The Haunted - Jessica Verday [1]
“Just… in their place,” I said. “Head grasping facts, heart dealing with emotions. Death is a natural part of life, and I don’t have to feel guilty about living because Kristen isn’t here to share it anymore.” I was spouting psychobabble I’d lifted almost word for word from Dr.
Pendleton, but it sounded good.
And sometimes I could almost convince myself that it was true.
Aunt Marjorie nodded and held the screen door open for me as I followed her into the house. “He sounds like a smart fella. I think I’d like him.”
“I think you would too, Aunt Marj. Call me down for dinner?” She agreed, and I headed up to my room. It was formerly part of the attic, a section that had been converted and walled off into a tiny reading nook. I’d begged Aunt Marjorie to let me have it the instant I’d seen it.
She’d wanted to give me a larger, “more comfortable” guest room downstairs, but I told her this room was perfect. It had a window seat, like my room at home, and a round, leaded-glass window with a view that stretched across the entire farm.
It was absolute heaven to curl up and read there while warm sun slanted in on my shoulders, making me feel like a fat, lazy cat. Cats don’t have any worries.
I threw my messenger bag down onto the neatly made bed and crossed over to the lone bookcase that stood directly across from the window, propped up next to a dormer arch. Per-using the wooden shelves like I’d done at least a dozen times over the last three months, I pulled down Jane Eyre.
Turning to the ribbon that marked my place, I kicked off my shoes and climbed onto the seat, tucking my feet up underneath me. Where could I find myself a Mr. Rochester? Prefer-ably one who didn’t have a crazy wife hidden away in his attic… But a sexy and mysterious hero to call my own? Sign me up.
You found a sexy and mysterious hero to call your own, my subconscious whispered. But I ruthlessly pushed that thought away. One who isn’t dead and a figment of my hallucinations, please. Finding my last stopping point, I began to read… and was promptly jerked away from the page by the sound of my cell phone ringing.
I glanced over at it lying on the small nightstand next to the bed. Something told me not to pick it up. Not to go over and see who it was. But I did.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Abbey, it’s Dad. How are you, sweetie?”
Waves of homesickness washed over me at the sound of his voice. I really did miss my bed. And my room. And the rest of my perfume supplies. “I’m good, Dad. I’m doing good.” Yeah, and okay, maybe I missed Mom and Dad a little bit too. “What’s up?”
“Well…” He hesitated. “Your mother and I wanted to talk to you about something.” I could hear Mom in the background telling him to hand her the receiver.
“What is it, Dad?” My stomach did nervous flip-flops. “Just tell me.” I hated drawn-out phone calls. Especially these types of phone calls.
“They finished the work on the Washington Irving Bridge,” he said. “It’s all done.” I had a quick flashback to a memory of sitting with Kristen under that bridge before the construction work had ever started. Before she’d fallen into the Crane River. “That’s great, Dad.” But why is it significant enough to call and tell me about?
Mom picked up the other line. “Abbey, what your father is trying to say is that the town council will be holding a ceremony there soon, to celebrate the finished project. I told them that I’d make arrangements for you to be a part of it. To say something about Kristen and to dedicate the bridge to her memory.”
A loud ringing filled my ears, and for a second I thought it was coming from the phone.
Holding the receiver away from my ear, I shook my head to stop the noise.
Dad spoke up now.