Nights In White Satin. Jule Mcbride

think they would have used a cannon.”

      “That’s what I was thinking,” agreed Bridget, glad he understood. “It’s more likely she died from a bullet wound. Still, Granny says that when she haunts Hartley House, she sometimes carries a cannonball, but maybe that’s just because it’s symbolic of war, and—” Pausing, she realized Dermott was staring at her. “Hmm?”

      He said, “You don’t believe this, do you?”

      “Nights like this make it seem possible,” she offered.

      As her gaze shifted to the windows, she felt uncomfortable. For years, they’d talked about how the World Trade Center buildings marred the view from Dermott’s high-rise. Now, both wished they’d never said such a thing. Bridget had realized too late that she’d taken the buildings for granted, too. She’d rarely visited them, and they’d been such a familiar part of the landscape since her childhood that it was hard to visualize them now. She should have paid more attention, but she’d thought the buildings would always be standing, tall and proud.

      Tears stung her eyes, and she wondered what on earth was wrong with her tonight. Dermott’s voice pulled her from her reverie. “You really do believe all this, huh, Bridge?”

      She shrugged again. “You know I do. And anyway, Granny Ginny’s a good storyteller, so whenever she talks, she makes it seem real. The main thing is—” She paused. “Did you get my voice mail?”

      He nodded.

      “Well, like I said, I had another talk with Granny. Now she says the curse will end if the Hartley diamond’s found, and…” She held up her hand, displaying the bauble on her right ring finger. Her voice quickened. “You have to admit all this is strange, Dermott.”

      He eyed the bunched cluster of cubic zirconias. “Did your grandmother really say that was a replica of the engagement ring Forrest Hartley gave Marissa Jennings?”

      “Not only that, but she says there’s proof. A painting in the parlor of Marissa in her wedding gown, wearing this exact ring.”

      “And you’re sure you never saw it?”

      Bridget shook her head. “I haven’t been there since I was a baby. When I saw the painting, I wasn’t even a year old. I couldn’t have remembered the ring.” She surveyed Dermott. “Oh…you think she’s lying.”

      He shrugged.

      “Maybe she is,” Bridget continued, “but all we have to do is go look. She says the portrait’s right there, hanging in the parlor. And I know I used to sleep on the pedestal table when I was a baby, under the chandelier, so I guess I was thinking…”

      “That the Hartley diamond is hidden in the chandelier?”

      She’d have to see the chandelier to know, of course, but… “Isn’t it possible the prisms in the chandelier look enough like this ring—” she held up her hand again “—that the original ring was hidden there?”

      He looked skeptical. No…his was definitely not the excited let’s-pack-our-bags-and-go-look Bridget had been hoping for. “And you saw the ring when you were under a year old, which enabled you to reproduce it when you were twenty-eight?”

      “Well, I don’t know,” she said defensively.

      “If the original ring was hidden in the chandelier, Bridge, don’t you think the Yankees would have found it? Not to mention everyone else who looked, such as your grandmother?”

      That was the thing about Dermott, he always made such excellent points. “Still, you’d think the Yankees would have removed the chandelier, but they didn’t do that, either, and no one knows why.”

      “And your guess is?”

      Ducking to sprinkle Mug with more kisses, she said, “Granny Ginny said Miss Marissa and Lavinia probably tried to take down the chandelier, so they could hide it, but it wouldn’t budge.” Her voice dropped, becoming hushed, just as Granny Ginny’s did whenever she told the story. “It was as if the chandelier grew a mind all its own,” she repeated, using Granny Ginny’s words. “Granny Ginny said it decided not to leave Hartley House.”

      Now his lips were twitching. “Hmm. A chandelier that makes decisions. Bridge, you really can’t believe this place is haunted.”

      “Granny swears ghosts keep her up all night.”

      “She’s old. Maybe her mind’s going.”

      “She’s as sharp as a tack,” Bridget assured. The woman was smart enough to fake swoons any time she didn’t get her way, which proved she was lucid, but Bridget was worried. What if someone was trying to harm her relative? Some things Granny Ginny had said suggested people were trying to run her off her property by pretending to haunt it. Bridget suddenly sighed. “I guess I just thought you might help end the curse.”

      “So your love life will turn around?”

      “You don’t have to say it quite so bluntly.”

      He chuckled softly now, and she smiled in response to the familiar sound. “It’s no secret. It’s the overriding complaint of your life, Bridge.”

      “True.” More than once, Dermott had pretended to be her boyfriend to dissuade Mr. Wrongs who still thought they were Mr. Rights, and at this year’s Christmas party at Tiffany’s, he’d even pretended they were hot and heavy, since her boss favored women with active personal lives, and she’d been in line for the promotion from clerk to floor manager, which she’d gotten. It had been a remarkable performance. All night, it had seemed as if Dermott really was her boyfriend. Everything had seemed perfect, with him in a suit, and her in a perfect black dress, and with him pouring her another glass of champagne—of exactly the brand he was supposed to be drinking with Carrie right this minute.

      Her eyes slid to the bedroom door, then returned to Dermott. He really was handsome. The V of his shirt exposed thick black chest hair, and even though he’d buttoned the shirt, he hadn’t done so before she’d trailed her gaze all the way down to the waistband of his slacks.

      She startled. “Uh,” she began quickly, pulling herself back to the matter at hand. “I was thinking, since I’m already off work all week and since I’m not going skiing…”

      Dark eyes that had never looked so good before this moment widened in disbelief. “You’re thinking of flying to Florida, to see if you can find the ring?”

      “Well,” she admitted slowly. “Maybe not flying.” She wasn’t proud of it, but she’d been afraid to fly since 9/11. She glanced once more toward the windows through which the Twin Towers had been visible.

      “Oh.” His jaw slackened. “Now, I get it.”

      She winced. “It was just a thought,” she assured, the cubic zirconias flashing as she held out a staying hand. “Honestly, Dermott, I had no idea you were so busy. I wouldn’t have come.”

      “You want me to drive you,” he guessed.

      “You were talking about taking vacation time,” she defended. “And more than anyone, you have intimate knowledge of my abysmal date failures, not to mention family quirks. You’ve met Granny, and you’re skeptical about the family myths, so I thought that might keep me in check.”

      His eyes were unreadable. “If you start seeing ghosts?”

      “I remembered you saying you wanted to record sounds for a movie sound track,” she said, rushing on, still trying not to contemplate what the sight of him, nearly naked, had done to her erogenous zones. Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she let her fingers linger, then tugged on her earlobe, as if that might help her hear her inner voice and jog recall. “You know, the movie that’s set in the South.”

      He nodded. “It’s a Civil War picture.”

      “And I was thinking…” Her words quickened. “What if there really are ghosts, Dermott,