belt out a few lyrics too.”
“Rachel, don’t you remember? I sound like a dying frog when I sing.”
“Oh.” Rachel’s stricken expression told Corrie that her old friend was indeed recalling some past occasion when she’d heard Corrie’s attempts to sing. “Well, you can move your lips, can’t you? Just mouth the words.”
Rachel began to flip through the songbook, perusing the lyrics and keeping up a steady flow of irreverent wisecracks, until a red-vested waiter appeared at her elbow and offered refills of rum-laced eggnog. Corrie waved him away. She’d been drinking hers plain and after Lucas’s nasty remark, she wasn’t about to start imbibing the hard stuff.
The first familiar notes of “Deck the Halls” sounded from the alcove. Singing started hesitantly, but soon picked up both energy and volume as Lucas Sinclair’s deep, rich baritone took the lead.
Corrie stuck to her resolve not to sing. She also made a concerted effort to dismiss Lucas Sinclair from her mind. As the singing continued, she thought she was succeeding.
The Fireside Room combined the ambiance of a bygone era with the atmosphere of a holiday party held in a private home. It had been decorated with all the traditional trappings of a typical New England Christmas—wreaths, boughs, pinecones, and the inevitable tree. The other guests were so friendly that Corrie soon felt as if many of them were old acquaintances. She was ensconced on one of the comfortable couches near the fireplace, exchanging gingerbread recipes with a schoolteacher from Topeka, when she once again caught sight of the woman wearing Adrienne Sinclair’s gown.
The costumed figure stood alone, partly in shadow, at the opposite side of the large room. Corrie considered going over to the piano and tapping Lucas on the shoulder. He couldn’t miss the woman if he looked up from his music. But she was comfortable where she was. Let Lucas think what he wanted, she decided. It didn’t matter to her.
She watched the Adrienne-clone until the song ended, thinking that the woman’s costume made the others look like cheap fancy dress. Even at this distance, Corrie could see that the gown was incredibly detailed, and that it appeared to be exactly like the one in the portrait.
A chorus of cheers and heartfelt applause heralded a change in pianists. Corrie joined in the applause and watched as Joyce replaced Lucas at the keyboard. After he began to circulate, still singing, Corrie glanced back at the spot where she’d last seen Adrienne’s gown. She blinked in confusion, for in the minute that her attention had been elsewhere, the mysterious woman seemed to have vanished into thin air.
* * * *
The Sinclair House’s resident ghost sighed deeply, a sound no one but Corrie Ballantyne could even hope to hear. Adrienne knew she needed to conserve energy. She’d have to content herself with watching the rest of what went on in the Fireside Room from a dematerialized state. Remaining solid sapped too much of her strength.
Still, it had been enough. Corrie had seen her. Twice. For the first time in fifty years, someone had come to the Sinclair House who could not only sense Adrienne’s presence but also perceive her as she had been, a corporeal being, as real as anyone else in the room.
Quiet elation filled her. She now had the opportunity to set things right. If she succeeded, she would finally be allowed to rejoin her husband, her Lucas, in the hereafter. They’d been separated for such a long time, over a hundred years.
Thinking of Lucas made Adrienne wonder if Corrie’s sensitivity to the paranormal, already strong, would increase if she became intimate with a Sinclair male. Without any interference from Adrienne, Corrie had already caught the attention of Adrienne’s great-great-grandson, the second Lucas Sinclair. About time the boy showed an interest in someone, Adrienne thought. And Corrie wasn’t indifferent
to him, either. She resolved then and there to do everything in her power to bring the two of them together. Kill two birds with one stone, as
it
were.
Adrienne was smiling as she settled in to watch the romance unfold.
CHAPTER TWO
“How’s Pop this morning?” Lucas asked his mother as she arrived for work at the registration desk. In the hotel business, Christmas was just another working day. Lucas had been at the Sinclair House since six.
“Hugh is as well as can be expected,” Joyce said, smiling wryly. “The evening tired him, of course, but I think it did him good to get out of the house for a while. It’s important to include him, even if he did have to be in a wheelchair. I know he misses being here at the hotel every day. The Sinclair House has always played such a big part in his life.”
Lucas hesitated, then asked, “Do you think he realizes the . . . difficulties he left us to deal with?” His father had suffered a stroke several months earlier, and his recovery had been slow. Hugh had almost entirely lost his ability to communicate.
Joyce shrugged, avoiding Lucas’s eyes. She hung up her coat and hat, exchanged her boots for shoes, and went straight to the computer terminal. “It’s hard to say for sure, my dear.”
“Mom, we need to talk about this. Soon. This isn’t the first time Pop has—”
“Could we discuss it later? Right now I have to enter these reservations into the computer.”
Lucas skimmed the information coming up on the monitor as his mother typed. His eyebrows lifted higher and higher. “‘Cozies Unlimited’?” he read from the screen. “What kind of organization is that?”
Joyce’s whole face lit up as she glanced at her son. “It’s a conference for mystery fans. They’re planning to hold a murder here.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“They’ve reserved rooms for their annual mystery weekend in early May, and there are enough people coming to nearly fill the entire hotel. Isn’t that wonderful?”
His expression darkening, Lucas put his hands on his mother’s shoulders and turned her around to face him. “Early May? Mom, what were you thinking?”
“That over four hundred people will pay us to stay here and attend the conference.”
“They’ll freeze.”
“Now, Lucas, most of the rooms have lovely fireplaces, and May is—”
“Not guaranteed to be warm. Besides, some of those fireplaces haven’t been used for heating in years. Some of them are blocked off, by order of the fire inspector. We—”
“We have to find a source of income, Lucas. We have to. How else are we going to pay for all the renovations Hugh had done?”
At the glimmer of tears in his mother’s eyes, Lucas stopped berating her. Distractedly, he combed his fingers through his hair. “It’s okay. We’ll cope with it when the time comes. Maybe we’ll luck out on the weather.”
“I’m sorry, Lucas. I thought it would help. We do need business, especially conferences and conventions. You said that yourself.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Maybe they won’t mind. They only sleep in the rooms, after all. The winterized section of the hotel will be all toasty and warm no matter what the weather’s like outside.”
“And if they do mind and complain, we’ll have to refund their money or forget about ever attracting any other groups.”
“Maybe the fact that we gave them such a good deal will make them tolerant.” She indicated the screen, and Lucas felt his heart stop, then resume beating again.
Sometimes he wished they could go back to a simpler time, when no one tried to keep a summer resort open after Labor Day. At the turn of the century, the high season ran from July tenth to September tenth. You made your money then or you folded.
Folding was all too real a danger nowadays.
Joyce nibbled nervously on her lower lip as she watched him. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Attract new business. Get out of debt.”