Plain Jane (5 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Plain Jane
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“It'll stop the bleeding.” She continued toward him.
“It'll stop by itself, thank you anyway,” he said, holding up his hands to stay her.
Jane repocketed the tissue. “Okay, if that's what you want. But you'd better not sue me.”
“I'm not going to sue you, for God's sake. What kind of guy do you think I am?”
“I don't know. I only know the old Mike Sorenson, the one who smoked pot under the bleachers at the homecoming game and who—”
“Never mind,” he cut in. “I guess I'll just have to prove to you that I've changed.”
“And just how do you intend to do that?”
“I don't know. I'll think on it,” he said, hobbling along behind her.
 
 
Jane could think of a couple of ways he could show her how he'd changed, but she wasn't about to offer any suggestions. She was still an old-fashioned girl and preferred the man to do the asking. That didn't mean that she couldn't hope. Admittedly, after today's luncheon, she had been hoping that something might spark between them. But as soon as he opened the front door and caught her playing with Olive, her hope died. After that, she figured there was nothing to lose, so she just acted her normal self.
Past experience had shown Jane that her “normal” self wasn't what most men were looking for. But was Mike Sorenson like most men?
Jane grinned as she continued on to the well. If nothing else, she had finally made him notice her where before—in high school—she doubted he'd even known she existed.
That was then, this is now,
she thought smugly.
2
The well sat in the corner of the backyard, a good three hundred feet away from Jane's perennial garden. Jane smiled as Mike trudged behind her through the dry twigs and crackly leaves. She wondered how this learned colleague of hers could be so interested in something as nebulous as ghosts.
“Here it is,” she said, waving him past her. The well had become the focal point of her backyard, not because of the ghostly legend but because it was so Snow Whitish in design, a real storybook wishing well with a waist-high stone wall and a wooden, V-shaped roof that dripped with ivy.
Mike's expression was eager as he made for the well. She watched him rub his hands together, touch the stone rim, then close his eyes.
Olive howled. Olive
never
howled.
The fine hairs on the back of Jane's neck stood on end at the mournful sound. “Olive, what's the matter with you, girl?” She leaned down and rubbed the dog's neck to soothe her.
“What's all this stuff clogging up the hole?” Mike asked, looking over the edge.
“Rocks. I didn't want history to repeat itself, so I had the guy at the nursery dump a couple of loads of rock into it.” Olive inched closer to Jane's leg and howled again. “Honest to God, I don't know what's gotten into her,” Jane said, staring down at the spaniel, who was looking up at her as if she was trying to tell her something important.
“Dogs have a sixth sense, you know. She either senses or sees something,” Mike said, excitement ringing in his voice.
Jane offered up an indulgent smile. She had never bought into the ghost theory though she'd gone along with it, even encouraged it from time to time when the occasion called for it. All in fun, of course. She glanced down at Olive. A sixth sense? No, she didn't buy into that theory either. More than likely Olive's howl was due to detecting a particularly strong scent—a rabbit or a squirrel, something other than a dog.
Minutes passed during which neither Jane nor Mike spoke. Jane became increasingly aware of the garden's stillness. When she'd first come outside, the birds had been chattering, but now they were silent. The crickets were quiet, too. The only sounds were of her, Mike's, and Olive's breathing. She glanced around at the huge old oaks and realized not a leaf was stirring.
A chill chased itself down her spine. She wished Mike would finish whatever he was doing so they could return to the house. A second later, Olive barked sharply, then took off toward the back of the property at breakneck speed.
“Did you
feel
that ?” Mike asked, rubbing his upper arms.
“Feel what? What are you talking about?”
“It was a—” He slashed the air with his hand “There was a—” His expression begged her to help him out, but she couldn't. She had no idea what he was talking about. “I don't know. But whatever it was, I felt it, and your dog ran after it.”
Jane's eyebrows rose to a peak. She was tempted to go into her psychiatrist mode but decided he might think she was making fun of him. It would be better just to act herself and say what was on her mind. “I hate to say one of my peers is nuts, but you are, Sorenson. Certifiably nuts.” She leaned toward him, her eyes boring into his. “Read my lips; there is no such thing as a ghost. Olive probably picked up the scent of a rabbit or a squirrel.”
Mike shot her a withering look. “Think what you like. It makes no difference to me. I know what I know. There was something here not of this world. So there, Jane.”
He was serious. Very serious. And if she ever wanted to see him again, she would be wise not to mock him. “Okay,” she said, cautiously backing down off her soapbox. “So maybe you aren't nuts. But if you want me to believe in ghosts, then you'll have to prove their existence to me. Let's start by you telling me exactly what you
felt,
” Jane said, stretching her neck to see where Olive had gone.
He thought a moment. “There was a—a presence,” he said, squinting as he looked at her. “It was stronger when Olive was here and then . . . there was this flash of cool air. Right after that, Olive took off. I didn't see anything, though. I wish I had.” He smiled at her. “Maybe next time.”
“Next time?”
“I'd like to come back if you don't mind.”
“Why I—No. How about Saturday? We can have a picnic brunch right here next to the well.” Picnics were good, she thought, because they were romantic—just the two of them sitting side by side on a blanket eating little sandwiches, nibbling on fruit, and drinking champagne.
“In all the time you've lived here you've never felt or experienced
anything
?” he asked. “Even just something a little out of the ordinary or something you couldn't quite put your finger on?”
Jane gave him an apologetic look. “No, I'm afraid not, but like I said before, every once in a while something spooks Olive. I've seen her run circles around the well, and the way she took off a minute ago—she's done that before. But she's never howled like that. In fact, she's
never
howled at all.”
She could imagine what Trixie would say to all of this.
Play along. If you have to, make something up.
But she couldn't do that. It wasn't her style.
Suddenly, Olive came bounding through the trees and sat down next to her feet. Jane blinked at the way she was panting and shaking—as if she'd seen a—
“I guess I should be going,” Mike said, starting back toward the house.
“I thought you wanted to see the rest of the house,” Jane grumbled. He'd just gotten there. It was too soon for him to leave. Leaving meant she hadn't passed muster where he was concerned.
Screw it,
she thought as she headed back toward the house.
“I'll see it all Saturday. I really wish I could stay longer, but I need to get home. I've got a couple of cases I need to go over. I enjoyed dinner and our little foray out here. You've really done wonders with the place, Jane.”
“Thanks. It's been an experience to say the least.”
They walked around to the front of the house, where Jane sat down on the porch step and put her arm around Olive. She loved this time of day, the soft purple shadows of evening, the quietness. She saw a nail protruding from the step she was sitting on. The step had been one of her weekend repair projects. She'd hammered the nail but hadn't driven it home because it had bent. Her father had told her hammering nails was all in the wrists. Obviously, her wrists weren't up to snuff.
“Is it your intention to do a complete restoration?” he asked.
She moved her foot over the nail so Mike wouldn't see it. Suddenly she felt terribly inadequate. Maybe her mother had been right, and she really was a misfit. Plain Jane who couldn't quite cut it according to her beauty-pageant mother.
She thought about Connie Bryan again.
Jane heaved a sigh. “I'm not sure what my intentions are at this point. There are days when I love this old house and days when I hate it because it needs so much more work.” She rose to her feet. “I'll see you Saturday.” A moment later she was heading up the steps to the porch.
“Jane!”
She glanced over her shoulder.
“How about we take in a movie next week? Say, Thursday, after I sit in on your session. We could grab a bite to eat either before or after, too.”
She stared at him, openmouthed, her heart pounding. “You mean a date? Sure.” A date with Mike Sorenson. La-di-da. Wait till she told Trixie. A date. Things happened on dates or afterward. Uh-huh.
“Yeah, a date. I come by, ring your doorbell, and say, are you ready? You're on, lady.” In two quick strides, he was on the step next to her, taking her face between his hands and kissing her lightly on the lips. “Thanks for inviting me over,” he said, gazing deep into her eyes.
“You're welcome,” Jane gasped. Her tongue felt like it was glued to her teeth. She wondered if her hair was standing on end with the electricity ricocheting through her body.
“Okay,” Mike said, smacking his hands together as he danced from one foot to the other. “See you Saturday midmorning.”
All she could do was nod.
Once he was gone, Jane ran into the house and sat down on the bench in the foyer. He'd kissed her. A light, friendly kiss, but a kiss just the same. To think, in high school he would have gagged at the thought of even touching her.
Funny,
she thought,
how things change. How people change.
A half hour later, she looked up from her musings to realize the house was completely dark. “You should have said something, Olive, instead of just letting me sit here. Come on, let's put some light on the subject.” Jane meandered from room to room, turning on all the lamps and overhead lights so she could see the house through Mike Sorenson's eyes. She did what she'd seen Mike do and made a telescope with her hands. Perhaps the shelves were a hair off, but they certainly weren't
crooked.
Trixie and Fred's books weren't listing to the side. Stephen Rhodes's books were nestled alongside one another and upright. She uttered an unladylike snort. Just her luck to be attracted to a nit-picking perfectionist.
She turned away from the bookshelves and studied the parlor. It was the only room in the house that had been completely restored to its original grandeur. One day she hoped to replace all the furniture with fine antiques.
Olive barked and ran upstairs. Jane followed her up with the intention of changing into her sweats. She paused on the landing, turned, and looked down past the foyer to the parlor and imagined wide-eyed children standing where she was, gazing at the Christmas tree in front of the bay window.
Her gaze switched back to the foyer when she heard a noise. One of the file folders in her briefcase had fallen out onto the floor. Odd, she thought, frowning. She clearly remembered zipping the compartments closed before leaving the office. She looked down at Olive, who was looking between the stair rails at the fallen file folder. The fur on her back was standing straight up. Jane was about to reach down and pet her when the chandelier tinkled. She looked around and saw the prisms swaying from side to side.
Olive let loose with another ungodly howl, then bounded down the stairs and ran through the foyer to the parlor and beyond. Her barks echoed through the sparsely furnished house.
“Come back here, Olive. What's gotten into you?” Jane kept her eyes on the tinkling chandelier as she crept down the stairs. “Damn you, Mike Sorenson, if you've stirred something up, I'll never forgive you!”
The chandelier had stopped tinkling by the time Jane reached the bottom of the stairs. Nevertheless, she decided to give it a wide berth just in case the nuts and bolts that held it had come loose. She walked over to the bench where she'd tossed her briefcase, picked it up, and saw that
all
the zippers were open—the outside zipper; the inside, change-purse zipper; and the two file zippers. She dropped the briefcase like a hot potato. Her frightened gaze swept to the file folder on the floor. Frightened but curious, she stretched out her right leg and, with the toe of her shoe, pulled the folder toward her until she could see the tab. It was the Ramsey file.
Shivers ran up her arms. Reluctantly, she squatted to pick it up and was knocked off-balance when Olive came from out of nowhere and threw herself onto Jane's lap.
“Olive! What the hell's wrong with you?” she shouted as she tried to get the spaniel off her lap so she could sit up. “Damn it, Olive—” It suddenly dawned on her; Olive was terrified. She was panting heavily, and her entire body was trembling. Overcome with guilt, Jane grabbed the spaniel and held her close. “It's okay, girl,” she crooned softly. “There's nothing to be afraid of. It was probably just the house settling,” she said, thinking the dog's fear was due to the tinkling chandelier, something she'd never heard before.
Looking over Olive's head, Jane watched in horror as the rest of her paperwork slithered, page by page, out of her briefcase and onto the old pine bench. “Easy, Olive, easy. I'm sure there is a very logical answer to all of this. I don't know what it is yet, but once I analyze everything—” She chuckled. “It's probably just a draft. Yeah, that's what it is. A draft.” She twisted her head around to see if any of the windows were open in the parlor. They weren't.
“This is silly. Get up, Ollie.” She pushed the dog off her lap and struggled to her feet. “After I pick all this up, I'm going to go—” She stared at the papers in her hand. “What we're going to do is—” They were in order. They weren't that way when she'd jammed them into her briefcase. “We're going to the Ramsey house is what we're going to do!” she said, shoving the folder and all the papers back into the briefcase and zipping all the zippers. She looked around to make sure she hadn't missed anything. With trembling hands, she carefully hung the briefcase by its shoulder strap on the hall tree.
Olive pawed at her leg.

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