Eternally Yours by Jennifer Malin, Jennifer Malin

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A dead poet's beautiful letters don't make Lara Peale like his descendant any better. But sometimes she can't help feeling their hearts are in someone else's hands.

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A sharp triple bang startled Lara Peale. She jumped, and a dollop of carmine-red paint catapulted from her brush onto the front of her shirt.

"Damn it!"

It's only the door knocker, she realized.

Letting out a puff of breath, she rubbed her eyes with her free hand. She had to get around to changing that heavy clump of green-tinged copper. Not only did the noise always scare her out of her wits, its snarling lion's face unnerved her whenever she came home after dark.

"Just a minute!" she shouted, knowing that her voice would never carry through to the front of the huge old house. She wondered who could be calling. Her friend and fellow teacher, Diane Golden, often dropped in unannounced--but Di had just started a summer job. All of Lara's other acquaintances normally phoned before coming over.

She slopped some linseed oil on a rag and swiped at her top. The effort only smeared the paint, creating a tongue-like shape that curled partly around her left breast. She hoped she hadn't gotten any in her hair. With certain paints her blond curls soaked up the color and retained it for days.

The knocker exploded again, giving her another jolt. After half a decade in the house one would think she'd be used to that noise. Dropping the rag on the studio floor, she muttered, "Hold your horses. I'm coming. Reluctantly."

She grabbed her unfinished painting and took it over to the closet. An original feature of the room, the nook was a joke as far as storage went. Less than a foot deep, the space couldn't hold much more than the single canvas she now slid inside. For once it served a purpose, keeping her work out of sight. She never liked showingher paintings until she had them as near to perfection as possible.

When she reached the foyer, she could see a form through the curtains, still waiting on the porch. Whoever her visitor was had patience. Too bad. Since her ex-husband had moved out six months before, she preferred keeping mostly to herself. Di often tried to coax her into going out, but Di was married--like all of her friends--and now Lara was always a third or fifth wheel. In any case, she needed this time to herself to get all of the things done that she'd put off during five years of marriage.

She opened the door about a third of the way and raised her eyebrows. Her visitor was an unfamiliar man: a very good-looking one. About thirty years old, he had thick, black hair, slightly in need of trimming. His big brown eyes gave him an almost childlike look of innocence--which she figured must be deceptive, since he was probably a salesman about to give her his pitch. He stood at least six-feet tall, and his body might have been as good as his face, but the shapeless gray suit he wore made it hard to tell.

"Yes?" she asked, inching the door open further, to about halfway.

"Are you Lara Peale?" He cleared his throat, then seemed to remember he held a card and jerked his hand up to show her. "I'm Mark Vereker ... from the Falls Borough Historical Society."

"Oh!" She blinked back her surprise. Though she'd known the society would be sending someone over, she had imagined their representative would some sort of town elder, not this young, virile guy. "Well, come in. Please."

Stepping back, she held the door for him. Good thing Di isn't here today, she thought, or she'd be hinting to this guy that I'm available. The one thing about Di that caused Lara grief was the woman's penchant for matchmaking.

As the man entered he handed her his card, but the heaviness of his stare distracted her from reading it. She looked up and saw that he had focused on her bare legs.

He yanked his gaze upward but not before she felt a wave of embarrassment over her clothing. Knowing she'd be painting today, she'd slipped on an outfit she wouldn't normally wear in public: an old pair of somewhat scanty blue gym shorts and a yellow halter top that clashed with them.

"I apologize for my appearance." She bit her lower lip and told herself it didn't matter what he thought--but it did, because the guy had the power to sway the society in favor of her request or against it. "I didn't realize someone would be stopping by the house so soon. I just turned in the application for the grant the other night. The historical society is more efficient than I expected."

"I should have called first." He rubbed his forehead, evidently embarrassed, too.

"No, it's okay." She led him into the main parlor, where she felt self-conscious again, this time because of the emptiness of the room. The only objects breaking up the large space were a stepladder and a wooden table holding a pitcher of iced tea and some disposable plastic cups. A lot of furniture had gone with her ex-husband, and she'd been lax about replacing it. Money had been tight since she'd bought out Ron's share of equity in the house.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to answer the door," she said, moving toward the table. "I was in the middle of painting. I'm an artist ... well, especially when I'm not teaching high school."

He hovered near the entrance. "Maybe I should come back another time."

"Oh, no. I'm anxious to get started on my projects, and I can't get into any of the bigger ones without the grant." She reached for the pitcher, making an effort to smile. Being friendly to strangers hadn't been a priority lately, and she felt somewhat out of practice. "Iced tea?"

"Uh, yes, that would be nice." The expression on his face looked the way she imagined hers did. An uneasy tick tugged at one corner of his mouth.

Good, she thought while she poured. He didn't seem the type to want to make small talk.

When she handed him the cup her fingers brushed his, warm and pleasantly smooth. His gaze caught hers. He really was a handsome devil.

She looked down and poured a drink for herself. Di would be disappointed when she heard about this encounter. Imagining her friend scolding her for not at least finding out if the man was married, she held back a grin.

Meanwhile, her visitor turned to survey the room, striding away from her into the center. "You have a beautiful home. Not many houses of this era are so well preserved, especially before the owner has had help from us."

She watched him until her stare drew his eye, then glanced down to sip her iced tea. "Seeing the results of the funds you've contributed must be rewarding."

"It is." He smiled, this time without reserve. The topic must have been close to his heart.

She felt a pinch of curiosity. "How did you first hook up with the historical society?"

"My roommate in college told me about it, which was odd enough, since the society didn't interest him. But his aunt was a member, and he knew I was upset that my parents' colonial farmhouse had been torn down by a developer. Anyway, I went to one of the meetings and liked what they were doing. Helping to preserve other old buildings was a good channel for my personal frustration."

"That's great." She studied him more closely. The guy cared about what he did. She admired that. "Of course, this one isn't in any danger of being torn down. Maybe I shouldn't even have applied for the grant."

"No, I'm glad you did." He began a slow walk around the room, taking in its features. "The society's main goal is to conserve older buildings in the community. The more homeowners we can get involved, the better."

For the next few minutes he scrutinized his surroundings while she stood in silence. She considered pointing out that her plans didn't involve the parlor, but she didn't want to seem impatient. Clearing her throat, she said, "Sounds like you love your work. Do you earn a living this way or is it strictly a hobby?"

"A very big hobby." He glanced at her and focused back on the ceiling, demonstrating how seriously he took his pastime. He'd been completely absorbed in the house since he'd arrived--except for the one peek he'd taken at her legs. "Fortunately, I've had some success with two books I've written on local history.... I see this is an original gas chandelier."

"Yes, my husband's grandfather converted it to electricity--ex-husband's, that is." She frowned. Some part of her brain still seemed to be imprinted with the idea that she was married. She had to change that. To distract herself from the unpleasant thought, she pulled her guest's card back out of her pocket. "'Mark Vereker.' Hmm. And you say you're an author? You wouldn't happen to be related to the Victorian poet, Geoffrey Vereker, would you?"

"Yes," he said. His lip curled, as if the question irritated him.

"You're kidding! I was just reading some of his poems last night." By the look on his face, she guessed he was sick of being asked about his ancestor--but in this case she couldn't resist. Stepping closer to him, she said, "I'm no poetry aficionado, but Geoffrey Vereker is my favorite. I like to read his poems before bed. The romantic imagery seems to help bring on sweet dreams--or interesting ones, at least."

Engrossed in examining a wall panel, he didn't bother commenting on her statement. "This wainscoting is remarkably detailed. And I noticed the millwork on the staircase in the foyer as well. The wood is a wonderfully warm shade."

She regretted having to drop the subject, but the man had come here for another purpose. How ironic that she would be the one to get chatty. "Yes. Fortunately, most of this room has never been painted. For generations the house was owned by my ex's family, and they're all very conservative about change. In fact, he wouldn't let me so much as move a stick of furniture. Of course, that was when there was furniture."

Still inspecting the woodwork, he asked absently, "How long have you been living here?"

"Five years--during which I've come up with a thousand ideas for improvements." She set down her iced tea on a window seat and waved an arm about the room. "Now that the place is all mine, I'm going to change everything."

He gave her a strange look, verging on a frown. "Ms. Peale, I hope--"

"Oh, please. Call me Lara. You sound like one of my students, and the last thing I want during the summer is to feel like a teacher."

"Lara, then. And, uh, I'm Mark." He gave her one of his nominal smiles. "You do understand that houses of historical significance have to be renovated with a ... a degree of respect?"

"Well, of course I do, Mark." She laughed at his misplaced concern. "Don't look so worried. I have a bit of an eye for decorative art."

He pressed his lips together.

"As I mentioned earlier, I'm an artist--in case it isn't obvious." She gestured toward the tongue-shaped stain on her shirt.

That parted his lips, but he must have realized he was gaping and snapped his jaw shut. She hadn't meant to draw attention to her breasts, but she felt a tingle of excitement over his instinctive reaction.

As he turned away from her and looked toward the windows, she suppressed a grin. "This is only the latest of many articles of clothing sacrificed in pursuit of beauty and truth."

"The floor-to-ceiling pocket windows are magnificent," he said. "Do they still draw up into the wall above?"

Her smile dwindled. She chided herself for her lapse into schoolgirlish giddiness. Maybe she'd been at home alone for too long. "Most of them do, but that one on the right doesn't work."

He stepped closer and spent a moment squinting up at the window in question. "Did you realize there's a piece of paper jammed up there?"

"No, I didn't."

"Maybe that's the problem." He turned and glanced around the room. Setting his drink down on the table, he asked, "Can I use that stepladder?"

"Sure."

While he moved the ladder, she went over to the window and gazed up, spotting the paper. Yellowed and crumpled, it appeared to be an old letter. "I wonder how that got there. I never noticed it before--and I do dust once in awhile."

"It does seem strange. The only thing I can think is that it must have somehow slipped down from the room above. There may be access to the window mechanism from upstairs." He climbed up and stretched to reach the top edge of the window. A tug on the letter freed it fairly easily, but suddenly he shuddered and had to catch himself against the wall.

She reached out to hold him steady him by the leg, distinctly aware of the warmth of his thigh through the thin fabric of his pants. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. The coldness by the window got to me." He handed the letter down to her. "The temperature outside must be dropping sharply."

As she took the folded parchment she felt the chill, too. The abrupt change seemed peculiar, but her contact with him preoccupied her more. Beginning to feel awkward, she let go of his leg and pretended to be engrossed in his find.

"M.A.S.," she read from the address side as he made his way back down. Gazing at the elaborate, old-fashioned handwriting, she wondered who M.A.S. was-maybe an ancestor of her ex. Ron's last name was Sulley. Curious, she asked her guest, "Do you mind if I open it now?"

"Go ahead. I'd like to know how old it is."

She unstuck a misshapen wax seal and unfolded the stiff paper. "Damn. There's no date. Maybe the contents will clue us in. Would you like to hear it?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

She cleared her throat and read the note out loud:

My dearest M,

Pray put me out of this wretched state of unfulfilled desire. An exotic flower such as you cannot be sensible of how much suffering she inflicts on the man she beguiles and then denies.

Your lips are like a rose on the morn it blooms, fresh and glazed with dew. Every inch of your skin is as perfect and pure as a lily. Open your petals to embrace me, and our love will flourish fully, as Nature intended.

Your own ever-patient G.

"Well!" She gave Mark a wry grin. "'G' doesn't exactly sound patient to me."

He raised his eyebrows but didn't reciprocate her smile. "No, he sounds like a snake."

"Do you think so?" She looked back down at the beautifully crafted handwriting. The letter gave her a weird feeling--maybe because it had seemed to come out of nowhere--but something about it appealed to her, too. "I kind of like the note. No one writes stuff like this anymore. It's gratifying to see a man express his feelings in words."

The curl returned to Mark's lip. "Maybe genuine feelings, but the sentiments in that are drivel--the words of a womanizer trying to get a virgin into his bed."

"Maybe." After her failed marriage, she considered herself pretty cynical about love, but apparently she still had a soft spot for romance. She touched the ink of the man's initial, imagining how much "M" must have wanted "G" when she read his pleas. "I wonder who they were. Doesn't this glimpse into the past make you want to know the whole story?"

He gave her a long look. "In a way. That is, I can understand how you feel. The houses I research make me feel like that. There are usually only scraps of information available about the people who lived and died in them--just enough to make me want to know more. Lots of times the only history recorded about a house comes from letters like that one. Can I take a closer look?"

"Be my guest."

He took the note from her and skimmed its contents. When he'd finished, he smirked. "I still think these are empty words, but it's always interesting to uncover a piece of the past. Something like this is the nearest you can come to going back in time."

She smiled. "I like that concept. I think that's kind of what I was doing when I read the letter--reliving a moment from the past."

He stared at the note for a moment, rubbing his thumb over the signature, as she had done. Then he shook his head. "'Open your petals...' What a ridiculous thing to say."

"I think it's rather poetic."

"Then, the letter will make a nice keepsake for you." He held the piece of paper back out to her and started looking around the room again. "Anyway, we'd better get down to business. Why don't you tell me your plans for this place?"

"Okay." As she took the paper from him, another chill shivered through her. The wild thought occurred to her that maybe the note was haunted. As much as the discovery had piqued her curiosity, something about it made her vaguely uncomfortable, too. Why hadn't she ever found the letter before?

Dismissing the crazy idea, she set the paper down on the window seat next to her iced tea. "Just give me a moment to gather my thoughts."

"Of course." He reached inside his jacket, then patted his other pockets. "I think I've left my note pad in the car, anyway. Let me run out and get it. I'll be right back."

Trying to clear her head, she followed him to the front door and watched him dash out to his car. He'd parked on the side of the road instead of in her driveway--a considerate gesture, she thought. The way he moved looked athletic, but who could tell with that suit he was wearing? The fact that she was taking so much notice of his physical attributes surprised her. When was the last time she'd given a guy a second glance?

As he opened the passenger-side door, she reflected that she'd never met an author before--or the descendant of a Victorian poet. Those things particularly intrigued her about Mark Vereker ... though, admittedly, she'd noticed his good looks right off the bat, too.

He leaned into the car and she moved away from the door, irritated by the direction of her thoughts. For months Di had been nagging her about starting to date, and it seemed that her friend finally had her thinking about men.

That, however, was as far as she wanted to go.

Her resolution hardened as she walked back into the parlor. She had been married, and somehow over the years her hopes and dreams had deteriorated into pain and a sense of helplessness about her situation. Now she had escaped the marriage, but the hurt still lingered, along with something like guilt. She had vowed to live her life with a man, and she hadn't been able to keep her promise. She would never try it again. As for dating, she hadn't yet figured out how that might fit into her future. All she knew was that she wasn't ready for it now.

She glanced out the front window and saw Mark Vereker getting back out of his car, holding a writing pad. In another moment he would be coming up the walk. She had to pull herself together and present her plans for the house to him in a positive light. If she got this grant from the historical society, she could finally build a real studio.

Combing her fingers through her hair, she took a deep breath. Ron had always made it difficult for her to pursue her art--maybe out of some sort of jealousy. Now that he was gone she intended to dedicate herself to her work, and revamping the studio would be the first major milestone in her new life. Making a good impression on Mark Vereker today could mean a huge difference for her in the future.

Too nervous to wait for his knock, she walked back into the current studio. Maybe she would try softening up her guest with some small talk. So far, making conversation with him had been surprisingly easy.

Though he hadn't responded well to her questions about his ancestor, she thought the poet might still prove a good choice of topic. She would probably fare better if she simply expressed her admiration for Geoffrey Vereker instead of asking Mark for information about him. The poet had to be a great source of pride to the family.