Laying a Ghost (28 page)
His arms went around Nick at once, the seatbelts they both wore getting in the way a little, but John wasn’t inclined to spare the time it would take to unfasten them. “Ssh, it’s all right, Nick. You fell asleep, that’s all. We’re home.”
He’d planned to do no more than drop Nick off and drive away, but he changed his mind. He’d see Nick safe in bed before he left him alone, no matter how much harder it would make leaving him.
“Don’t let me get into this car again unless I’ve had intravenous caffeine first.” Nick didn’t move. His voice was muffled, but John could still hear the shakiness in it, and he couldn’t help but marvel at the man’s ability to attempt lightheartedness even when frightened.
The world was quiet outside the car. John used his hands to comfort Nick, rubbing the back of his neck and his arm.
“I should’ve thought. Turned on the radio; opened the windows.” John felt as if he’d let Nick down in some way. “But not sung to you, because that’s enough to give you nightmares by itself.”
Nick smiled against his chest, his breath warm through the thin shirt John was wearing. John reached between them and pressed the release button on their seat belts. “Come on. Let’s get you to where you can sleep, love.”
The endearment slipped out again before John could stop it. The first time he didn’t think that Nick had noticed, being still mostly asleep, but this time the man couldn’t avoid hearing it. Glad that his flush was hidden in the shadows, John eased his seatbelt off and fumbled with the handle to the door.
By the time he’d gone around to the other side of the car, Nick was shutting his own door, looking so weary when he smiled at John that it tugged at his heart. “You going to be okay getting home?” Nick asked, as they started for the door. “I could ...” An enormous yawn, “Make coffee. Or tea?”
“Or a three-course meal?” John suggested dryly. “You’re dead on your feet. I’m going to see you to bed and then I’m off. If you hurry up brushing your teeth I’ll be on my way in five minutes, maybe less.”
Nick yawned again as they went inside, and a third time on the way up the stairs. He seemed barely able to keep his eyes open as he brushed his teeth, and for a moment while he was bending over to untie his shoes, John feared that he’d actually fallen asleep.
None of that seemed very important when Nick began to undress, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal his chest, nipples peaked and tight in the cool of the room, slender shoulders pale in the light from the hallway. John had to look away when Nick started to undo his trousers and slide them over his hips, but he glanced at him again when Nick didn’t get into bed immediately, unable to help himself.
“You’re sure you can’t stay?”
“You couldn’t have asked me that
before
you were naked?” John didn’t even try to hide how tempted he was. Nick raised his hand to scratch his thumbnail idly over his ribs, the casual movement coming close to undoing John’s resolve. “No. I can’t. And will you get into bed for God’s sake?”
He couldn’t help noticing the pleading edge to his voice.
Thankfully, Nick either figured out why John was sounding so desperate, or he really was that exhausted, because he got into bed without another word, the brief flash of his bare arse before it disappeared beneath the covers what John hoped would be the last temptation. “Shit, it’s cold,” Nick murmured, pulling the covers up over his head until he was completely hidden.
Abandoning all plans of kissing him good night, John smiled at the Nick-shaped lump in the bed. “I’ll buy you some flannel pajamas for your birthday, shall I?” He thought about that as he turned towards the door. “When
is
your birthday? And how old are you anyway?” He shook his head before Nick could answer. “No, never mind. I’ll just add them to the list of questions we never got around to asking because we were too busy with the naked in bed part.”
Nick mumbled something that trailed off into silence.
John waited until he was certain Nick was safely asleep before walking through the silent -- hopefully empty of ghosts -- house and back to his car.
Every step felt like a misstep, and he couldn’t shake the image of Nick standing there naked and asking him to stay. It echoed in his head as he drove, clamored insistently at him as he climbed into bed; stilled only when his hand moved down and dealt with the physical effects of the memory.
Coming in a hurried, brutally fast climax, thinking of Nick every second, left his body ready for sleep, but he still felt that he was in the wrong place.
He didn’t belong here anymore, if he ever had. He belonged in a cool, dusty house, haunted by ghosts, seen and unseen.
He belonged with Nick.
Sleep came before John had finished forming that thought, taking him into dreams he couldn’t remember when he woke, his alarm clock shrilling in his ear and a day full of hours to get through before he saw Nick again.
Chapter Thirteen
“Maybe we can have the party next week?” John stepped out of Katy’s way as she staggered past, her arms heaped with pale-green napkins to iron and fold.
Stella gave a scornful sniff and tossed her head. “It’s all in hand,” she insisted. “The party’s not for another eight hours, lad! Relax, will you?”
“I
am
relaxed.” John frowned at the centerpiece of yellow roses on one of the tables, and then bent to pick up a napkin that had slipped from Katy’s grasp. “Didn’t we decide on pink for the flowers and blue for the --”
“Janet!” Stella called, snatching the napkin from him. “Will you no’ come and deal with your brother before I stuff an apple in his mouth and serve him as the starter?”
There was barely a moment’s pause before Janet appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, a smudge of pale pastel icing on her nose. “Come in here and keep me company while I finish the cake.” Her tone of voice brooked no disagreement, and John obeyed. Janet waited until she’d picked up the icing bag again before she continued. “Don’t give Stella a hard time, do you hear me? You know what a challenge it was, convincing her to let me do even this much. If she changes her mind at the last minute and throws me out, it’ll be you I blame and not her.”
“After all these years I’m well used to that.” John dragged his finger around the inside of the bowl Janet was using, scooping up some icing. He got a glare that made it taste all the sweeter and gave Janet a grin in return. “You’ve all done a grand job,” he told her sincerely. “I can see that and so will Mam. I’m just -- I’ve things on my mind, that’s all.”
Janet looked at him shrewdly, and for a moment he thought she knew. The possibility twisted his stomach into a hard knot. She finished the decorative swirl she was putting on the edge of the cake and straightened up. “She’s every right to be happy, John.” John didn’t know whether to feel relieved that she
didn’t
know or worried because that meant he’d actually have to sort out how to
tell
her. “With any luck, she’s a lot of years left, and I for one don’t want her spending them alone.”
“You’re meaning
He watched alarm flicker in her eyes and added hastily, “I’m fine. Not sick, not in trouble, nothing like that.”
She regarded him, and then nodded and went back to work on the cake. “All right. What is it, then?”
John opened his mouth to reply just as Stella came into the kitchen. She bustled over and stood beside Janet, looking down at the cake. “I’ve seen dozens nowhere near as nice as this, love. You’ve a right talent for it.”
Janet grinned. “Mam always said I had a fine hand. I hope she’s pleased by it.” Even John had to admit that the cake was a work of art, although he had no idea what to call most of the designs it was decorated with.
“Of course she’ll be pleased! And the fact that you’ve gone to so much trouble to mark her birthday. You’re a good daughter.” Stella sounded approving in ways she rarely did.
“Am I not a good son, then?” John was caught between conflicting emotions at the interruption. “Haven’t I been at your beck and call, the pair of you, until my head’s fair spinning with all the lists and instructions?”
Stella gave the back of his head a light cuff. “Away with you! Fishing for compliments like that.” She picked up a tray of glasses and smiled at him. “But since you ask, aye, Anne’s lucky to have a fine son, so she is, and I know she’s proud of all three of you.” She turned to Janet. “I know Andrea’s sorry to be missing the party; how’s the wee bairn doing, then? Little Anne?”
Janet launched into details about her newborn niece’s progress, and, the moment lost, although he couldn’t say that he minded, John left them to it.
* * * * *
Nick was stiff and sore even after his shower, the climb from the day before having strained muscles he’d forgotten he had. He had a leisurely breakfast that consisted of coffee and toast, spent a little while straightening up, and then decided to take a walk. It was nice out, and he remembered reading somewhere that the best cure for sore muscles was more of what had made them sore in the first place.
Strangely, he found himself walking toward the church and graveyard, as if that had been his intended purpose all along. The sunshine warmed the back of his neck as he entered the graveyard and walked around, looking at the headstones and letting the quiet calm of the place wash over him. There was part of him that was tense, waiting, but the rest of him was relaxed, and he was unsurprised when he came to his Uncle Ian’s grave, clearly marked with a freshly cut stone. Nick sank down onto the grass, unmindful of the tiny amounts of dew still clinging there, and traced the letters of his uncle’s name, trying to imagine the man.
He couldn’t get any sense that his uncle was there, which was a relief. He’d seen people visit graves and come away with a vague sense that they’d communicated with whoever lay buried there, but that harmless delusion wasn’t one he could share.
He
knew
that nothing of Ian Kelley remained here but his bones; knew it with a certainty that left no room for doubt.
Even so, when he eventually stood, brushing a few blades of grass from his knees, he felt better. Welcomed, somehow, and accepted. It might be nothing but his own response to the island and to John that made him feel that way -- well, it
was,
it couldn’t be anything else -- but it was still a good feeling, and he was smiling as he turned to go.
He’d taken no more than three steps when his name was called.
“Mr. Kelley! Nick!” Andrew Sinclair was walking toward him, his expression reflecting the solemnity of their surroundings, but his voice warm. Nick waited by his uncle’s grave, the breeze from the sea cool against his face.
“I saw you from the manse,” Sinclair said by way of greeting, “but I didn’t want to intrude until you’d had chance to pay your respects.” He glanced at the grave. “He left instructions for some flowers to be planted but didn’t specify what; perhaps you’d like to decide?”
“I don’t know what he would have liked. You knew him better than I did.” Nick tried to think. “Or maybe Mrs. McIntyre would know? John said that she’d visited him.”
“She did, many times.” Sinclair looked a little abashed. “More than I did, for which I hope you’ll forgive me, but the trip there and back ... with the ferry schedule it would’ve meant a whole day off the island, and that wasn’t easy to arrange.” He cleared his throat. “Having said that, I was the last person to visit before he passed away, and I do like to think that I brought him some comfort as we prayed together.”
Sinclair turned to look at the sea in the distance, blue under the matching sky. “He spoke of you,” he said unexpectedly. “Told me that he’d left you the house, and that he hoped that you’d settle here, so that there was still a Kelley at Rossneath to carry on the line. He set a lot of store on the family name and traditions, did Ian.” Sinclair nodded slowly. “Aye, he’d be glad to see you here, I’m sure of it.”
“I’m glad to be here, so it’s nice to think that’s true.” They were both quiet, breathing in the crisp air, and then Nick asked, “Do you think he missed my mother?”
Sinclair hesitated. “He must have,” he admitted finally. “I’ll not hide it from you; he was awful bitter about her leaving the way she did. That was many years before I came to the island, of course, but do you know, I’d been acquainted with your uncle for five years before I heard him mention her name?” He shook his head, bending to tug up a weed from the grass and shredding it between his fingers. “It’s not good to hold a grudge that long. We’re all sad when a young person decides to leave the island, but this life isn’t for everyone. It’s hard at times, and it’s only natural for some to want to see the world a little.” He smiled, tossing the weed aside. “And sometimes, like you, they come back when they’ve had enough of wandering, just as we pray they will.”
It was awkward the way Sinclair kept mentioning praying, but Nick decided it was best not to bring it up. The man was entitled to his religious beliefs even if Nick didn’t share them. “She never wanted to come back. She was just ... she didn’t even want to own anything unless she had to. She liked that I hadn’t settled down. She wanted me to live like that.”
Sinclair sniffed a little disapprovingly, as if he’d used up all his tolerance and was reverting to being judgmental. “Well, she’d the right to live how she chose, of course, but I’m surprised she didn’t want better for you. Didn’t want to see you with a home, a job, and a family around you?” His eyes narrowed. “What is it that you do, anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Nick remembered what John had suggested. “I’m a writer. I’ve written articles for magazines, things like that. I was planning to take some time off now -- concentrate on fixing up the house and getting settled -- and then I thought I might focus on genealogy. Learn some of the family history, maybe write something about the process while I’m at it.” None of it was a lie, although the hopeful look that he gave Sinclair was put on. “Maybe you could help point me in the right direction? Tell me who I could talk to and where to look?”
