A Sexual Haunting

Prologue — September, 1916

“Hazel Martin! Come down here and help me make dinner for your father and brother and the farmhands!”

“I can’t, Mama,” Hazel shouted cheerfully down the stairwell. “Someone is on the way up to the house. I have to see who it is. I think it might be Maggie O’Leary and her brother John! Maybe she has news from Jimmy.”

She turned around, ignoring her mother’s aggravated snort echoing up from the ground floor, and walked back out onto the widow’s walk surrounding the second floor of the farmhouse. Solidly built of good Canadian brick, it loomed over four hundred acres of prime Ontario farmland, just south of the village of Brantford, on the north shore of Lake Erie. It had been in her family for three generations, ever since Luther Martin and his wife and infant son emigrated from England nearly a hundred years ago.

She shielded her eyes, looking west, as the horse-drawn wagon slowly made its way up the lane. In a moment she smiled, certain that she was right. Even though she now wore it in a fashionable bob, she could recognize the black cap of Maggie’s hair, so like her brother’s, from a mile away. Her younger brother John, too young to go fight in France, held the reins of the placid carthorses, Devil and Demon.

Hazel waved down as John brought the wagon to a rumbling stop on the flagstones of the dooryard. “Come on up!”

Maggie looked up as she climbed out of the wagon. Even from twenty feet up and thirty yards away, Hazel thought her face looked pale. A shiver passed down her spine. Had she received bad news from France? Had Jimmy been hurt?

She had begged her fiance not to enlist. And when he did, she had prayed to God that he would not be sent overseas. But they had stood together on this spot a few months ago, with Jimmy tall and proud in his khaki dress uniform. His regiment had received orders, and would be sent to France to fight the Germans.

“Why?” she had demanded, soaking the front of his uniform with her tears. “Why is it so important that you go? Can’t you…can’t you tell them you’ve changed your mind?”

“The army doesn’t work that way, Hazel,” he said, his gentle voice rumbling against her cheek. The soft whisper of his breath stirred her hair. “And even if it did, who would ever trust my word again, if I broke my oath? Besides,” he continued, his words gaining the lilting brogue he had inherited from his immigrant father, “You know how some people around here talk about my family. About whether an Irishman can be a loyal member of the British Empire. When I come back, they will know I’m every bit as good as they are. I can hold my head up anywhere.”

“They’re idiots,” she sniffled. “You know my family doesn’t think that way. They love you almost as much as I do.” She snuggled in closer, trying to memorize the feel of him in her arms, to hold onto for the lonely days and nights to come. She smiled to herself as she felt him harden against her, and an answering heat bloomed in her belly. “We could get away,” she whispered. She let her hand sink lower to cover his groin. “I’m sure Mama and Daddy would understand if I took you to the barn and gave you a special farewell.”

He pulled away slightly, and she could see his lovely smile. One lean hand reached up to stroke her cheek, and he curled a lock of her brown hair around his finger, just like he used to do when they were both children in primary school.

“No, Hazel. What if I got you with child, and something happened to me? Would you have him be born a bastard, and me not even able to give him my name?”

“Or her,” she corrected. “Besides, Fawn Shephard told me that Sonny Sawyer told her that you can’t make a baby the first time.”

“Then Sonny Sawyer is a damn fool,” Jimmy replied. “And so is Fawn for believing him. Think sense, Hazel. You’re a farmer’s daughter. Have you ever heard about a heifer not being able to catch pregnant because it was her first time with a bull?”

Hazel giggled. “Is that how you think of yourself?” She stroked him, feeling him shiver under her hand. “Please, Jimmy. I want you. I want something to remember you by. And I don’t want to wait months or years for you to come back before we can finally be together.”

If you come back. The unspoken fear hung between them.

“Stop,” he said hoarsely. One strong hand caught her wrist. “I don’t want to shame myself our last night together. And that’s what will happen if you keep that up.” He bent and kissed her softly. “Virginity is no sin, Hazel. I love you. I am willing to wait for you. Are you willing to wait for me?”

xxxxx

Maggie opened the screen door that led out onto the walk, and terror gripped Hazel’s heart. Her friend’s normally cheerful face was an open wound, her blue eyes red and raw from weeping.

“Jimmy?” she asked.

Maggie nodded. “Two weeks ago. At a place called Courcelette.” She held out a letter.

Courcelette, France

19 September, 1916

Mr. and Mrs. Joseph O’Leary

Brantford, Ontario

Sir and Madam:

It is with great regret I must report to you the death of your son, Corporal James Francis O’Leary. With his unit, he was involved in an attack on the village of Courcelette. He fought bravely, but was struck and badly wounded by a shell fragment on 4 September 1916. He died in hospital several days later, on 17 September. The company chaplain was with him in his last moments, and reported to me that his thoughts were of his family and his fiancee, Miss Hazel Martin.

May God grant you strength in this trying time.

I have the honor to be,

Your obedient servant,

Lieutenant Colonel John G. Hattray

Commanding Officer

10th Battalion

Canadian Expedition Force

“There was a form, too,” Maggie said. Over her shoulder, Hazel could make out her mother standing in the doorway, tears running down her cheeks. She held out the envelope in a shaking hand. “And a lock of his hair. I suppose for us to remember him by. And some…some ghoul included the bit of shrapnel that killed him.” Her voice trembled with grief and rage.

“No,” Hazel whispered. Her heart was a lump of poisoned ice in her chest. “He’s not dead. He can’t be dead.” I told him I’d wait. When he came back I was going to give myself to him. Be his. Lay my virginity down on the altar of our love. No one could keep us apart ever again.

A strangled sob shook her, and she slumped back against the wall of the house, cramping around the horrible grief in her belly, the bricks gritty through the cloth of her sky-blue dress. I suppose I will have to start wearing black now, she thought inanely. Jimmy always said the color didn’t suit me.

A hundred memories of him rushed through her mind. A thousand. A million. The dark blue of his eyes, a different shade in each kind of light. Days at school when they were both children, working on their arithmetic together. The feel of his kind, strong hands. The way his wavy black hair fell over his forehead, making her fingers itch to straighten it. Long, lazy days talking in his father’s shop or here at the farm, falling in love so slowly it was almost a surprise when she realized how much she cared for him.

Never again. Never, ever again. Her brimming eyes focused on the twisted lump of metal in Maggie’s hands, and her soul screamed with hatred.

“Filthy thing,” she snarled. “Get it out of my sight!” She snatched it away from Maggie and strode to the edge of the porch. She cocked her arm back, hurling it as far away from her as she could.

Too hard. Too far. Her weight came heavily against the rail surrounding the porch. With a rotten crack, it splintered, leaving her overbalanced. With a despairing cry, she fell.

The granite flagstones in the dooryard ended her life. But not, unfortunately, her pain.

xxxxx

August, 2016

“So, Mr. Watford, what do you think?”

“What do I think? What I think is that I can’t believe you and your daughter aren’t living here,” he said to the woman who was showing him around the grand old farmhouse. “Why are you two living in that tiny little place next door rather than over here?”

“Oh, you’ll find out when the heating bill arrives in December, if you stick around that long,” Cynthia Martin said. A wide smile deepened the laugh lines at the corners of her mouth and her eyes, which twinkled with good humor. “This place is as modern as we could make it, but it’s too big for the two of us. Of course, when we have the chance to rent it out to a famous romance writer…”

Mark Watford laughed ruefully. “Oh, Lord. My fame precedes me, I see.”

“Oh, yes,” Cynthia said. She cocked her head. “My daughter loves your book. And I saw your interview on the CBC a few months back, when you first hit the best-seller list. They treated you like you were a two-headed calf. A male writer who wrote romance, and used his own name, not a pseudonym? Crazy stuff, they thought. How did they describe you, again?”

Mark blushed. “A combination of Bertrice Small and Terry Pratchett,” he said, looking down at his feet.

“High praise.” Cindy raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know much about Terry Pratchett, but Bertrice Small was a hell of a romance writer. If someone is comparing you to her, that’s saying a lot.”

Mark shook his head. “It’s saying a lot too much, I think. I mean, I wrote for the school newspaper and sold some short stories in college, but I never thought of writing as a career. It was just a hobby. And then someone gave me a copy of ’50 Shades’ as a gag gift at the company Christmas party.

“Well, I sat down one night and started to read it, and I could not get over how terrible it was.” Cynthia snickered as they walked through the bright, modern kitchen and into a well-lit family room. It was unfurnished, but sunlight poured in through the tall windows, striking highlights from the polished hardwood floor. “I mean, I’m not judging people who are into some kink in their lives. But, my God, if you’re going to write a story about that stuff, you should try to do it well.

“So I started my own book. At first I thought I would just write a send-up, you know. A joke. Like what Pratchett did with a bunch of fantasy themes. But the deeper I got into the story the more I loved it. I’d be up until two or three in the morning, just writing and giggling as I broke every rule in the romance genre. When I was done, I got in touch with an e-book publisher. I didn’t expect much.” He shrugged. “I’d done my research, and I knew how hard it is to break out as a writer. But one thing led to another, and the next thing I know I’m being interviewed on TV and radio and my book cover is plastered on every flat surface in Ottawa.”

“So what made you decide to move out here? Brantford isn’t exactly the brightest spot in the universe, you know.”

“Which is why it’s perfect, as far as I’m concerned.” He followed Cynthia up a narrow flight of stairs. Once at the top, a broad landing led to a central hallway, with bedrooms and storage space opening out on either side. “I’m a country boy. I grew up not too far from Thunder Bay, and I never liked living in the city, though I had to for work. Now that I’m financially independent, at least for a while, I can do what I want and live where I like.”

“Here’s the master bedroom,” his host said, opening a door at the far end of the hallway. “And there’s a master bath through that door to the right. Plenty of closet space as well.” A large room painted a soothing dark green met his eyes. On the opposite wall, a doorway led out onto a widow’s walk.

“Wow,” Mark said. He opened the screen door and stepped outside into the warm summer air. For as far as he could see there were only fields of wheat and corn. Except for the lazily spinning wind turbines, he could have been in another century.

“What a great place to work,” he said, leaning with his elbows propped against the rail. “I could sit out here in summer and write and watch the thunderstorms roll in. I can’t even imagine how beautiful it would be in winter, during a blizzard. Is all this land yours?” he asked.

The older woman nodded and joined him. “Dad would have crawled out of his grave and killed me if I even thought about selling. But when he died there was no question about me trying to run the place myself. I grew up a farmer’s daughter. But once my brother Teddy left for Toronto and my useless husband took off, it was obvious I was going to have to make a hard choice. So I rent out the land to some of my neighbors. And the turbines are a windfall. Pun definitely intended,” she said, as Mark laughed. “It gives Brianna and myself enough to live on, with a little left over. Especially now that she’s out of university.”

“So it’s just the two of you over there?” Mark asked, nodding towards the small, ranch-style house a few hundred yards away. In the distance he could see a car pull into the driveway, and a slim figure climb out.

“Ever since Momma died, ten years ago,” she said, walking slowly around the house. One hand caressed the polished wooden rail like an old friend. “Bree’s father ran off when she was just three.” She snorted. “He never was worth a damn. Him leaving was the best thing that ever happened to the two of us, really. You know the old saying, ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure?'” Mark nodded. “That was our marriage in a nutshell. I was young and dumb, and he looked great in a tight pair of jeans. Thank God Bree takes after me more than him. Though apparently the boys think she looks great in a tight pair of jeans, too.

“So, are you interested in renting the place?” Cynthia asked. “I’ll be honest, Mark. I want to nail someone down to a long-term lease. The last two families I had here were good folks, but it does get wearisome to have to find a new tenant every summer. If I could get you to sign for three years, I could maybe knock the monthly rent down by ten percent?” She let her voice trail off hopefully.

“Done,” he said firmly, as they finished their circuit and came back to the master bedroom. “I’ll have to arrange to move my things from Ottawa down here, and take care of all the other hassles, but do you think I could move in next weekend?”

“Absolutely,” Cynthia said, with a smile that took ten years off her face. “Let’s go downstairs, and we can sign the lease right now. And I have all the numbers and contact info you will need for the utility hook-ups. Gas, power, water, cable TV. Or satellite if you want to go that route.”

A voice floated up from downstairs. “Mom, are you up there?”

“The prodigal daughter,” Cynthia said. “I told her who I had coming by today. She couldn’t believe it, and made me promise to get your autograph. I guess she didn’t trust me. Up here, Bree,” she shouted.

In a few moments a small, slim young woman, only a few years younger than Mark, burst through the door and onto the walkway. Obviously Cynthia Martin’s daughter, she was dressed in jeans and a loose checked flannel shirt over a white t-shirt. Brown-eyed and dark-skinned, she glowed with youthful vitality. Her dark brown hair fell in gentle waves past her shoulders, and her body was beautifully curved. Mark’s brows rose appreciatively as he took in her form.

“Hey,” she said to her mother. “Is this him?” Then she smacked herself on the forehead. “Of course he is. He looks just like the photo on the dust jacket of his book. Hi,” she said brightly, extending her hand. “I’m Brianna Martin. Call me Bree. I love your book. Are you going to be writing another one soon?”

Mark blinked as he shook the lovely young woman’s hand. A conversation with Brianna, he saw, was much like being caught in a whirlwind, with random debris flying by. “Working on one now,” he said.

“What’s the title?”she asked eagerly.

“‘The Pirate Captain Who Ransomed My Aching Loins,'” he replied.

There was a short, shocked silence, then Brianna leaned her head back and gave a loud, deep-throated laugh. At her side, Cynthia had her lips pursed shut, though giggles were escaping from her like steam from a tea-kettle. “Oh, God,” Brianna said. “That’s hilarious. I didn’t think you could top ‘Her Heaving Breasts of Savage Lust.’ But it looks like you did.”

“All it takes is a little imagination,” Mark said. “And a good thesaurus.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to drive back into town and start making the arrangements. So let’s go downstairs and sign that lease.”

“As good as done,” Cynthia said, leading the way.

xxxxx

“So, Mom,” Bree said later that night, as the two of them were eating dinner. “Did you tell him about Aunt Hazel?”

Cynthia took a sip of milk. “Tell a new tenant about a ghost only members of our own family can see? And then only every twenty years? What a lovely idea, Brianna. Why I’m at it, why don’t I take a big pile of money and set it on fire? Your author pal is going to pay us over twenty thousand dollars over the next three years to rent out the old place. Why scare him away? Especially since he’ll never see her anyway?”

Brianna smiled, unperturbed. “You know she’s due to show up this year.” Her face fell, sympathetic. “Poor woman. I wonder what she wants. What was it like when you saw her, Mom? Did you get any…any feel about why she hadn’t moved on?”

Her mother shook her head. “It was only the one time, Bree. And I was so gobsmacked about what I was seeing I didn’t really have a chance to form much of an impression.” Her eyes looked off into the distance, trying to recapture the moment.

“It was the fall of 1996. A cool day in late September,” she said at last. “Cloudy and windy. The kind of day where you just want to slip into a warm sweater and curl up with a good book or a movie. Your father and I were on the outs again, so I was up at the old house, staying with your grandparents while I decided whether I wanted to try one more time to make things work with Craig or whether I should bite the bullet and file for divorce. Of course, the meathead made it easy for me and left town right after Thanksgiving. Good riddance. We moved in here at the new house after that.

“It was early evening, right before sunset. Daddy was out in the fields, bringing in the corn with your uncle Teddy, and your grandmother was making supper. You had been fussy all day, but I had finally got you to drop off for a nap. I was holding you and decided to sit out on the walk. I went out through the door in my old bedroom, and there she was.” She shook her head. “It gave me one hell of a shock, Brianna, let me tell you. It wasn’t like what you see in movies, where the woman is all ghosty and immaterial. She looked as real as you or me.

“That’s what scared me at first. I couldn’t figure how anyone could have gotten past your grandmother and me and up to the second floor. So I let out a little squeak and jumped back.

“Who the hell are you?” Cindy asked. “And what are you doing up here?” She cradled her sleeping child protectively to her chest.

The young woman looked at her and little Brianna, her dark brown eyes filled with a bottomless grief. After the first rush of shock, Cindy began to take in details. The sky-blue dress was decades out of fashion, and the wavy brown hair done in an unfamiliar style. She flashed back to the photographs she had seen a thousand times downstairs, added color to the faded, sepia-toned pictures, and gasped.

“Oh, God,” Cindy said. “It’s you, isn’t it? The Woman in Blue. Great-Aunt Hazel?” She reached out a hand, her horror at her distant relative’s torment outweighing any fear she might have felt.

But before she could touch her, the figure shook her head and turned away. Her head bowed, she walked rapidly along the wooden decking and turned the corner towards the north side of the house.

\By the time Cindy had recovered her wits enough to follow, she was gone.

“She looked…disappointed, I thought. And resigned. As if she had been without hope for so long it was almost a relief to have it taken away again.”

“Poor woman,” Bree said again. She picked at her salad, mostly made from vegetables from their own garden. “I wonder if I’ll see her this time.”

“Well, it is your turn,” Cynthia said. Her lips pursed. “None of us have ever seen her more than once. She only seems to appear to the women in the family. Direct descendants of your great-grandfather Edgar. Momma saw her when I was about nine years old. Back in the seventies. But you’re the last female of the Martin line. The last one living close, at least. I don’t think Hazel is going to travel to Toronto to haunt your cousins.

“Every twenty years,” she sighed. “In late September or early October. A week or so to either side of the date she died. What is she looking for? Or who?”

xxxxx

A week later Mark stood on the front steps of his new home, watching a small army of movers carry his worldly goods into the old farmhouse. Before each sweating workman passed him, he checked the meticulously neat handwriting on the top of each box so he could tell them in which room to place it. He didn’t need their help unpacking, but he would be damned if he had to carry plates and silverware from the guest bedroom down to the kitchen, or his photo albums from the dining room to the attic, simply because the boxes had been put in the wrong room.

He felt good, he decided. Six months of unexpected fame were sliding away as easily as he could take off his jacket. He took a deep breath of warm air, scented with the deep, earthy smell of fertile farmland and growing things. On his drive over from Ottawa, he had constantly seen farmers on tractors and combines, out doing the work that made the area some of the most productive land in Canada. Dark green corn plants, their high, narrow leaves swaying in the breeze, had traded places with fields full of tall, golden-brown wheat.

“Library,” he said, as another mover held out a box, packed to the brim with hardback books. He smiled. One of the unanticipated benefits of his sudden good fortune was the ability to buy good copies of all the books he wanted. No more haunting used-book stores, hoping that they would have the third book in a six-part series to fill out the set, or hoping the book he had bought on E-Bay would be in as good a shape as the seller claimed. He had spent a good percentage of the advance for his next book on high-quality hardbacks by all his favorite authors, and had bought the bookshelves necessary to display them properly. One of the downstairs rooms, formerly used as a parlor in more conservative times, was now his library, with comfortable chairs and good lighting. And the only piece of electronics allowed in there was a small, unobtrusive stereo, perfect for listening to music while he whiled away the hours.

Soon enough, the last box had been carried inside and the workmen left, sped along with a generous tip. As the moving vans pulled away and turned back onto the highway, Mark felt a knot of tension he hadn’t even known he had loosen in his back. Quiet, he thought. The roar of the engines slowly receded, and a deep stillness settled over the farm. The only sounds were his own breathing, the faint sigh of the wind rustling over the grass, and the small noises of birds as they flitted from tree to tree in the front yard.

He smiled. His life head been turned upside down in the last several months. What had started as a joke had made him famous and wealthy. But now he was back where he truly belonged.

Grinning broadly, he bounded up the stairs and into the house. The screen door slammed shut behind him, and he didn’t even bother to close or latch the inner door. No locks, he thought. No interviews. No phone ringing off the hook, each call a request for time or money. He took a deep, cleansing breath, then let it out again, eying the boxes set on the floors and, seemingly, every flat surface in the house.

“Well, let’s get started,” he said. He pulled out his phone, fished his earbuds out of his pocket, and turned on some music. As the first notes from My Chemical Romance sounded, he opened up a box and started the long, tedious process of unpacking.

xxxxx

By noon the next day, he had the place in some semblance of order. At least, most of his stuff was out of the boxes and crates and into closets and cupboards. He had found, to his own amusement, that his enthusiasm for unpacking had quickly diminished, and he had spent a good bit of time the night before finding excuses not to empty the boxes which seemed to mysteriously multiply whenever he took his eyes off them.

He was placing a set of glasses in one of the cabinets in the kitchen with a tired sigh when he heard a knock at the front door. Investigation showed him the attractive face of Brianna Martin, who walked past him and into the house without waiting for an invitation.

“What a mess,” she said cheerfully, taking in the piles of empty boxes and the picture frames leaning against the walls. “But I can see Mom was right. She thought you might be still settling in, so I’m supposed to invite you over to dinner tonight. Don’t feel like you have to accept, though. Mom’s making Hamburger Surprise.”

Mark lifted his eyebrows. “Hamburger Surprise?”

Brianna smiled, turning an ordinarily pretty face beautiful. “If it turns out to be any good. That would be the surprise. I love Mom, but she isn’t the world’s greatest cook. So if you happen to have a dog you don’t like very much, bring him along. You can slip the plate under the table while she isn’t looking and have him clean it for you.”

“No, no dog,” he said, laughing.

“No dog?” Brianna looked shocked. “But you’re a writer! It’s against the rules not to have an adorable pet that you can talk about on Twitter. Female writers have cats and male writers have dogs.”

“But I’m a romance writer,” he pointed out. “Doesn’t that make me an honorary woman? Maybe I should get a cat. A long-haired Persian. A white one, that I could hold in my lap and stroke as I plot world domination.” He cackled menacingly and rubbed his hands together.

She shook her head. “I don’t see you as the evil overlord type, to be honest. Besides, you already have cats.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll show you later,” she said, with a smile. “After you show me what you’ve done with the place.”

xxxxx

Brianna let Mark guide her around the house, not that she was unfamiliar with it. She had grown up in the house next door, which her grandparents had built as a potential retirement home, if the care and upkeep of the old farmhouse ever became too much trouble for them. But she had spent a good deal of her childhood inside these brick walls, visiting her grandparents while her mother was at work. The fact they had both died so young was a grief to both herself and her mother. Grandfather Martin had died of a heart attack when he was barely fifty years old, and her grandmother had succumbed to breast cancer only a few years later.

She was happy to see that the family and living rooms were filled with new furniture, good and solid without being flashy or ostentatious. The entertainment center was first rate, with a flat-screen TV and surround-sound speakers that nestled unobtrusively in the corners, but did not call attention to itself. When she mentioned that fact to Mark, he gave a small smile.

“I grew up in a working-class family in Thunder Bay. I don’t need it, my family wouldn’t appreciate it, and my friends would just give me crap about trying to show off. Why bother?”

“Oh,” she said, walking into the parlor, now transformed into a library. “This is beautiful!”

“You like it?” Mark asked, hovering near her shoulder.

“No,” she said, walking forward. “I love it. God, why didn’t we ever think of something like this?” Polished cherrywood bookshelves ran around the walls of the large room, ready to hold the multitude of books which were still waiting to be shelved. “You’ll have such good light for reading in here. And the shelving is gorgeous.”

Mark nodded. “I’ve always wanted something like this. Never had the money before. And then, when the book caught fire, I didn’t have room in my apartment.” He ran a hand lovingly along a shelf, the dark red wood as smooth as silk. To Bree’s eyes, his hands were strong, the fingers lean and agile. A writer’s hands. Or a lover’s. “Now I have both. My own Fortress of Solitude, where I can read all day if I want and not have to deal with anyone I don’t want to.” He stood for a moment, looking into the distance, a lock of his black hair falling over his forehead. Bree’s fingers itched with the urge to comb it back.

“So lonely, Mark?” she asked, surprising herself with her sympathy for a man she barely knew. “I’m sure there were plenty of women who wanted to see if the man who created Princess Chumani of the Sioux and her insatiable libido was as good in the sack as he was writing about it.” She reddened as she finished, surprised at her own boldness. She was no prude, but at the same time she was unused to bringing up sex as a conversational topic.

Mark shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by the question. “Sure there were, yeah. But I was lucky. I had a good agent, and she came with me to a lot of the events after the book hit the best-seller list. Enough to teach me who was legitimately interested in me, and who was just trying to get close enough to me to rob me blind. There were too many of the latter and not enough of the former.

“But anyway,” he said. “Enough of this. Where are these pets I’m supposed to have?”

“Aren’t you going to show me the upstairs?” she asked.

He shook his head. “The master bedroom is still a disaster. I have the bed set up and the clothes put away, but there are boxes all over the place. The other rooms are even worse. Besides,” he said with a smile, “I’m not sure what your mother would think if she found out you’ve been in a strange man’s bedroom.”

“She can think what she wants,” she replied with a sniff. “But if you’re too scared to show me the upstairs, let’s go outside.” She led him through the house to the back door, then out towards the dilapidated barn, filled with farming equipment too old, rusty, or damaged to sell at auction. With his help, she heaved one of the sliding doors back in its track, exposing the dim, dusty interior.

“They’re usually in here this time of day,” she said softly. “They hunt at night. And they like staying in here. It’s someplace warm and sheltered, and they can come and go as they please.” She squatted down on her heels, looking around. “There,” she said, reaching up to catch his hand. She used the other one to point out the brindled shadow slowly weaving its way towards them through piles of discarded junk. It stopped a few feet away, then sat and began to nonchalantly wash itself, studiously ignoring them.

Mark moved forward, but Bree squeezed his hand. “No. Wait,” she said, as the cat stood suddenly, only a moment away from bolting back into the interior of the barn. “They’re outside cats, and don’t much deal with people. Here,” she continued. “Get down beside me, so you’re not looming over her.”

Following her instructions, he crouched down beside her. She held out her hand, one finger extended. “Come on, little lady,” she crooned. “Don’t be shy. We’re not going to hurt you.”

Slowly, the cat stepped toward her. She paused on the beaten earth in front of the barn, then bumped Bree’s finger with her cold, pink nose. After a few seconds, she ran her furry cheek along the back of her hand, and they could hear the faint rumble of her purr. Mark copied her movements, and in a few minutes the cat had decided he was worthy of her trust as well. Bree smiled at the soft expression on his face as he slowly stroked the tawny fur of her back, the cat arching up under his touch.

I wonder how his hands would feel on me? She blushed, the hot blood heating her skin, as she realized she still held his right hand in her left. His shoulder was warm against hers, and she could smell the scent of him through the cotton of his t-shirt. She was tempted to pull away, but decided against it. There was something about Mark which made her feel safe and protected. His quiet, low-key presence was a balm to nerves which had been scraped raw by her recent break-up with Lance.

“How many of them are there?” he asked.

“Not too many,” she said. The cat slipped from under Mark’s hand, coming back to her. She scratched the fur under her chin, smiling as the purr intensified. “We try to spay and neuter them when they’re young. They do not like that. It usually takes a few months to get their trust back after we bring them back from the vet.”

“I can understand that attitude,” Mark said solemnly, and she laughed.

“Right. But we can’t just let them stay here and breed. They’d be out of control in no time. Right now there might be six or eight in all. Less in the summer. More in the winter, when the weather’s nasty and they can sleep here, in a sheltered spot. But there’s usually a breeding pair or two that we miss. So the numbers stay pretty stable.

“They do us a big favor, too. They keep down the mice and the rats. You’ll see them out at night, hunting.”

“So are they all outside cats? Do I need to put anything out for them?”

She shook her head. “They usually do just fine by themselves. If you want, you can put out some water in the summer. And if we have a brutal stretch of weather in the winter, you can leave some kibble out for them near the barn. But they’re predators by nature, you know. They might accept our help, but they don’t really need it. Once in a while, though, you’ll find one who likes the comforts of home.

“If that happens, let him or her in. It’ll make sure you don’t have a rodent problem. And you’ll have a nice, quiet friend. One who will never play music you don’t like or hog the remote.”

She stood, reluctantly disengaging her hand from Mark’s. “I have to go. But we’ll see you for dinner tonight, right?”

He smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it. What time?”

“Seven should be good.”

“I’ll be there.” He walked with her around the house, to where the footpath from her house merged with the asphalt driveway leading up from the county road. As she turned to leave, he seemed to want to say something else, but then simply let her go with a wave.

xxxxx

Several hours later, Mark pressed the doorbell of the small, ranch-style home of Cynthia and Brianna Martin. Unsure of what to wear for what was not a date, but was, for him at least, more than a simple meal with his landlady and her daughter, he had opted for a pair of well-worn designer jeans and a collared, button-up shirt. Black, slip-on leather shoes completed his ensemble. He had also taken care to shave and comb his hair, though the cowlick which persisted in falling over his forehead resisted all attempts at taming.

From inside, he could hear light footsteps quickly approaching. Brianna soon appeared, dressed in a pale yellow sundress which showed off her body to spectacular advantage.

“Mark! Don’t stand out there! Come on in! You don’t need to follow city manners, now that you’re with us country folk.” She opened the door and waved him in. As he passed close by her, his nostrils were tickled by a delightful floral scent. She turned and led him through the house, giving him a wonderful view of her shapely legs and rear. Was it just his imagination, or were her hips moving just a little more than necessary, giving a sexy sway to her steps?

“Mom is in the kitchen, overseeing the disaster,” she said. “But I think we’ll survive. I laid in some snack foods in case of an emergency.”

“I heard that, Brianna Marie,” Cynthia said as they entered the spotless kitchen. Belying Brianna’s gloomy words, a tasty aroma was emerging from the oven. “Hello again, Mark. Thanks for coming over. Otherwise I’d have to spend all night with this brat.” She swatted her child with an oven mitt.

“Thanks for inviting me, Cynthia,” he replied. He handed her a bottle of red wine he had picked up in town earlier in the afternoon.

“Oh, nice,” Brianna exclaimed, looking at the label. “I don’t think we’ve ever had wine with Hamburger Surprise.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “First of all, Mark, call me Cindy. Everyone else does, aside from Brianna.

“Secondly, it’s taco casserole. Not ‘Hamburger Surprise.’ Brianna just thinks it’s funny to make fun of my cooking.”

“You got the recipe from the back of a taco box, Mom,” she said, grinning. “That’s not really the mark of a gourmet chef. And what about the time you burned supper three nights in a row? Frozen pizza, each time,” she continued as an aside to Mark, sotto voce. “I thought the people at McDonald’s were going to give us a discount, we came in there to eat so often.”

“You’re a rotten little girl,” her mother said mildly. “Here,” she continued, taking the wine bottle away. “We can have this after the meal. Mark, would you like something to drink? We have water, iced tea, milk, or beer.”

“Iced tea would be great,” he said, and was rewarded with an approving nod from both women. As he sipped the sweet beverage, he thought he had somehow passed a test. Did the unlamented ex-husband have a drinking problem?

Cindy opened the oven door, peering inside. “I think it’s done.” She put on a pair of oven mitts and lifted a large glass casserole dish out of the oven. A tantalizing aroma rose from it, and Mark’s mouth watered. He was an indifferent cook at best, and the prospect of a home-cooked meal was welcome to say the least.

“Anything I can do to help?” he asked.

Cindy set the dish on the top of the oven. “Nope. We’ve already got the table set. Come on into the dining room and let’s put on the feedbags.”

“God, Mom,Brianna said, rolling her eyes. “Could you be any more cliché? We’re not cowboys, you know.”

“Keep it up, missy, and you’ll find you’re not too old to spank.”

xxxxx

Despite Bree’s warning about her mother’s cooking, which seemed, to be honest, more of a long-running family joke than an actual fear, the casserole was delicious. It was made of alternating layers of taco shells, rice, hamburger, and cheese, and it was only with an act of will that Mark kept himself from accepting a third helping. He had made Cindy promise to give him the recipe before he left, so he could incorporate it into his own cooking rotation, which consisted mainly of microwave dinners, frozen food, takeout, and whatever he could make on the grill.

The conversation was pleasant as well. Heartily tired of talking about himself after months of interviews, he asked his new neighbors about themselves and the area. He was relieved to find out that Bree’s teasing of Cindy was returned in full force, and the two women acted more like sisters than a parent and child.

Probably a result of growing up without a husband around, he thought, as Cindy recounted a story about a time when Bree had come in after curfew, and the increasingly ridiculous story she had made up to try to justify why she was so late. They had to depend on each other.

Among other things, he found out that Brianna, having recently graduated from the University of Ottawa with a degree in landscape architecture, worked for the local government. Specifically, she was an engineer for the streets and sanitation department in Brantford, in charge of beautification projects. This seemed, he gathered, to consist mostly of convincing town officials that people actually liked to see flowers and trees and grass and flowering shrubs, rather than concrete.

“Bunch of dried-up old sticks,” she complained, taking a bite of the fried potatoes that had joined the taco casserole on the table. “They think that any money that isn’t spent on asphalt is wasted.”

“If you don’t like it, Bree, maybe you should run for a seat on the city council yourself,” suggested Cindy.

Bree shook her head. “Maybe. Sometime in the future. But I’ve got too much work to do here in town. I couldn’t believe I got the job when I interviewed. You know how conservative this place is. To hire a woman just out of college and put her in charge was a heck of a change for some of these people. I’ve got a dozen projects up in the air, and I know they would fall down and go splat if I wasn’t around to push for them.”

“A woman’s work is never done,” Mark said with a smile.

She flashed him a quick grin. “You’ve got that right, boyo.”

xxxxx

After the meal was over and the leftovers put away, they retired to the front porch, which offered a gorgeous view of rolling farmland down to the shallow valley of the Nith River. The sun was setting in front of them, turning the sky to flames, the light reflecting off high, thin clouds. With Cindy’s help, Mark had opened the wine, and they sat in wicker chairs, talking of small things as they sipped.

“You don’t say much about your own family, Mark,” Cindy said. “Are you not close?”

“Mom!” Brianna protested. “That’s not very polite.”

“No, it’s okay,” Mark said. His mouth curled in a half-grin. “I love my folks. They’re good people. But the further apart we are the better it is for all of us. Mom was horrified when the book was published. She couldn’t believe her son had written something so trashy. She always called me the good son. The one who never got into trouble. So when she saw the cover of the book, with Princess Chumani in that outfit which showed off her…”

“Underboobs?” Brianna suggested, a wicked gleam in her eye.

“Right.” She nearly had a heart attack. I wasn’t sure whether she was going to rant at me or stop talking to me altogether.

“Dad, on the other hand…” he sighed. “We just don’t understand each other. His only comment was ‘Well, at least you’re not gay.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell him that if straight people could write gay or lesbian erotica, then I was pretty sure a gay man could write hetero erotica.”

“Brothers or sisters?” Bree asked. She took a long sip of wine, the liquid warming her stomach. A matching warmth was beginning to grow in her groin, and she tried to keep from squirming. From the corner of her eye, she could see her mother looking at her with amusement.

It’s not like that, Mama, she thought. It’s not a case of infatuation. Yeah, I wanted to meet him because his book was steamy and funny as hell. But I like him, too. Is that so hard to believe?

“Two brothers,” Mark was saying. “I’m the oldest. They both live near home.” He grimaced. “Heck, you could practically throw a rock and hit all three of their houses.”

“I don’t know why your mom got so upset about the book,” Bree said. “Why wouldn’t she want you to be successful?”

“Oh, she’s just very set in her ways,” Mark said. “It’s weird. I know she likes to read spicy stuff every once in a while. But the thought of her own boy actually producing it…she freaks out. It’s like a person who loves steak, but can’t bear to think of the butchering process.”

Cindy excused herself to use the bathroom, complaining about all the wine she had drunk. As the door closed behind her, Bree saw Mark take a deep breath.

“So,” he said, his voice deceptively casual. “Are you seeing anyone right now?”

She shook her head, trying to keep a triumphant smile from stretching her lips. “No. Not at all. I broke up with my last boyfriend a couple of months ago. Since then, I’ve been keeping to myself.” She hesitated. Best tell him the truth now, Brianna. “But I should tell you something. If you’re looking for a casual relationship, I’m not going to be the girl for you. I’m a virgin. And I intend to stay that way until I meet the right guy.

“That’s why Lance and I broke up,” she continued, pressing on in the face of Mark’s silence. “He kept pushing me, you know. It’s not that I have any sort of problem with sex. I don’t. I get as horny as anyone else. But after seeing what Mama went through as a single mom, I made up my mind to wait.”

“Okay.”

“And furthermore…” she stumbled to a halt. “What do you mean, ‘okay?'”

“I mean okay,” Mark said. He reached over and held her hand. “I like you. I think you’re smart, and funny, and attractive as hell. And I’m glad you told me up front. But there is no way I’m going to pressure you to do something you don’t want to do. And that means anything. Your body is yours, no matter how beautiful I think it is. So if you decide you’re ready and that I’m the one, then I’ll be here. And if not, well, at least I was able to spend some time with someone I liked.”

“Either you’re too good to be true, Mark Watford, or you’re the best actor I have ever seen,” Cindy commented, stepping back through the doorway and onto the porch.

“Jesus, Mom! How about a little privacy?”

“If you wanted that, Bree, you should have waited a bit before spilling your guts to Mark, here.” She sat down, heedless of Bree’s embarrassed glare.

She stood up, trying to maintain a dignified pose. “Would you mind if I walked you back to your place, Mark?”

“Nope.” Mark stood, giving a polite nod to her mother. “Thanks for a great meal, Cindy. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

xxxxx

“Your mom’s very nice.”

“She’s a pain,” Brianna said, as they walked up the footpath towards the farmhouse. Unconsciously, she found she had reached for his hand, and that he had shortened his steps to match her stride.

“So is tomorrow okay? Or is Sunday night a bad night?”

“It should be okay,” she replied. “As long as we don’t stay out too late. Unlike some people I know, I have to be up early for work,” she teased.

He nodded, not rising to the bait. “And unlike some people, I don’t have a steady source of income. I got a three-book deal out of ‘Savage Lust,’ but if people decide they don’t like ‘Aching Loins,’ I’m screwed. So I have to write even if I don’t feel like it. Just like you have to go to work even if you don’t feel like it.

“So what do you do for fun around here? Where would you like to go tomorrow?”

“Dinner and a movie?” She made a face. “I’ll pass.” Then her face lit as a thought struck her. “I’ve got an idea. Come by tomorrow afternoon. Maybe after lunch? Make sure you have a pair of good walking shoes.”

xxxxx

“You like him, don’t you?” Her mother’s voice was quiet as she climbed back up the steps to the porch.

“I do,” she sighed. “God help me, I do. He’s not what I expected. His book is so funny and sexy. I thought he would be like that. Kind of manic, like a comedian. But instead, he’s…quiet. Calm. Soothing.”

She sat down in one of the chairs and poured the last of the wine into her glass. “Mom, do you ever regret not finding someone else after you and Dad split up?”

“No, not really,” she answered. Her voice was tired and slightly fuzzy from the wine, and Brianna looked over, somewhat alarmed by the fatigue in her voice. She thought about her grandparents, and how they had passed away when she was a little girl. They were not much older then than her mother was now.

No, she thought. Mama takes better care of herself than Grandpa did. She won’t die young. And she watches out for the breast cancer, too. She won’t wait until it’s too late like Grandma.

“I won’t lie, Bree,” she said. “It would have been nice to have a man around the house. Or in my bed. Maybe that way we could have kept farming the land, rather than renting it out. But after what I went through with Craig…” she trailed off. “I wasn’t going to risk it again.

“But you,” she continued. “You have a chance to be happy.” She reached out, gripping her daughter’s hand firmly. “It doesn’t take a genius to see how much you like him. Or how much he likes you. I saw him looking at you tonight. He could barely keep his eyes in his head. So don’t be afraid to reach for joy. The chance doesn’t come along very often.”

She stood up, swaying slightly, and yawned. “Well, I’m going to go to bed,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning. Sweet dreams, Brianna.”

“Sweet dreams, Mom.”

xxxxx

After arriving back home, Mark changed into more comfortable clothes and tried to do some more work unpacking, but the effects of two glasses of strong wine made the prospect quickly pall. And he could not tear his mind away from Brianna. The way she smelled. The way she walked. The way her brown eyes lit up when she seized on a new subject. The way her small hand fit so neatly into his.

Finally he grunted, stopped unpacking, sat down on his sofa, and turned on the TV. The satellite hook-up had been completed only the day before, and he used the remote to thumb through the channels. The Blue Jays were losing, so he flipped to the movie channels. A pair of bouncing breasts caught his eye, and he recognized a steamy adult series which had been airing over the past several months. He stopped his search as his cock swelled in his boxers.

Why not? It’s been weeks since you’ve been with anyone. And it’s not as if anyone can hear you. Not like the old apartment, where the walls were so thin you could hear the neighbor’s conversations.

He turned off the lamp and stretched out, pulling his boxers off. As his arousal grew, he ran his fingers up the length of his shaft, enjoying the tingle in his groin. His eyes were fixed on the TV screen, where two lovely blond women, bored without their husbands, were experimenting with each other. His breath quickened as one of them took the other’s nipple into her mouth. His thumb rubbed his throbbing cock-head, smearing the drop of moisture which had escaped from his slit around the bulbous tip.

Suddenly, the TV shut off, the screen going dark and blank. Swearing softly under his breath, he groped for the remote control, but repeated stabs at the power button brought no result. He shivered suddenly, a cold breeze seeming to blow across the back of his neck, even though the air in the room was warm, and the curtains hung limply in the open window.

Damn this old building. Wiring is probably shot. I’ll have to talk to Cindy tomorrow. He sighed. Screw it. I don’t need to watch fake women to get myself off.

He settled back until he was lying on the couch. He closed his eyes, not thinking of his last girlfriend, eight months gone. Or even his last, unsatisfying hook-up at a book convention three weeks ago. It was Brianna who was in his thoughts. Brianna, with her warm tan skin, and her dark, mysterious eyes. Brianna, with her sweet voice, quick mind, and beautiful, ripe body. He imagined peeling off the sundress she had been wearing at supper, finding nothing at all beneath, kissing her hot mouth, her gorgeous breasts, her flat belly, then wandering down until he could taste her. He shuddered, his hand stroking more and more quickly, as in his mind’s eye she rose above him, then sank down on his throbbing member, sealing their love with her body.

White-hot fire seemed to explode from his cock. He panted on the couch as he was wracked with spasms of pleasure, burst after burst of semen spewing into the air and dropping onto his chest and stomach with lewd plops. He groaned as the aftershocks subsided, quivers still pulsing through his oversensitized shaft. Slowly growing limp, his penis sagged into the warm puddle which collected on his stomach.

“Damn,” he breathed. It had been months since he had experienced an orgasm so intense. He tickled the heavy sac of his scrotum with a finger, smiling as his cock twitched again in response, then rose to his feet. Picking up the t-shirt which he had discarded on the floor, he cleaned himself as he walked up the stairs towards his bedroom, already thinking about a hot shower and a good night’s sleep.

In the dark, behind him, an invisible presence watched. She was still weak. But as the days shortened towards the equinox and the anniversary of her death, she would grow stronger.

This time. Please, oh Lord, grant me release from this living death. Let it be this time.

If a person listened very, very carefully, he might imagine he heard the soft sound of a weeping woman.

xxxxx

The next afternoon Mark presented himself at the Martin’s front door promptly at one in the afternoon. Following Bree’s instructions, he wore a heavy pair of walking shoes and good, thick socks. Unsure what she had planned, and keeping in mind the warm, sultry weather, he opted for shorts and a gray cotton t-shirt.

“Anyone home?” he called. Remembering the night before, he let himself in. He followed the sounds he heard to the kitchen, quickly discovering Brianna with a pair of backpacks and a small mountain of supplies. She was dressed similarly to him, with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, which was threaded through a old high school softball hat.

“You’re here. Good,” she said, tossing him a canteen with a blinding smile. “Fill that up while I pack up.”

“Yes, boss,” he teased. “Where’s your mom?”

“She went out with some friends this morning,” she said. Sunscreen, snacks, a spare shirt, and her cell phone vanished into the pack with quick efficiency. “With that bunch, brunch usually turns into a shopping trip or a walk downtown. And plenty of time for gossip. I don’t expect her back until suppertime.

“So,” she said, slinging the straps of her backpack over her shoulders, “Are you ready for a hike?” She handed him his pack as he nodded. “Wait,” she said. She eyed his head critically. “Do you have a hat?”

“Sure,” he replied. “At the bottom of a box in my living room. Do I need one?”

She shook her head. “Black hair, pale skin…and it looks like you haven’t set foot outdoors in six months. Two hours in the summer sun and you’ll be as red as a lobster. Don’t you spend any time outside? Or are you too busy writing sexy stories for people like me?”

“Hey,” he protested, as she turned away and began to rummage in a closet. “I like spending time outside. I just haven’t had the time to do it lately. It’s not easy being famous.”

“Boo hoo,” Brianna replied. She came back from the closet, a disreputable fishing hat in her hands. It might have started life dark beige in color, but it was now so faded and stained it was all but colorless. Nevertheless, it had a wide, floppy brim and sat comfortably on his head. She nodded, satisfied. “All right. Let’s go.”

xxxxx

Less than half an hour later they pulled into the parking lot at the Pinehurst Lake Conservation Area.

“There’s a bigger park closer to town,” Brianna said. “But this one has better hiking. Besides, the other one will be chock-full of families with their kids. It has a fantastic swimming pool. Mom used to take me there a lot when I was younger. But I figured you would rather not have to plow through a bunch of screaming teenagers to get to the good stuff.”

“You got that one right,” Mark said, climbing out of her car. Her eyes went to his well-toned legs. Despite the fact that he didn’t seem to get outside much, they looked good. As they sat on the bumper of the car to put on their sunscreen, she bit her lip, tempted to offer to oil him up. Oil all of him up.

Down, girl.

In a few minutes they were walking briskly up the Captain Kidd Hiking Trail.

“I didn’t know Captain Kidd made it as far as Ontario,” Mark said.

She stuck her tongue out at him as they crested the first shallow hill, the noise of the parking lot falling away behind them. “Smart-aleck. Maybe you should pay attention. It might give you some ideas for your pirate book. What was the title again?”

“I think you can remember,” he said, as the forest canopy closed in above them. As if they had walked into another century, they were surrounded by birdsong and the quiet, furtive noises of small animals in the underbrush. Stray beams of sunlight arrowed in through the leaves, striking highlights from the thin, dark hair on his arms and legs.

“Right. ‘The Pirate Captain who Ransomed My Aching Loins,'” she giggled. “Doesn’t leave much to the imagination, does it? So what’s the plot? Oh, let me guess,” she said, before he could answer. “There’s this pirate captain. And on the high seas he rescues a maiden fair, probably from even worse pirates. Despite his terrifying reputation, he is actually noble and virtuous, in exile for a crime he did not commit. He and the woman, who is naturally blond, busty, beautiful, and cold as a fish, have many adventures. By the time we are halfway through the book, he has thawed her icy exterior with his fiery passion, and their fates are inextricably bound. By a quirk of fate, they are able to clear the captain’s reputation, punish the wicked, and they all live sexily ever after. The end.”

Mark nodded slowly. “That’s a good plot. Basically checks off every item on the list for a typical bodice-ripper. And completely wrong.”

“Huh?”

He smiled down at her, his blue eyes dancing in the sunlight. To their left, the trees cleared as the shore of Pinehurst Lake came into view. In the distance, they could see canoes and small boats out on the water, and people fishing from piers.

“I like to break the rules, as far as romance books are concerned. Not copy them. So yes, there is a pirate captain. But she,” he stressed, “Isn’t running away from a crime she didn’t commit. She actually embraces it. She’s a privateer, and she is working for the English to raid American shipping during their War of Independence.

“She has an all-woman crew-”

“Oh, of course she does,” Bree said with a smile.

“-and they capture and board another ship. Which is where we get our male love interest. He and his fiance are traveling to America. He is a doctor, and she takes him prisoner, as there has been an outbreak of sickness on the ship and she needs someone to take care of her crew.” He frowned pensively. “I’m trying to work in a way the crew can all be infected by a case of incurable horniness. Either a curse from loot they have stolen from another ship or some sort of sexually transmitted disease.”

“Make it infected food,” Bree suggested. “Have the cook be the carrier, but because she isn’t hygienic, it spreads to the rest of the crew. And that’ll give your sexy doctor a chance to prove to the captain how smart he is.”

He smiled down at her. “That’s a really good idea. And the time he spends investigating will give me time for the two of them to begin to trust and respect each other. Plus, I can include some hot sexytime with the crew.” To her amusement, he blushed.

“You perv!” she grinned. “You just want to throw in a little girl-on-girl action, don’t you?”

“Perish the thought. I just wanted the opportunity to investigate gender roles in eighteenth-century naval tradition.”

“Bullshit. But our two main characters. They fall in love, don’t they?” Bree asked.

“Of course,” Mark replied. “But not easily. Our pirate captain is very much the dominant character early on. And our poor doctor is not exactly an alpha male. He’s shy, reserved, and sexually inexperienced. So he completely fails to pick up on the hints she throws at him. I’m hoping to make the story a comedy of manners, like some of the Jane Austen books, where the two characters are from such different worlds they can barely communicate. She’s lower class, worked her way up from deckhand to captain. He is upper class, born to wealth and privilege.

“I thought it would be funny to have a book where it would be the older, experienced, female character deflowering the shy, uncertain male character. It is always the reverse in traditional romance. Even in books where we have a ‘strong’ female character-” Bree could almost hear the quotation marks, “-she usually starts out as a virgin who must lose her virginity in the most demeaning way possible.” His mouth thinned angrily. “When I was researching my first book I skimmed a bunch of romance novels. I don’t know how many times the male lead practically raped the female lead. And how often she enjoyed it. It made me sick.

“So why not turn it around a bit? Now, our doctor isn’t unwilling. Far from it. He just doesn’t have any experience at all. Which makes the first bedroom scene more than a little hilarious.”

“But what happens with the doctor’s fiance?”

“Ah,” Mark smiled. “Well, she was a cold one to start out with, anyway. Which accounts for a lot of our doctor’s inexperience. Not her fault, really. We follow her, as well. Turns out she is a lesbian and ends up falling in love with her maid. So everyone can live happily ever after.”

She laughed out loud, startling several birds from the path. They flew up into the trees, their shrill voices scolding her. “Oh, that’s outrageous! You’re going to make some people’s heads blow up when they hear about it.”

“Oh, I’m sure they will,” he said cheerfully, sounding not at all worried about the prospect. “In fact, I…” he trailed off, slowing down. “Look,he said suddenly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Look there.” His hand gripped her shoulder gently, bringing her to a halt.

Following his gaze, she peered into the underbrush. For a moment she didn’t see it, so well did the dappled coat blend into the sun-speckled bushes. But then she caught a glimpse of dark, liquid eyes. She blinked, and the fawn came into focus. A light brownish-tan, dotted with white spots, it looked back at her curiously from less than twenty feet away.

“Oh,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful.” She wanted to walk over to it, to feel the bristly fur under her fingers.

Pattering footsteps sounded behind them, and Bree turned in time to see a little girl, no more than three years old, pounding up the path. Her flustered parents were in hot pursuit. Mark bent and picked her up, ignoring the churning legs. Before she could protest, he was speaking quietly to her, pointing out the deer. Brianna watched with a smile as the girl’s eyes grew round in wonder.

“Ooh,” she said. Pretty!” Her chubby arms stretched out. “I want to see!”

“No, sweetheart,” Mark said gently. “The fawn’s mommy won’t like that. And she’ll smash you flatter than a bug.” He tweaked her nose, making her laugh. “Look, there she is. See her?” He pointed out the larger deer which had joined her child. For a moment, both animals stared at them. Then with a pair of leaping bounds, they vanished into the forest.

“Emily, you naughty girl,” said the exasperated mother, who had finally caught up to them. “I told you to stay with me and your daddy. Thank you,” she said, as Mark transferred the squirming child to her arms. “I’m glad you caught her. I wish I had half the energy she does. What were you pointing out to her?”

“A doe and her fawn,” he said. “Right over there, less than ten yards away.”

“Really?” she said. She turned to her child. “Did you see the fawn and her mommy, Emily?” The girl nodded, her head bouncing excitedly. “All right. Now, let’s wait for Daddy, okay?”

xxxxx

After leaving the relieved parents and the chattering Emily behind, they continued on the path. As they reached a break in the trees, Brianna reached out and took Mark’s hand, guiding him to a stone bench as they neared a scenic overlook. From the top of a small cliff, they could see down to the lake, or look north across it to the low rolling hills of southern Ontario. In the distance, they could see the beach, and a swarming mass of people running into and out of the water, their faint shouts barely audible at this distance.

She sighed and stretched her legs out on the wood chips which covered the ground, inhaling the deep, resinous scent. “This is so nice,” she said, feeling deeply content. She leaned against Mark, frowning when he flinched away. “What’s wrong?”

“Well,” he said, “It’s hot and I’m sweating and probably starting to stink a bit. And I don’t want to act like…” he trailed off, his face growing redder than the warm day would seem to call for.

“You don’t want to act like you’re trying to take advantage of me?” she asked. “Don’t be a dope, Mark. I was the one who was trying to get close to you. Not the other way round. Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean I don’t like to be touched and held. Or kissed,” she said, hoping her invitation was plain enough to drill through his thick head.

“Well,” he said, “In that case…” he leaned toward her, lowering his head as she raised hers to meet him. His lips touched hers tentatively, withdrew, then came back. Warm and firm, they caressed her mouth. Eager, but not demanding, he accepted what she chose to offer.

Oh, she smiled to herself. He’s good. Unlike too many of her former boyfriends, he didn’t try to force himself on her. There was no frenzied groping, no sad pleas for her to take off her shirt, to give him a hand-job, to do this, do that, until she thought she’d scream in frustration. She opened her mouth, the invitation plain, and sighed happily as his tongue came in to explore. She met it with her own, and they gently tangled for a time.

She scooted closer to him, wanting to feel his warm skin, the strong muscles of his arms. The angle was awkward, until Mark solved the impasse by simply picking her up and setting her in his lap.

“Oh,” she purred, batting her eyelashes at him winsomely. “I do so love a big, strong man.” She let her voice deepen seductively. His hands were at her waist, and she moved them higher, under the hem of her shirt, until he could caress her ribcage. She shivered as his fingers softly stroked her skin. As she shifted in his lap, she feel the evidence of his arousal, and the thought pleased her. Never one to hide her light under a bushel, she was proud she could make him want her. She threaded her fingers through his black hair, kissing him again. Inside the confines of her sports bra, her breasts were growing hot and flushed, and a slow ache began in her nipples. She knew they had contracted, the dark areolae growing hard and erect.

“Well,” an unwelcome voice brayed, causing her to jerk away from Mark. “Look who we have here. Sweet little Brianna, the original cock-tease herself. Don’t get too excited, my man,” the tall young man sneered as he swaggered towards them. ‘She’ll leave you with a case of blue balls and dump you when you ask for more.”

She leaped to her feet, her face flaming with impotent fury, as Lance Barksdale stopped a few feet away. His vacuously handsome face was twisted in a spiteful smirk. At his shoulder stood a girl she vaguely remembered from high school, dressed in yoga pants and a crop-top. Brandi? Mandi? Sandi? She couldn’t recall anything about her other than the fact she dotted her name with little pink hearts.

Before she could launch into a blistering retort, Mark reached out and set his hand on her wrist. Startled, she looked down. He seemed completely relaxed, but one eyelid twitched with the merest hint of a wink.

He turned his head to Lance. “Hi,he said calmly. “I’m Mark Watford. You are…”

“Lance. Lance Barksdale. Let me give you some advice,” he spat, casting a venomous look at Brianna. “You’re wasting your time with her. She’ll lead you on by your balls, but as soon as you ask for a little bit more, her legs close tighter than a vise. Nothing but a goddamn cock-tease, and that’s the truth of it.”

“Wow,” Mark said. “Thanks. I appreciate it. The only reason I came up with her today was that I was hoping she would strip off her clothes and spread her legs right in the middle of the park, so we could screw like a couple of horny monkeys. But you’ve opened my eyes.” As he continued, his voice became ever more sarcastic, until it was all but openly mocking. “Why, Lord?” he said, standing and raising his voice until he was shouting at the heavens, his eyes filled with a mad hilarity. “Why do you torment me so? I don’t want to spend time with a lovely, intelligent woman. I just want something I can shove my dick into.”

He lowered his face until he was staring at Lance with open contempt. “You were dating her? And you dumped her because she wouldn’t have sex with you?” When Lance nodded confusedly, he shook his head. “And I bet you were super patient with her. Gave her all the time she needed to make a decision before you stormed off in a huff.

“You’re an idiot.” With one hand he gripped Brianna’s. The other opened in front of him, the fingers curled as if he held something precious. “You held her heart in the palm of your hand. And threw it in the mud like it was trash. Go away.”

Lance’s face flushed an ugly red, and he clenched his fists. “You can’t just sit there and insult me like this!”

“No, no.” Mark held up his hands placatingly. “There must be a mistake. I wasn’t insulting you. I was describing you. Huge difference. I apologize for the confusion.” His face grew concerned. “Or do you have a learning disability? If you like, I could write down some of the bigger words so you can look them up later.”

“You stupid little cocksucker. I’m going to kick your ass.”

Mark shrugged, unconcerned. “You can try. I am sure your girlfriend here will be hella impressed.” He glanced over at the girl, who had been watching the exchange with her mouth open. “I’m sorry. We haven’t been introduced. I’m Mark.” He smiled winningly. She smiled back, momentarily transforming her vacantly pretty face into a beautiful one. At her side, Lance fumed but didn’t interrupt.

“I’m Candace. But people call me Candi. Because I’m so sweet,” she giggled.

He nodded. “I’m sure you are.” His voice was gentle. He sounded, Brianna realized, just like he had when he was talking to the little girl earlier. “So, is Lance making a good impression on you? Insulting an old girlfriend, picking fights? Is that what you look for in a man?”

She wrinkled her brow in thought, something Brianna was fairly sure she was unused to.

“Well, Lance usually treats me nice. He buys me stuff.”

“And do you think he would keep that up if you decided to not have sex with him? Maybe he would start treating you like he is treating Brianna here.”

Candi opened her mouth and closed it. Looking, Brianna thought with more than a touch of spite, like a landed fish. She looked back and forth between Lance and Mark. “Well…”

“Come on, baby,” Lance said. He put his hand on her shoulder, steering her away. “Let’s not spend any time with these losers. Let’s go to the concession stand. I’ll buy you a snow-cone.” He gave them both a hate-filled glance, then walked away, Candi drifting along in his wake.

When they had passed a curve and were out of sight, Mark sank back onto the bench. Brianna was surprised to see his hands were shaking, whether from fear or anger she could not tell. She sat down beside him.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he said woodenly. “I’m just fine. Some jerk comes up and insults a woman I care about and all I can do is beat him up with words.” The tendons in his wrists stood out as he clenched his fists in impotent anger.

Brianna’s heart warmed as the import of his words sank in, suddenly seeing deep into what made Mark the way he was. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“That’s for not being a dumb, testosterone-fueled moron,” she said. “If you had gotten into a fight with that jerk over me, I would have walked off and let the two of you pound each other into paste.”

“What?” Mark’s lips quirked in a ghost of a smile. “You wouldn’t have swooned into my arms, overcome with passion by my virile masculinity?”

“No.” She straddled his waist, leaning down to kiss him again, then got off the bench. “Come on. Time’s a-wastin’, and if we stay here much longer I might just give you a case of those blue balls Lance warned you about.”

Hand in hand, they slowly walked off down the path, the sunlight gilding their bodies in a golden sheen.

xxxxx

Over the next few weeks, Brianna found herself sliding slowly, helplessly in love with Mark. Her thoughts turned toward him when she was at work, and when she arrived home, her feet seemed to inevitably walk her up to the old farmhouse.

Which would have been troubling, were it not for the fact Mark was always transparently happy to see her as well. Occasionally he dropped by her mother’s place, but he seemed content to spend time with her when she arrived, talking or watching movies or taking long walks around the countryside. Sometimes he read to her from his book; valuing, he said, a viewpoint which was not his own or his editor’s. He always insisted she give him her honest opinion, and listened seriously to her critiques. He didn’t always take her advice, but he was always careful to explain why he thought her ideas wouldn’t work.

The only irritation was Mark’s futile battle against the electrical system in the house. His TV and entertainment system seemed to cut out at the drop of a hat, especially when they were in the family room together, watching something romantic. Light bulbs, even expensive LEDs, burned out at an alarming rate. As his landlady, her mother had already had electricians out twice to check, to no avail, and Mark had started to mutter darkly about replacing the entire wiring system if the advance sales for “Aching Loins” continued to pile up. Taking her advice, however, he had stockpiled a supply of candles, and had even gone so far as to buy and test a pair of old kerosene lanterns.

One Friday evening, a chance remark by her about the story made him wrinkle his brow, open up his laptop, and start writing. Bree had been complimented at first. But as Mark’s fingers continued to tap against the keys of the computer, she grew bored, then angry, then flat-out furious. Finally she grabbed a can of soda out of the fridge and sat down on the front porch to watch the sunset, inwardly seething.

It was nearly an hour later when Mark finally came out, shamefaced.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sitting down beside her. He could barely meet her eyes.

She had been prepared to ream him for the way he had ignored her, but his honest contrition dulled her anger. She took a deep breath of clean night air, watching the fireflies dance over the lawn. She tried to calm herself. “Want to talk about it?” she asked instead, staring out into the darkness.

“Writers …” he trailed off, then started over. “When I get an idea, when something becomes clear, I have to get it down right away. I can actually hear the dialogue in my head, and I know if I don’t write it out I’ll regret it. It won’t be as good if I try to recapture the magic later. I’ve written in bed, jumped out of the shower, gotten up in the middle of the night to scribble down ideas. I have to do it, Bree. I’m a writer. It’s what I do. And when I’m writing, it’s as if the entire world goes away. Someone could let off a shotgun blast in my ear and I’d probably just grunt and try to come up with a way to describe a woman’s breasts that I hadn’t already used three times in the last two chapters.

“It doesn’t make me care for you any less. But if you’re going to be involved with me, it’s something you’re going to have to be prepared for. Some days I’m just going to disappear into a story, and not come out until I’m happy with what I’ve written. I hope you understand.”

Brianna sighed, slightly mollified. “Well, I suppose I can learn to deal with it. You’ve been pretty damn decent about the…thing.”

“What thing?”

“Shut up,” she said, blushing. As if they were joined, they rose to their feet together. She stepped into his embrace, laying her head against his chest and wrapping her arms around him. “Going to be around tomorrow night?” she asked.

“Should be,” he said. “What would you like to do?”

She made an irritated sound. “You know, Mark, it’s okay if we do what you want to do every once in a while. Otherwise I might start to think you’ve got no spine at all.”

“All right,” he said, his voice challenging. “Nine o’clock. Bring a blanket. And a pillow, maybe.”

She leaned back, looking into his face. “Mark, if you’re trying to seduce me, you’re totally doing it wrong.”

She felt his chest shake as he softly laughed. “No, not that. Wait and see. It’s a surprise.”

xxxxx

That night, Brianna dreamed of making love to Mark.

They were standing in a grassy field, under a sky so dark and deep it seemed to be the softest, blackest velvet, dotted with stars like chips of diamond. A full moon drifted overhead, casting a pearlescent glow over them, gilding their bodies with silver.

They were naked, and unashamed. Mark kissed her, the faint rasp of stubble at his chin scratching her cheeks as he thoroughly explored her mouth. In turn, her hands drifted from his back to his rear to his thighs, then cradled his erect shaft. She smiled as she heard his breath catch, and she slowly pumped him, proud of her power over this wonderful man.

With a wordless growl he caught her around the knees and shoulders, lifting her, then laying her down on the grass, as soft as the eiderdown quilt in her bedroom. Lying on their sides, they kissed unhurriedly, confident in their love and affection. Brianna snuggled closer, her breasts flattening where they pressed against Mark’s chest, and threw one leg over his hip. He hissed as the act caused his erection to press against her cleft, the soft head nestled into her folds, jerking spasmodically in time with his heartbeat.

She smiled into his eyes. “I’m ready now, Mark.”

“No,” he said. His voice was low and hoarse, and he had to clear his throat before he continued. “You’re not. But,” he continued, his hand slipping between them, “When I’m done with you, you will be.”

Expertly, he parted her nether lips, as if he had done it a thousand times before. With unerring skill, his thumb rested on her clit, while two fingers ran up and down her opening, gathering moisture. When they had completed their sweet task, they transferred her slickness to his thumb, while they went wandering again. Slowly, then with increasing speed, his thumb ran back and forth over her throbbing nodule. At the same time, his stiffened fingers slowly thrust into her hot, aching passage.

She squirmed under his loving touch, wanting more, needing more. She hooked an arm around his neck, drawing him close. With a heave, she had him on top of her, the stiff length of his cock burning the inside of her thigh. She wriggled instinctively, her legs spreading wide, wanting nothing more than to feel him enter her.

His shadowed face loomed over her. “Brianna? Are you sure?”

She reached her hands up to smooth away the worry-lines in his forehead, then drew him down for a kiss. As they embraced, their bodies shifted, bringing them into perfect alignment.

I was wise to have waited, she thought, even as the tip of his cock breached her gates.

“Yes, my love,” she whispered. “I’m sure. She raised her head, letting her lips touch his in the tenderest of kisses. As her tongue flickered out, she felt him surge forward…

… And woke in her bed, hot and panting and alone. The long t-shirt she wore on warm summer nights was rucked up over her hips. One of her hands was rhythmically squeezing her breast. The other was between her legs, her thumb strumming her button. She threw her free hand over her mouth to stifle a scream as her orgasm crested and broke over her in a surging wave. Her hips rose and fell, her hungry channel swallowing her fingers as the muscles of her vagina clutched and released, over and over again.

Panting, she fell back onto the mattress, her hair sticking to her forehead in sweaty spikes. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a shadow shift in the dark, and she bolted upright, her heart hammering in terror. She snapped on her bedside lamp with one fumbling hand, squinting against the sudden glare.

Nothing. Her frantic glances around the room revealed no hidden intruder.

She snorted to herself. Better learn to relax, Bree. If you start jumping at shadows every time you have a good orgasm, you should probably break up with Mark.

Not that we have ever made things formal. She grinned at the thought, her mind reaching back to the strange rituals of her school days, of class rings and promise rings and letterman’s jackets. She got out of bed and went to the bathroom for a quick pee and to wash her hands. Crawling back into bed, she pulled the sheet and light blanket up and over her body, snuggling down into the soft mattress.

As she drifted off to sleep, her last thoughts were of Mark, and what the next day would bring. She was completely unaware of the presence which watched her with jealous eyes.

xxxxx

The next day dawned hot, sultry, and still, without even the faintest breeze to lessen the heat. Throughout the day, she could hear the faint rumble of combines as they went through the fields, harvesting the corn and wheat. Temperatures climbed into the upper eighties, and by mid-afternoon, had ninety within their sweltering grasp. Despite the shirt-wringing humidity, the September sky was a deep, turquoise blue, giving the lie to the weather foreman’s forecast of thunderstorms. Throughout the day, she drifted aimlessly around the house, waiting for evening and her date with Mark. Somehow she felt she would spoil the surprise, whatever it might be, if she walked up to the farmhouse early.

“Goodness, would you settle, Bree?” her mother asked, as she walked through the kitchen for the third time in five minutes. She found herself guided to a chair and a ceramic bowl full of green beans thrust into her arms. “Here. Make yourself useful and snap these. I’m going to can a batch later on this afternoon.”

“Green beans make me barf, Mom. You know that.” She eyed the bowl distastefully.

Cindy smiled unapologetically. “Too bad. I’m too old and set in my ways to waste good food, no matter how misguided you are when it comes to beans. I’ll give some away at church tomorrow. And who knows? Maybe your sweetie likes them and would like some this winter.”

“Fine,” she sighed, grateful for any task, no matter how mind-numbingly boring it might be. Unthinking, her fingers plucked the first bean from the pile. She snapped off the ends, tossing them in a waste basket, then broke it into equal lengths, dumping the result in the large bowl at the table set aside for the purpose. Her mother slid in across from her, mimicking her actions.

For a while they both worked in companionable silence, the only sound the rattle of the vegetables hitting the bowl. It reminded her of summers long past, when she and her mother and grandmother would work through an entire weekend, listening to their old vinyl records and putting up canned food for the winter to come. Grandmother Martin was gone now, and she blinked at the memory, the strains of Air Supply, Crystal Gale, and Linda Ronstadt seeming to hover just out of the range of her ears.

“So,” her mother said casually. “How are things going with you and Mark?”

She smiled. “Real subtle, Mom. Mark’s good,” she answered. “Real good. I think…we’re good together.” Her eyes dropped to the table. “He’s the best man I’ve ever known. He treats me right. He listens. And God, he’s so gentle. Too much, sometimes. Sometimes I want to tell him that I’m not made out of glass.”

Her mother nodded. “I understand,” she said. Her eyes, strangely intent, rose from her bowl and met Bree’s, holding her in place. “But honey, never complain that your man is too gentle. There are far worse things, believe me.”

Bree blinked, surprised by the shadow of remembered pain in Cindy’s voice. “Mom? Did Daddy ever…” she trailed off helplessly.

“Did Craig ever go after me with his fists?” Her mother’s eyes were bleak, filled with old hurt. “Yes. He did. Twice. The first time was when he was drunk. You weren’t even born yet. I wore long shirts for a couple of weeks until the bruises went away, though I think your grandmother knew what happened.

“The second time was a couple of months before he left town. He had lost his job. Again.” Her mouth tightened in anger. “He came home wasted and blacked my eye. Gave me one hell of a shiner. I ran out the door with you and flagged down a neighbor who drove me up here.

“Well, your grandfather took one look and drove off in the truck with his hunting rifle in the passenger seat. I was sure he was going to kill him. He came back a couple of hours later. I never found out what was said between the two of them, but Craig never laid a hand on me again.

“Of course, it didn’t fix things,” she said briskly, resuming her work on the beans. “Nothing could, by then. It was all over between us. I moved the two of us out of town and back to the farm. I could risk myself. I wasn’t going to risk you.

“Which is why I’m glad you’ve finally settled on a man. One who wouldn’t ever hurt you. One who will care for you and help give me some grandchildren.”

“Mom!” she protested, blood rushing to her cheeks. “Aren’t you getting a little ahead of things?”

Her mother gave her a long, deep look, and shook her head.

“No,” she said. I don’t think I am.”

xxxxx

The sun was down and the western sky was darkening as Bree took the now well-worn footpath from her home up to the farmhouse. The air was still and damp, the heat and humidity having hardly faded since sunset. In the northwest sky, backlit against the last fading glow of the sun, a line of purplish-black thunderheads loomed on the horizon.

Mark met her on the front porch, giving her a welcoming kiss and taking the blanket from her sweaty arms.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “The entire house has been going crazy today. The TV won’t stay on for more than five minutes at a stretch. And when it does, all the programs seem to be dubbed in Spanish. The hot water heater seems to be on the fritz, and a shelf collapsed in the closet in my bedroom. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this place was haunted.”

A cold chill ran up Brianna’s spine. No. It has to be coincidence. Aunt Hazel’s never manifested to anyone outside the family before. “So can you tell me why I lugged this thing up here?” she asked, avoiding the topic.

In response, he handed her a cold bottle of Molson. A metal bucket filled with ice and more beer was at his feet, and he led her out into the front yard and on down the hill. The grass was comfortably springy under the open-toed sandals she wore on her feet. When they were well away from the house, he shook out the blanket and spread it on the ground. A quick trip back to the porch led to a pair of thick pillows being laid on the blanket.

He sat on the blanket, looking up at her invitingly. She blinked.

“So, what are we doing?”

Mark reclined on the blanket, pulling a bottle of bug spray out of his hip pocket. He coated himself, then tossed it over to Bree. He gestured at the sky above him. “Not many people ever look up. I thought you might like to do a little star-gazing. It’s a nice clear night, we’re well outside of town, so we won’t have to worry about light pollution, and the moon isn’t up for a few more hours. If we get lucky, we might even see a meteor or two.”

“A meteor?”

“A shooting star. Too bad I moved in too late for us to catch the Perseids. That’s a meteor shower that happens every August,” he explained. “When Earth moves through a region of dust from an old comet. Not much in September. But maybe we can catch the Orionids in October.”

She lay down beside him. “Well. You are just full of surprises, aren’t you? But I might have to burst your bubble, Sky Captain. It looked to be clouding up pretty good out west. If we stay out too long, we’ll see more lightning than meteors.”

“That’s the wonderful thing about the sky, Bree. It’ll be there tomorrow.” She felt him take a deep breath as they lay together in the slowly fading light. “I’m not a religious man. But the fact that the universe will go on when I’m gone doesn’t scare me.”

“No?”

“No. Actually, I find it…comforting. Too many people think they’re the most important thing on the planet. I would like to take them up into space and boot them out of an airlock, just to show them how small they really are.”

Brinna snickered, taken in by the mental image of Mark throwing idiotic politicians, brainless reality TV stars, and vapid media figures out of a spaceship. Maybe into the sun? She could hear their tiny screams as they hurtled into the roaring fireball and suddenly began to convulse with laughter, giggling and snorting until she thought she would wet herself. Tears overflowed the corners of her eyes and tracked down her temples.

When her snickers and chortles finally trailed finally trailed off, she found Mark looking at her questioningly. She shook her head at him. “Just a thought,” she explained. She edged closer to him. “I love you,” she said softly.

He took her hand and squeezed it. “I love you, too.” She could see his smile in the dim light. “Good thing I found your mom’s ad for the house to rent. Otherwise we might never have met.”

Side by side, they lay together as the stars slowly began to gleam in the night sky. Low overhead, the soft glow of fireflies softly swirled, and aside from the chirp of crickets in the tall grass, the evening was all but soundless. Even the hum of engines from the nearby highway seemed low and muted. They took it in turn to point out the constellations they knew. The Big Dipper. Cassieopeia, The Summer Triangle, high overhead. Venus made a brief appearance in the west, before it was swallowed by the storm clouds slowly boiling towards them.

Despite the serene night and the good company, Brianna felt oddly restless. She shifted on the blanket, jittery and nervous.

“What’s the matter?” Mark asked at last. “Are you lying on an anthill? Or are you just bored?”

“Sorry,” she apologized. “I just can’t get comfortable. I…” She trailed off as a brilliant streak of light burned through the sky, directly over their heads. As it neared the horizon, it broke up into several lesser rays, which blinked out one by one. Bree couldn’t swear to it, but she thought she could hear a faint whisper of passage as it passed overhead.

“Wow,” Mark said. “That was a good one. I’ve never seen one that bright before.”

“A meteor?” she asked.

He nodded. “Pretty big one, too, as far as they go. Usually they’re gone almost as soon as you see them.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that. This one must have been at least pebble-sized. Maybe bigger.”

“Mmmm,” she said. As if the site of the meteor had been a trigger, she turned towards Mark, resting on her side. Lazily, she drew one leg up, letting it stroke the firm muscles of his thigh. The feel of his warm skin against hers woke an answering warmth deep within her. She let her hand splay on his chest, meeting his lips in a long, soft kiss. His lips tasted of beer and bug spray, something she did not ordinarily think of as a romantic combination. But when his hands reached up to tangle in her hair, drawing her down to him, all such thoughts left her mind.

Tonight? She closed her eyes and tried to make a decision. Her love for Mark was bone-deep. And she could sense how much he cared for her. But her long history of chastity made her wary of choosing to lose her virginity, no matter how tired she was of having it.

As she was pondering, Mark’s hands reached under the hem of her shirt, slowly caressing her rib cage and making their way higher. She lifted up, easing his access, until she felt his fingers on the swells of her breasts. He stopped, and he stopped kissing her long enough to ask, “No bra?”

She smiled down at him. “What, you couldn’t tell before? I would have thought it was fairly obvious.”

He shook his head. “Not really. It was dark out. And your breasts are so firm…” He stroked the underside of one lovingly, making her break out in gooseflesh. A cool breeze ruffled the grass, and she could hear the mutter of thunder in the distance.

“Oh, that feels good,” she sighed. Mark palmed her breast, then let his fingers creep higher, until his fingertips were brushing her aereolae. She trembled, then gasped as her nipples suddenly tightened, tenting the loose cotton fabric of her shirt.

Tonight, she decided. I am going to make love to him tonight. She set aside her fear, her hesitation, her inhibitions, and gave in to love, kissing Mark with a hard, fierce joy which left him red-faced and shaking when their lips parted. As the force of the wind increased and the rumbles of thunder grew louder, she curled one hand around the back of his neck, the other reaching down to softly stroke the hard length of his erection. She let her body sink until she was all but lying on him, their bodies touching from head to toe.

“Mark,” she began, “I-”

She was interrupted by a blazing stroke of lightning which cast their bodies into stark relief for a splintered second. When it disappeared, they were left blinking in the dark. Scant seconds later, a crack of thunder shook the air.

“That’s it,” Mark said firmly. He stood, drawing her up with him, and began to fold the blanket, tossing the pillows to her. “Let’s get inside before we get our fool selves electrocuted.” Fat drops of ice-cold rain began to plunk into the ground. As they hurried up the hill towards the house, the rain changed from sprinkles to a torrential downpour with amazing rapidity. By the time they reached the shelter of the front porch, they were both soaked to the skin and shaking with cold.

As soon as they got inside, Mark headed upstairs, bringing down towels for them to dry off with. Bree took one and went to the downstairs bathroom, peeling off her soaked blouse, shorts, and panties, then stood helplessly on the tile floor, wondering what she was going to do for clothes.

“Mark,” she said, pitching her voice loud enough so he could hear.

“Hold on,” he answered. The door cracked open and an arm was thrust through, offering her a thick red bathrobe. She took it gratefully, belting the sash around her front.

“I’m going upstairs to change real quick,” he said through the door. “Will you be all right?”

“Sure,” she called back.

She heard his steps retreat down the hall, then pound up the stairs. When she was certain he was gone, she let herself out of the bathroom. Moving to the kitchen, she used the Kuerig coffee-maker to make them both mugs of hot chocolate, then began to explore the refrigerator. By the time Mark came downstairs, still toweling off his head and dressed in a somewhat shabbier robe that almost matched hers, she had a dish of ice cream and leftover blackberry pie set out for each of them. She smiled at him as his head emerged from the towel, looking like a friendly but confused hedgehog, spikes of hair sticking up any which way.

“Make yourself at home,” he smiled, sitting down opposite her and forking up a bite of pie. As he chewed, he cupped his hands around the hot mug of cocoa and sighed blissfully. “Ah, that feels good. Who would have thought the temperature could drop so quickly?” He winced as an open window let in a cold breeze and a spatter of rain, which was still sheeting down outside.

“I intend to,” she said, answering his first remark. Taking his hint, she rose with him, moving around the house and closing the open windows. Once done, they sat in companionable silence for a time, eating and drinking and listening to the rumbles of the thunderstorm, which seemed to have set up shop right over their heads.

“Would you like to-” Mark’s words were cut off by a terrific flash, and a peal of thunder which cracked overhead right on its heels. No sooner had the sound reached their ears than every light in the house blinked off, sending them into a rain-filled darkness.

“Oh, God damn it,” he said wearily. He got up and began to rummage in a drawer, emerging with a box of matches. Lighting one, he used the wavering light to fetch out a handful of candles and a kerosene lantern from a closet. In just a few minutes, the old farmhouse kitchen was bathed in a warm yellow glow.

“Amazing,” he said, putting a couple of fat white candles on the table, “How it only takes a thunderstorm and a crummy wiring system to set us back a hundred years. I hope the outage doesn’t last long. I just put in half a hog in the freezer in the basement. I would hate for all that pork to go bad.”

Bree shook her head. “I don’t know, Mark.” A cold prickle seemed to dance across the nape of her neck, and she hunched in her chair. “I can’t ever remember Grandma and Grandpa having so much trouble with the wiring here.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t worry about it. I’d rather have you with me and no power than a lonely apartment in Ottawa and all the comforts of the 21st century.

“So, what should we do?” he asked. “Know any good ghost stories?”

~Tell him.~ A faint whisper seemed to echo in her ears. She swallowed.

He should know. It is going to be part of his family history, if we end up involved. If we…marry. Have kids. He needs to know.

“How about a true story?” she asked. “About my family. But this is more than a little bit spooky.

“One hundred years ago, my family lived here. On this farm. It’s been in my family for seven generations now.

“It was an ordinary Ontario farming family. Mom, dad, kids. The youngest daughter’s name was Hazel. She had a fiance who lived in Brantford. His name was James O’Leary.

“When World War I started, James volunteered. He was sent to Europe with the rest of his battalion in 1915. They spent the first few months in Belgium. But in September 1916 they were transferred to France and took part in the Battle of the Somme.”

Her fists clenched. “It was a damned bloodbath. Thousands were killed on the first day. Over a million killed and wounded over the five months of the battle. Men would climb of the trenches and get mowed down like wheat in front of a threshing machine.”

“Including James O’Leary,” Mark said, his voice soft. Brianna barely heard him.

“Including James O’Leary,” she agreed. “He was badly injured taking a crummy little village named Courcelette. He died in a field hospital a few days later.

“When the news reached Hazel here…she did not take it well. For some reason, the letter included the shell fragment that killed him. She was upstairs on the widow’s walk when she got the news.” Her lips twisted bitterly at the all-too-appropriate name. “She tried to throw the shell away, but the railing cracked and she fell off. She hit the flagstones in the dooryard and died instantly.”

“Flagstones? There aren’t any flagstones out there.” Despite his words, Mark was pale, and his eyes were wide.

“No,” she replied softly. “There aren’t. Not anymore. Her father and brothers dug them up and used them to build a cairn over her grave. Someday I’ll show you.

“But Hazel didn’t move on. She haunts this house.” She smiled grimly as Mark twisted in his chair, trying to see in all directions at once. “Or it might be better to say, she haunts our family. The women. My mother has seen her. My grandmother, too. Every twenty years she appears to a female Martin.”

~Yes,~ a voice said. ~I do.~

“Jesus!” Brianna’s fork dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers as a figure stepped from the shadows of the staircase. She wore a blue dress, trimmed with white at the hems and the bodice. While her hair was in an unfamiliar style, her face and figure were so like Brianna’s they could have been mistaken for sisters.

~One hundred years,~ she whispered. She stopped beside Bree’s chair, looking down at her as she shrank away in fear. ~One hundred years of waiting, hoping that the next generation would give birth to a woman who would not throw her maidenhood away like a broken toy. One hundred years, until you came along, Brianna. It is time. I lost my life in anger, furious that my virginity could not be given to my one true love, dead and buried half a world away. Now, through you, I will experience that joy. And if God is kind, he will allow me to leave this world to be reunited with Jimmy in Heaven.

Brianna’s throat worked, caught between pity and terror. “Wait, what?”

Mark was looking at her worriedly. “Bree, are you all right?”

She held her hands up, trying to fend off his questions and a world which was suddenly moving too quickly. Her Aunt Hazel, on the other hand, had no such qualms. As easily as she would step from one room to another, she moved towards her and let her ghostly body merge with Bree’s.

She felt the blood drain from her face, and she swayed in the chair, suddenly nauseated. A pale, clammy hand seemed to reach around her heart, then slowly warmed, heated by her pounding heartbeat.

~Oh, God,~ a voice sighed in her ear. ~To have a body again. And such a fair one. Thank you, Grandniece.~

To her horror, she heard her voice, sounding thick and slurred when it emerged from her lips. “Mark, I’m tired of waiting. Let’s go upstairs and fuck.”

Mark leaned back in his chair. His eyes, reflecting the flames of the candles on the table, were wide and panicked. “What? No. No way. Bree, what’s wrong with you? You sound terrible.”

No! Her head rang with the echoes of her silent shout. I won’t let you do this to me! She fought her aunt with weapons she didn’t even know she had. Caught between opposing forces, her body lurched back and forth in her chair. One moment it tried to rise to its feet. The next it settled back with a thump as one woman or the other gained a momentary advantage.

Mark pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and tried to dial, his fingers shaking. He looked at the screen with disbelief as it refused to follow his commands. Swearing, he jumped up and picked up the land line, finding that completely inoperative as well.

~No electronics.~ Hazel’s voice was grimly amused. ~None of the tools or toys you use in this decadent age. Only two people, and their love. And me.~

No! How can you do this? How can you violate me by forcing me against my will? Have you no humanity left?

~But I need to!~ Hazel’s voice wailed. ~Please! I don’t know how much longer I can stay sane! You have no idea how terrible my existence is. How much I hate it. Please, I just need to make love one time, then I can move on. Would you have me become a spirit of anger and hatred, haunting this house until no one is willing to live here? Until it becomes a tottering wreck, filled with rats and vermin, fit only for a bulldozer?~

Then work with me, not against me, Brianna countered. Do you think I don’t care about you? God, Aunt Hazel, you’re my own blood! And if you have been watching us, you know how much Mark and I care for each other. We are in love. It was only a matter of time before I decided to give myself to him. I chose tonight. If you hadn’t blighted the mood, we’d probably be in his bed right now.

She took a deep breath, ignoring Mark’s frantic dithering. If this is what you need to move on, I will help. But you are going to be a passenger in this body. Not its operator.

Hazel wept. It was more than a little scary to hear her sobs of joy in her own mind, knowing they came from a woman who had died in a previous century.

She shook her head, coming back to herself. “Mark,” she said softly, then again, louder. “Mark!”

“Brianna? Are you all right?”

She nodded slowly.

“Thank God. You had me so scared. You started talking weird, like you were…possessed or something.”

“Or something.” She laughed hollowly. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.” She swallowed harshly. “Mark, I am possessed. Right now. When I told you the story, I saw Aunt Hazel. Her spirit. Tonight must be her night. And she has chosen me. I know what she needs.” She quickly explained the internal battle she had waged, watching Mark’s eyes widen with disbelief.

“Honey,” he said carefully, as if he were afraid to upset her. “I don’t think…I don’t think this is a good idea. How about we put you to bed, and in the morning we can take you to see a doctor?”

She stared at him. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“No! All right, maybe,” he said, wilting under her glare. “Listen to yourself, Bree,” he urged. “Your great-great-aunt is haunting your family because she never got a chance to sleep with her fiance before he got killed in France? It’s whacko.”

Her lips tightened, but she was forced to admit to herself the truth of his words. It did sound nuts. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll prove it to you.”

His eyebrows rose sceptically. “How?”

She floundered for a moment, then blinked as Hazel whispered to her. “After I left last night, one of the outside cats showed up at the back door. He wanted in. So you opened the door and gave him a bowl of water and some kibble. He seemed to like you, and hung around inside the house. This morning, you got him a litter box and set it up in the mud room by the back door. He’s a gray tabby, about two years old, and last night you were calling him Whiskers McCatface.” She giggled. “Whiskers McCatface? Seriously, Mark?”

“Yeah, seriously,” he said, and hugged her. His arms came tight around her, cutting off her breath. “You scared the crap out of me just now,” he whispered in her ear. He backed away, though he still held her wrists in his hands. He looked down to where they touched.

“Are you sure about this? You know how much I love you, Brianna. But if you’re right, and Hazel can only…manifest…once every twenty years, all we have to do is wait until morning.”

She shook her head, ignoring the scream of anguish in her head. “No. No way. I could never do that to her. I would feel guilty for the rest of my life.” She let her hands play with the sash of his bathrobe, slowly undoing the knot. “Are you wearing anything under here?” she teased.

“Yes,” he said. He laid a hand over hers, stilling it. “Brianna, I love you. I love you so much my heart hurts. But I don’t know if I can make love to you with an audience watching.”

She raised up on her toes and kissed him, her mouth working over his lips. “Yes,” she breathed, cradling his lovely erection in her hands. “You can.

“Come upstairs. And love me.” Catching his hands in hers, she drew him towards the staircase, leading him to the second floor.

“Wait,” he said. He gathered a pair of candles and used them to light the way up the stairs. Once they were up to the second floor, he led her to his bedroom.

“Very nice,” she remarked, taking in the large bed, the scattered rugs, and the solid dark furniture. “Not a typical bachelor pad.”

“No. Not really. So what’s it like?” he asked curiously. “Having someone else in your body?”

She shivered. “If I spend too much time thinking about it, I think I’ll completely lose my shit. She’s not doing much. Just kind of riding along. But she’s impatient, Mark. And scared. She wants us to make love to you. She doesn’t know how long this opportunity will last.”

“Well, then.” His lips quirked. “We’ll have to make sure we do it right the first time, won’t we?”

She smiled, then untied the sash which held his robe closed. Her breath caught as his body came into view. His boxers strained to hold back his erection. She could almost see the fabric pulsing in time to his heartbeat. Above, a thin black stripe of hair led from his groin to his navel, where it faded, only to reappear above his breastbone and around his nipples. His belly was flat, his chest muscles strong and well-defined. At his sides, his fingers twitched, and she knew he was holding himself back from disrobing her only with difficulty.

~Oh,~ Hazel whispered. ~He’s beautiful. So much like Jimmy. The black hair, the blue eyes. The strong body. And you look like I did, despite the shameless way you dress.~

Perhaps it’s fate, she suggested. Her fingers found the sash of her own robe. Without any fuss, she undid the knot and shrugged the garment off her shoulders, letting it pool at her heels. Her desire caught fire, and he saw an answer in Mark’s eyes as he gazed at her.

But that was nothing compared to the bone-deep shock she felt in her own mind. ~Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You’re bald down there!~

No, I’m not, she replied shortly, beginning to grow tired of this unwelcome guest. Women in our times often choose to shave. It’s hygienic. And easier to feel pleasure as well, if a man chooses to try.

A sense of blinking confusion filled her. ~Try what?~

Wait and see. “Mark? Are you ready?”

In answer, he clasped her tightly to him, devouring her mouth with all the pent-up passion of weeks of self-denial. His hands strayed down to the curves of her rear, cupping them and drawing her even closer. Her breasts flattened against his chest, her hard, throbbing nipples digging into his hot skin. In turn, his cock was a spear of steely heat against her stomach, making her want to leap into his arms and slowly impale herself on it. She raised and lowered herself on her toes, creating a wonderful sense of friction as the heat of desire bloomed in her groin. Even lower, she could feel the lips of her pussy turning hot and wet and slick, preparing themselves for her lover’s touch.

She leaned and shifted her weight, falling onto the bed and dragging Mark with her. She raised her hands over her head, making her breasts pull up high and firm on her chest, and drawing his eyes to them. Knowing what she desired without asking, he bent his head to them, his lips grazing their upper slopes, then kissing the taut flesh of her nipple.

~Oh!~ Hazel gasped as sensation flooded through her body. ~That’s wonderful. More, please. More!~

“More,” Brianna groaned, writhing under Mark’s skillful mouth. How had she ever doubted his touch? “For the love of God, more.” His lips fastened on her nipple, his tongue laving it in long, slow strokes. His other hand cupped her breast, his thumb and fingers drawing her nipple higher and higher until she thought she would explode.

Too soon he left her heaving breasts, ignoring her stuttering demands to come back here damn it, I’m enjoying this too much, and slid down her body, dotting her chest and shaking belly with kisses. His eyes, warm and kind and loving, looked up at her as he parted her thighs with his hands. Lolling back on the deep-piled pillows and thick comforter, she smiled in answer to his unspoken question.

“Yes. Do it. It might give poor Aunt Hazel a heart attack, though.”

~What is he doing? He can’t be thinking about kissing you down there! That’s-~

“Wonderful,” she finished for her long-dead ancestress as his mouth brushed hesitantly over her damp folds. “Oh, Mark, you’re good. So good. Keep it up. No, just a little higher. Yes. Right. There,” she said with a moan that was half a shout, as his tongue tasted the throbbing nodule of her clitoris for the first time. “Dance with her, boy. She’s not made of glass. She won’t break. Oh, fuck yes.” Overcome by sensation, she started to slowly hump her groin into his face, which was rapidly becoming coated with her intimate fluids.

Inside her mind, Hazel seemed to be in a state of shock. ~This isn’t happening. Decent girls don’t do this.~

Then call me indecent, Brianna snapped. This is my body. Come along for the ride, or get out, because I sure as hell don’t remember inviting you in. Women do a lot of things they didn’t do in 1916. Vote. Have jobs. Get their pussies eaten. Personally, I’m in favor of all of those.

Unaware of the conversation raging a few feet away, Mark was industriously working on her cleft. She cupped her breasts in her hands, squeezing them in time with his licks, until she felt she was going to burst with love and desire. His hands ran up and down her thighs, then held the twin globes of her rear as she pushed up into his face. Her feet thrust against the mattress, until the only parts of her touching the bed were her feet and her shoulders.

Fire burned through her breasts and her loins, and her breath caught as the muscles of her belly and her womb began to tighten. Soon, Aunt Hazel. “Almost there, Mark. You’re going to make me come. You’re so good, baby. So good. I love you. Love you so much.” She squeezed her eyes shut, concentrating on her orgasm, and screamed with pleasure as the crest of passion broke at last, drowning her in a shuddering release.

xxxxx

In the moments following Brianna’s climax, Mark allowed himself a moment for smug self-congratulation. Instead, he found his head being pulled up her body by his ears. He grinned down at her, but found his expression freezing as Brianna’s face seemed to ripple under his gaze. For an instant, he thought he saw someone else looking out of her eyes.

“Bree?” he asked nervously.

“Yes,” she said. Her legs spread under him. “I’m ready, now, Mark. Please. Join with me.”

His brow knotted, and he shook his head. “You’re not Brianna,” he said. “Your voice is different. Let her talk.”

“Damn it,” she spat. But in seconds Brianna was meeting his eyes.

“It’s okay, honey,” she said, her voice losing the rustic accent of a woman who had never been exposed to the civilizing influence of the CBC. “She needs this. To be in control when we make love. Don’t worry,” she said, laying a hand on his cheek. “We have the rest of our lives. She has only this one chance.”

“Wait,” he said as she began to fade, Hazel’s features swimming up like a drowned woman emerging from murky water. “What about birth control?”

“On it since I was sixteen,” she said, her voice thick, caught between two opposing forces. “Mom was no fool. Hurry!”

“But what about…” he made a helpless gesture at her groin.

“Damn it, Mark! I broke my hymen playing softball when I was fourteen. And Hazel doesn’t have to worry about it anymore.” Her hands were frantic as they yanked his boxers down, exposing his shaft. She lay back on the bed. “Quit fucking around and fuck us!”

Unstrung by her desperate pleas, he had to take a second to center himself. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to ignore the madness which had descended on them since the storm broke that evening. Opening them, he saw Brianna. And Hazel. One, a woman he loved with all his heart. The other a woman he pitied with all his soul.

Now.

He kicked off his boxers, then leaned forward, catching himself on his elbows as he nestled into the angle of his lover’s spread thighs. He took a moment to kiss her, another to position himself at her opening, then entered Brianna’s body in one swift thrust.

If he was worried about hurting his lover, his concerns were in vain. She was tight, yes, but his efforts between her legs had made her more than ready for his entry. Hot and slick as well-oiled skin, she took his length until their groins met, his scrotum slapping against her nether-lips lewdly.

“Oh, Jimmy,” she sighed. “I waited so long for this. So long.” Her fingers tangled in his hair, drawing him down for a kiss. Her mouth was shy and inexperienced under his, but sweetly loving. He blinked, tears welling in his eyes, as he glimpsed the unending torment Hazel had been forced to endure over the past century.

Whoever you are, you owe her an apology, he thought. “So did I, Hazel,” he replied, willing to play along with her fantasy if it gave her soul peace. He slowly pulled out, then pumped into her again, trying to prolong their pleasure.

“Do you think I’m beautiful?” she asked. 鼎ompared to those French girls you saw?”

“There is only you, Hazel,” he said. “Only, ever, you.” He kissed her, then bent his head to her breasts, trying to give her as much joy as possible in the short space of time they had together.

Too quickly, he felt his balls swell in their sac. His thrusts quickened as instinct took over, his body wanting to deposit its load into its partner. He looked down, intending to apologize, but saw Hazel’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Oh, my God! Twice? It can happen twice?” She looked up at him, and now her expression was easy to interpret. It was the look of a woman who had discovered the power of her body at last, and intended to use it to get what she wanted. “Harder,” she growled, raising her rear into the air and guiding his hands down until his fingers were curled around her buttocks. She pushed him up until he was kneeling up on the bed, her calves hooked around his waist. Her fingers pinched her nipples, her jaw going slack, her eyes hazy and soft as she went into that place deep inside herself where her own pleasure lay.

“Oh,” she said. One hand left her breasts to push down on the mound of her pubis, her palm slowly grinding on the rise of flesh. In the flickering light of the candles, Mark could see Hazel’s face flush, her nipples standing hard and turgid. “Oh!” Suddenly his cock was gripped in a muscular vise, the walls of her vagina pulling at his phallus until he spent himself inside her in a burst of mind-blowing pleasure, his cock emptying itself into Hazel until he thought he would collapse on top of her in a helpless, shuddering heap.

He felt soft fingers at his cheek, and looked up to see Hazel smiling up at him. Her expression was one of mingled love and sorrow. “Thank you, Mark,” she said. “Take good care of my grandniece.”

And with that, she was gone, her presence leaving Brianna’s face like the snuffing of a candle. Brianna blinked, her mouth curving in a satisfied smile.

“Well,” she said, stretching luxuriously. “That was…nice.” She canted a quick, wicked glance at Mark.

“You could feel it?” he asked. “I was worried, with Hazel being on top…”

She laughed, drawing him down for a quick kiss, then settled him at her side. Outside, rain still thrashed against the side of the house, and Mark thought he could hear the faint rattle of hail. The door leading to the walk groaned as a gust of wind hit it.

“No,” she said. Her tone reminded him of a cat’s contented purr. “I felt it all. It was awesome.”

“Well, good,” he said, unsure of what else to say. On the far side of the room, the door groaned again, then burst open in a blast of wind and rain, striking the far wall hard enough to rebound with a bang.

“Shit,” he said, getting out of bed. He walked over to the door, mindful of the wet, slick floor. Brianna followed him. He stopped as he reached the opening, unable to believe what he was seeing.

A huge, pale ball, fully six feet in diameter, hung in the air, a foot or so above the widow’s walk. Bluish-white in color, he could feel the pulsing electrical charge, and his hair stood on end.

“Ball lightning,” he whispered, then, “Bree! Stay back!”

Brianna Martin stood at the door, one hand outstretched, heedless of the howling wind, the blasting rain, or the death that hovered only a step or two away. Squinting his eyes against the glare, Mark could dimly see a ghostly form separate from her body. For one moment it paused. Then it hurriedly embraced her grandniece and stepped into the light. Blinking his eyes, Mark thought he could see another, taller form silhouetted in the fractured instant before the ball vanished in a whiff of ozone.

“God damn,” he whispered, closing and latching the door. “Bree? Is that what I thought it was?”

Her face, when she turned it up to him, was streaked with rain and tears. “She thought it was. Oh, God, Mark. She was so happy. I thought she was going to burst, she was so full of joy.” She came into his arms. “Her prayers were answered. Because of us.”

xxxxx

“Well,” Cynthia Martin said late the next morning, as Bree and Mark entered her house. She smiled at the two of them, though she gave Bree’s rumpled clothes a raised eyebrow. “There goes the mystery about where my daughter spent the night. Though I would have appreciated a phone call.”

“We would have called,” Brianna replied. “But the power went out. Again. And our cells didn’t work either.”

“No worries, though,” Mark continued. He pulled a pitcher of orange juice out of the fridge and poured himself a glass. “We think we know what was causing the problem.

“Although I’m a bit aggravated, Mrs. Martin, that you didn’t think to tell me the house I was renting was haunted. He took a sip of juice. “That’s kind of rude. And I bet I could break the lease if I felt like it. Good thing Bree is so persuasive. She spent all night convincing me what a bad idea that would be.”

At his side, her daughter was dissolving into helpless giggles.

“Long story short, we think your great-aunt Hazel was the one who was causing all of the problems. But,” he said generously, “Brianna and I found out how to end her torment and allow her to pass on to whatever waits beyond this life.”

Cindy looked back and forth between the two of them, her jaw hanging open. “Huh?”

“Sit down Mom,” Brianna said. “I’ll make us some breakfast while I tell you the story.

“If you thought Mark’s books were unbelievable, you have to hear this…

THE END