Page 12 of The Unseen

T ODAY WAS M ONDAY. N ICOLE HADN’T HEARD FROM L UCAS SINCE HE had brought her home Saturday night after their evening at the Villard estate. That night, as promised, he had driven up in front of the carriage house at eleven o’clock, walked her to the door, and played the perfect gentleman.

If it hadn’t been for the scorching kiss they had shared on the front porch, she might have figured she wouldn’t hear from him again.

The kiss, however, was amazing. Lips that took control, melded perfectly with hers, and stirred her up inside.

Lucas knew exactly how to take the kiss from soft and sweet to deep and erotic, how to gently end the kiss, leaving her yearning for more.

The attraction that sparked between them was undeniable. It had taken all her will not to invite him in, but Sean was there, and she had a feeling Lucas would have refused even if she had been alone.

She’d spent Sunday painting, working on the dark piece she had started at the pond. A faceless image had arisen out of the water, hazy and strangely disturbing, so she had set the painting aside, unhappy with the result.

She had spoken to Rachel, intending to tell her about the sheriff’s visit of the day before, but her aunt was feeling overly tired, so Nicole had decided to wait.

She had driven Sean back to the youth center, then gotten a fairly decent night’s sleep.

This morning, she was ready to paint, but she wanted to check on Rachel first.

Nicole rang the bell, then used her key to unlock the front door, glad her aunt was developing the habit of securing the house. There was no one around when she walked inside, and the place seemed unnaturally quiet.

“Aunt Rachel? Where are you?”

The silence stretched out. Nicole checked the lower floor, then headed upstairs. At the bedroom door, she stopped and knocked.

“Aunt Rachel? It’s me.” She started to open the door, but found it also locked. “Aunt Rachel, are you all right?”

She could hear footsteps as her aunt crossed the room and opened the door. She was still wearing her nightgown, her raven hair unbound and draped around her shoulders.

“Are you ill? It’s almost noon and you’re still in bed. You almost never get up this late. Do you want me to call the doctor?”

Rachel managed to smile. “I’m fine. I just felt like resting a bit longer.”

“Are you sure? You haven’t been yourself lately.”

Rachel looked as if she wanted to say something, then just shook her head. “If anything, I’m feeling better than usual.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“It’s a nice day. I think I’ll go out and work in the garden.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

But Rachel didn’t start to get dressed, just stood there without moving. “I was wondering …”

“Yes?”

“There are things you and I never talk about. Things that seem forbidden in some way. Of course, you’ve never been married, but before you became Sean’s guardian, I know you dated several young men. In these modern times, I assume you slept with them.”

No, Nicole thought, they had definitely never had a conversation like this.

“I went with Steven Wiles for almost a year after I got back from Paris. It didn’t work out.

” He told me he loved me, then left me two months later.

“It didn’t work out with Ryan Markley, either, but I had a physical relationship with each of them.

” Not particularly satisfying, but not really their fault . “What’s this about, Aunt Rachel?”

Her aunt sat down on the bench in front of her mirror. “You’re a healthy young woman. Have you ever had … well, an erotic dream?”

Nicole bit back a smile. “I might have. If I did, I don’t remember it.”

“I just wondered.”

“A lot of people have them, Aunt Rachel. You’re still a young woman. It wouldn’t be a bad thing if you had a sexual dream. In fact, it’s probably very healthy.” And if Nicole thought too long about Lucas Devereaux’s scorching kiss, she might have an erotic dream about him tonight.

“I suppose that must be what happened to me. It just seemed so real.”

“I don’t think you should worry about it. I imagine it’s just part of being human.”

Rachel toyed with a long strand of black hair. “I could only see his eyes. I wish I could have seen his face.”

Nicole grinned. She couldn’t help it. “With luck, maybe you’ll see him more clearly the next time.”

Rachel’s expression seemed to mix hopefulness with trepidation. “Maybe.” As she rose from the bench, the color returned to her cheeks. She pulled jeans and a T-shirt out of a drawer and began getting dressed. “If you need me for something, I’ll be working in the garden.”

Nicole nodded. “Okay. I’m going back to the pond to paint.

I’ll see you later.” As her aunt began to braid her hair, Nicole headed downstairs and crossed to the carriage house to retrieve her easel and paints.

She intended to start a new painting, but at the last minute, she picked up her unfinished canvas and carried it back out to the pond.

After the conversation with her niece, Rachel felt much better. So she’d had a sexual fantasy? So what! Other women had them. In a way, it had made her feel younger, and more womanly than she had ever felt before.

Tossing her long black braid over her shoulder, she headed downstairs in her jeans and T-shirt, grabbed her big, floppy-brimmed straw hat off the hook, and walked out the back door.

Ramon was off today. Her gardener only worked part-time, all she could afford.

Rachel enjoyed his company, but she also liked having time to herself.

She still hadn’t finished weeding the cemetery the Villard and Belmond families shared, so she continued along the gravel drive, past the carriage house, farther on down to the parcel of land that sat on a low hill beneath a pair of live oak trees, and let herself in through the black wrought iron gate.

Most people avoided a place that housed the dead, but Rachel found the cemetery peaceful. She had brought her trowel, a pair of shears, and a big plastic bag to hold the weeds she pulled.

The sun felt warm on her back as she bent over each headstone, clearing any unwanted vegetation.

She was working on the Villard family plot, some of the old tombstones taller than she was.

There were several stone crosses and a beautiful granite angel over the grave of a little girl named Josephine, who had died when she was six.

Rachel always wondered about the people who were buried there. What sort of lives had they led? What had happened to them? What about the little girl? Why had she died so young?

She pulled off a vine that was making itself at home on a granite marker, with a rounded top, and read the words engraved in the stone:

IN LOVING MEMORY

Francois Etienne Villard

Beloved Son of Pierre and Therese-Louise Villard

Born February 18, 1843

Died 1878

He would have been thirty-four or thirty-five, she realized. She noticed there was no month or day of death, only the year he was deceased.

“I wonder what your story is,” she said aloud as she traced a finger through the grooves chiseled into the stone.

I am not there.

Rachel’s head shot up and she spun around, searching for the source of the words. Her heart was beating too fast as her gaze scanned the cemetery, but no one was in sight.

She looked back down at the gravestone.

I’m not there, the voice said again. I am lost. Can you help me?

She felt lightheaded, afraid she would fall over in a faint right there in the grass. She knew that voice, knew it was the man who had come to her in her dreams. Her pulse accelerated, pounding so hard she thought her heart might beat its way through her chest.

She read the words on the gravestone. “Are you … Francois?”

Yes. But I am not there.

She started shaking. She swallowed, trying to regain her composure. “You aren’t real. You can’t be. You’re—you’re dead.”

She felt a stirring in the air behind her and turned. Two beautiful blue eyes stared down at her.

“Francois,” she whispered.

You are so beautiful. Today she recognized the trace of French in the words he said inside her mind.

“I wish … I could see you.” It was all she could think to say. She felt the faint brush of his hand against her cheek.

I feel as if I have known you for so long . Then he was gone.

Rachel leaned back against the headstone, her breath sawing in and out, her mind spinning. It was impossible. She was hallucinating. It was the same thing that had happened to her in her bedroom. He wasn’t really there. She was imagining things that simply weren’t real.

Fear gripped her. She was in ill health and failing, but her mind had always been sharp. Was something happening to her brain? Was her mind starting to fail, along with her body?

She managed to push herself up off the ground, but her legs were so weak she had to grip the gravestone to pull herself to her feet.

She left her tools where they lay and managed to make it back to the house. She was exhausted, her limbs shaky, her heart still racing. In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water and drank deeply, made her way across the room and sank down in a chair at the kitchen table.

If she were going crazy, why were her memories so clear?

She remembered every second, every instant, of the time that she and her imaginary lover had been together.

Was it possible Francois was an actual spirit?

What if something had happened to him and he was trapped in this world instead of going on to the next?

Was it possible? He had certainly seemed real enough when he had been in her bed.

She stared up at the kitchen ceiling as if she could see into her room. “If you’re real, come to me again. If … you’re real, I’ll help you if I can.”

But there was no reply.

Rachel put her head down on the table and started to cry. She was going crazy. She needed to talk to someone, get some kind of help.

But in the darkest part of her soul, she wished Francois would come to her again.