Chapter Seven

It was nearly 5:00 p.m. when Rachel reached Lachlan. She'd almost forgotten how beautiful Florida was and how good the warm air smelled. She was glad she'd driven down from Connecticut, so she had her own car. She'd managed the long trip in three days. She was tired now and knew the best thing would be to go to a hotel in Fort Lauderdale and settle in for the night. She wasn't scheduled to arrive until tomorrow.

But when she saw the sign for Lachlan, she took the exit. She told herself she'd just drive by and look at the exterior of the house, then she'd leave.

The steering wheel seemed to turn on its own and before she knew it, she was pulling into the driveway of Lachlan House. Her first thought was what a shame that so many houses had been built nearby. The first time she'd been there, the big house had been surrounded by land and trees that still bore citrus fruit.

She couldn't keep herself from stopping the car and getting out. There were no lights on that she could see, so maybe the house was empty. It was probably prepared for when people arrived tomorrow.

The house looked good. The brick appeared to have been recently power washed and the woodwork had been freshly painted. She was glad to see the beautiful old house being cared for. She'd worried that lazy Billy had allowed it to go to ruin.

She stretched a bit, then started to get back into her car, but she hesitated. What was the back of the house like? And how was the big guesthouse? And what about the cute little cottage?

She took a moment to decide, then she walked around the side of the house to the back. Cautiously, she looked up at the house. If any lights were on, she'd leave. She didn't want to bother anyone with her early arrival. The house was dark.

Not far away, she could see the guesthouse. It too looked like it had been freshly scrubbed and painted. Through the trees, she could see the little cottage and it didn't look as though it had been touched in years. Vines covered it and the paint was peeling.

Rachel turned away, and to her surprise, she found herself heading toward the very back of the property. Was the mausoleum still there, or had Billy sold it off to buy yet another pair of Tod's loafers?

She was relieved to see that the mausoleum of James Lachlan and his wife was there, set under big trees and surrounded by bushes. It hadn't been cleaned, so green moss was on the two steps and up the sides. It was a plain stone structure. No angels weeping, no poetic sentiments carved into the stone. Beside the heavy double doors was a plaque, giving the names and dates of James Lachlan and his wife, Mary. He was born in 1895, died 1981, while she was born in 1899 and died in 1944.

Her death date brought back memories. Billy used to darken the room, light some candles, and tell them the story of James Lachlan's horrible year of 1944. She had an idea that a lot of it was made up, but it was great drama. It ended with liqueurs and everyone trying to guess what happened to Mr. Lachlan's son. The consensus was that he'd joined the army and was lost.

"Did you know them?"

Rachel didn't jump at the voice. She'd figured someone might see her car. Turning, she saw a tall young man, blond, and pleasant looking. About fourteen or fifteen, in the awkward stage between boy and man. He wasn't the kind of boy that would make the hearts of teenage girls do somersaults. Too bad, she thought, as this young man was what girls needed. "No, I didn't know them." She was working not to smile at his assumption that she was old enough to know someone born in 1895. But at forty-one, she sometimes felt that old. "They were long before my time. I like the quiet here. Who are you?"

"Quinn Underhill," he answered. "My dad and Jack redid the house."

She thought for a moment. "Jack Wyatt? Roy's son? He was just a kid when I was here. He was a very pretty boy."

"Dad says he's too pretty for his own good."

She smiled. "So was Roy. He was good at fixing things."

Quinn nodded. "Dad and Jack are partners now. They renamed the company Lachlan Construction. Better than Wyatt-Underhill."

"Too much like a Hobbit?"

His eyes brightened. "That's just what she said."

"Your mother?"

"No. Sara said that. My mother died last year."

"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it.

"It's okay. I didn't know her. Dad says I'm the product of a one-night stand." He said it as though he might have to defend himself.

Rachel looked him up and down. "I'd say it was a pretty good night for your father."

He laughed at that. When it started to sprinkle, he ducked his head. "Come inside and I'll show you the house."

She couldn't imagine that the boy was there alone. "I don't want to wake anyone. I'm a day early. I'll go to a hotel, but tonight I couldn't resist looking at the place."

"It's just Dad here, and he could sleep through a storm. We'll be quiet."

His persuasion, coupled with her desire to see the place, won. The soft Florida rain was beginning to come down harder. They ran together and he went to a door at the back of the house and opened it.

They were in the kitchen. It was a room that Billy had cared nothing about. Barbara had said it was so decrepit it was a health hazard. "Billy!" she'd yelled one day. "Next hurricane, open the kitchen door and let it sweep this away." He'd just laughed.

But now it was modern and beautiful. "Wow," was all Rachel could say.

Quinn puffed up his chest a bit. "Dad got the cabinets from a house he remodeled. The woman didn't like maple and wanted black. He said he'd have them painted but she wanted all new."

Rachel and Quinn exchanged looks of agreement on the absurdity of that. "But it worked out. I like the cabinets. And you kept the table." She ran her hand over the gash in it. "I remember when Kate did that. I thought Lea was going to call the sheriff." She looked at Quinn. "Is Kate still around? She'd be grown up now."

"Yeah, she is. Dad said she and Jack are sort of engaged."

"Sort of?"

Quinn shrugged. He had no idea what that meant.

He started to lead her through the house, but she knew it so well that she went first. The smell of paint was strong, and all the furniture had that look of brand-new, never been sat on. Besides the new things, there was art from around the world. A huge toad made of jade, Chinese embroideries, divine rugs everywhere.

"This is beautiful," she said. "I always hated the old furniture. I think James Lachlan thought it was what rich people had."

"He was rich."

"But not born into it. There's a difference," Rachel said.

They went through every room on the ground floor. The little library had been stocked with books on history, and the office had a big oak desk. Before Quinn showed her how to open the door leading down to the cellar, she did it. She wanted to test her memory of the house.

It was an hour before they finished. They couldn't go upstairs, not with Quinn's father up there, but Rachel didn't want to leave. She was a believer in houses feeling the spirit of their owners. When Billy was in charge, it had been a place to show off. Now it felt like a home.

She looked at Quinn. "I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich. Would you like one?"

He was a teenage boy. Of course he was hungry. With a grin, he nodded at her and they went back to the kitchen.

She was happy to see that the big new stainless steel refrigerator was fully stocked. As she put six slices of bread on the flat grill, a wicked thought came to her. This might be her only chance to see something that had intrigued her for years. "When I was here," she said slowly, "Billy kept one room upstairs closed off. No one was allowed to enter it." That wasn't quite true; only she had been excluded from it.

Quinn looked blank.

"It was Mr. Lachlan's private den and it wasn't to be touched."

"Oh," Quinn said. She'd poured hot tomato soup into a tall mug and he drank it in one gulp. "That's the movie room. Jack told us hands off. Dora cleaned it but it's the same. I like the wallpaper."

"Oh?" She pulled popcorn out of the microwave. "I bet it's pretty." She put the sandwiches, popcorn, more soup, and glasses of ginger ale on a big tray. When Quinn reached for a sandwich, she pulled the tray back a bit. "I wonder what the movies are."

"Old VHS. Nothing new."

Rachel sighed. "I bet no one today knows how to work a VHS machine."

"I do," Quinn said, and again reached for a sandwich. But this time when she held it back, he understood. "We can take this upstairs and watch an old movie."

"What a great idea." Rachel smiled sweetly at him.

He carried the tray and she followed him, pleased with herself for arranging to see the "secret room." Billy had been such a jerk about it, saying she was too young to go in there. She might destroy something.

The old-fashioned room was better than she'd imagined. No wonder James Lachlan had retreated to it. There was a big couch, and Quinn set the tray on the leather ottoman before digging in. As she looked over the movies in their thick plastic cases, she came to one that had a cover that was nearly worn through. She pulled it out. Only Once was the title. When she saw that it came out in 1946, a mere two years after what Billy dramatically called "James Lachlan's Year of Death," she wanted to see it.

Quinn was busy eating, so Rachel popped the tape into the machine and turned out the room lights. It was a black-and-white movie starring Taylor Caswell. "Never heard of him," she said, and Quinn looked at her as though to say he'd never heard of a movie not in color.

When the young actor came onto the screen, Rachel did a double take. "He looks like Roy."

"Looks like Jack," Quinn said sleepily.

"I guess when you get down to it, all TDH look alike." He was starting to nod off and didn't ask what TDH was. "Tall, dark, and handsome," she murmured, and settled back to watch.

It was about a seriously deranged young man who enticed plain-faced women to fall in love with him, stole what they had, then murdered them. The movie made it seem that the women thought death was part of their ecstasy. They didn't fight him. It didn't make any sense, but due to the charisma and skills of the actor, it was believable. Rachel looked the movie up on her phone. "A cult classic," it said. "Still selling today and watched in theaters all over the world, especially in midnight showings. Viewers tend to wear costumes of the victims."

"Never heard of it," Rachel said, but Quinn was asleep and didn't hear her.

She was halfway through the movie when a ghost appeared. At least it seemed so. A very large man, shirtless, with pale skin gleaming, and wearing only low-riding sweatpants, came into the room and stared down at her. She blinked up at him. "Are you real?" she asked. He was quite, quite muscular. Her eyes were wide.

"All of me is very real," he said in a voice of liquid honey. When he stepped near Rachel, she didn't move away. Bending, he slung tall, lanky Quinn over one broad shoulder and carried him out of the room.

Rachel sat still, not sure what she should do. Leave? She wasn't supposed to have arrived yet, so she should go. But she didn't want to. Before she could decide what to do, the man returned. He'd pulled on a sweatshirt touting the Kansas City Chiefs, and he took Quinn's place on the couch. He picked up a handful of popcorn.

"So what's this movie about?"

She leaned back. "See that man? He kills women, but before he does, he makes them very happy."

"Through sex or by doing the housework for them?"

She laughed. "It's the 1940s. Women did the housework in heels and pearls. This guy did it with great sex."

"Cool," he said. "Does he get caught?"

"I hope not," she said, and they laughed together, then watched the rest of the movie.

The next morning, Gil, dressed all in denim, was in the kitchen early. Coffee was perking when Sara came through the front door and went to the back. He smiled as she was holding a can of caffeinated water. Since Sara didn't drink coffee, she had only recently discovered caffeine. Gil and Jack tried to outdo each other in finding her the strongest, no calorie drinks that put pizzaz in her step.

"Today's the day," Sara said. "They'll start arriving about ten."

"One of them came last night."

"Who?" she asked.

Before Gil could answer, Quinn came to the door. "Where is she?"

"Still asleep, I guess," Gil answered.

"I looked, and she's gone." He sounded angry. "I'll find her." Quinn hurried out of the room and they heard the front door slam.

Sara blinked a few times. "Did a teenage girl show up?"

"No. It's Rachel Meyers—or whatever her name is now. I assume she took her husband's name. I was asleep when she arrived, so Quinn played host."

"Your silent son, who hardly talks to anyone, was the host?"

"Yes. He took her on a tour of the house, and they made grilled cheese sandwiches and soup and popcorn. Then they went upstairs and watched some old black-and-white movie together. Quinn fell asleep and I had to carry him to bed."

"Then what?" Sara asked.

"Nothing."

Sara looked at him. "You blush worse than Jack does. Even the top of your head has gone red. What happened after Quinn went to bed?"

"Nothing. Really. She and I watched the rest of the movie together, and we ate popcorn. She fell asleep and I carried her to bed."

"My, my, my," Sara said. "You certainly had a busy evening. And now Quinn wants to see her again. What about you?"

Gil didn't smile. "As I said, she's married. Taken. Not available."

"So where is she? And don't pretend you don't know."

"Out by the mausoleum."

"That place needs trimming. Cleaning. It's going to take hours of work."

Gil cracked a small smile. "My thoughts exactly." He set his half-full coffee cup in the sink and practically ran out of the room.