All the Rules of Heaven (All That Heaven Will Allow #1) - Amy Lane Page 0,16

to see if the ghosts had returned. Someone—Angel?—had left the side door to the kitchen open. They would have to come back into the house right through where Tucker was standing.

But they had been doing just that. For one thing, the kitchen was not that big—just a long, narrow strip attached to the back of the house as though tacked on as an afterthought. The floor was brick and the walls bare sheetrock. The table Tucker had eaten at was made of giant slabs of barrel-sanded, barely seasoned wood, with four-by-fours in the same condition screwed securely to the top and crossbars of two-by-fours for support.

The stove was a masterpiece—relatively modern, gas, clean as a pin—and the basic array of pots and pans was simple and high quality. The modest stainless-steel refrigerator was big enough for a family of six, but at present only stocked for one.

In a normal house, on a July afternoon, this kitchen would be about ninety degrees without air conditioning, but even as Tucker had stood over the stove, he’d felt no more than a faint warmth. As he leaned against the doorframe and watched some of the lingering spirits run toward the threshold in the fading light, he wondered when he would be able to go back to his apartment and pack all his stuff. He would need a lot more sweatshirts if he was moving in.

He watched as two women, dressed in the slim skirts, puffy-sleeved blouses, and straw hats of the turn of the century, walked toward him, holding hands. One had bright blond hair and a sort of faded, worried smile, while the other—fierce, freckled, redheaded—scowled at a phantom somewhere behind and beyond where Tucker was standing.

He watched them, fascinated, as they wandered in, their mouths moving in animated conversation, and he wondered what they were saying.

Closer, closer, the chill of their touch no more than a breeze off a mountaintop….

“BRIDGET, DO you think he’ll come?” the blond one asked timidly. She loved Bridget’s practicality, but Sophie lived her life in worry, and sometimes it was nice to have someone worry with her.

“Aye, I think ’e’ll come.” Bridget’s Irish brogue slapped Sophie raw.

“But… but we assumed he wouldn’t. You said he’d stay back east. That he didn’t care enough to—”

Bridget took a great breath and turned to her, cupping her cheek in the lamplight. “I was a fool, Sophie girl.” Her thumb, rough from laundry and sewing and the thousand tasks a day she did because Sophie had been forbidden from working for so long, scraped under Sophie’s cheek, and Sophie shuddered. “’E’ll come because ’e owns us, that one. I didn’t believe it, aye? And then….”

Sophie nodded, biting her lip, and both of their eyes fell upon a letter on the richly varnished desk. Sophie liked the desk—maple wood, the comforting red of it like Bridget’s hair—and it complemented the wallpaper, which was a confluence of giant fluffy chrysanthemums in blazing autumn colors. The bed was soft and the quilts warm upon it—autumn colors again, because whoever had decorated the place had possessed something of a gift. This room had been their haven, their sanctuary, their place to hide, and their home for the past three months, and Sophie dreamed of a home of her own where she could build such a room for her and Bridget.

The letter from Sophie’s brother sat unopened, like a grim granite reminder of reality in the middle of their happy golden dream.

“But maybe James will want us,” she said. “Don’t you think he’ll want us? He’s always loved me.”

Bridget’s pity was hard to stand. Sophie had so little to offer this relationship.

“He does love me!” Sophie declared. Breaking away from Bridget, she strode to the desk and opened the letter, ripping the paper in spite of the unused letter opener right next to the ungainly paperweight.

Her breath came more quickly as she read, her lungs straining against the stays of her skirt.

“Oh Bridget—Bridget, you’ll never believe—”

There was a sudden clatter, and a voice from downstairs called out, “Mrs. Conklin? Mrs. Conklin? You have a guest!”

Sophie let out a little moan, and her palms started to sweat. Oh no. She was going to—

“You will not be sick, Sophie girl!” Bridget snarled. “You let me handle this. I’m the dumb servant, and that’s all they know, you hear?”

At that moment there was a pounding up the stairs, and Sophie took a deep breath against her corset.

Her vision went black, and she fell limply to the clean wood