Shades of Gray

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my husband, Brian Wissink, for his support and for his brilliant photograph that was used for the cover design. My friends and family for reading the book and for their love and care. A few of them I will name, but there will be many who, while not named here for the sake of brevity, know who they are.

Kathy Thompson, cherished friend and indefatigable reader. Kimberly Kauffman for hours of listening and for helping me work my way out of the corners I’d written myself into. Dawn Ambrose for the idea to adapt my husband’s photograph for the cover. Joe Stewart for allowing me to go on ghost hunts with him and patiently explaining all his gadgets. Katherine VanZwoll, a fellow writer and friend whose tireless readings of draft upon draft and concise feedback have been, and continue to be, truly priceless. Abigail English, a gentle spirit, a wise guide, talented writer and artist, whose friendship I cherish. Dan Waldron, fellow writer, kindred spirit, and kind soul, who read and reported back with invaluable insights. Rich Bailhe for his friendship and his feedback. Rene Davidson, wife, mother, and busy professional, as well as a generous reader, who volunteered her reading services without even knowing me. Jeremy Lounds of Dynamite Inc. for bringing this book to publication and for the vision and ultimate creation of my web site. Dave Jewell, graphic designer and dear friend, for his work, from conception to finished product, in the creation of the book’s cover.

At last, to my animals, from childhood to today, for their patience and their willingness to give and accept love always.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the courage and resilience of the human spirit.

And to a sweet stray named Abigail

who found me

on a beach in Grand Haven, Michigan

in the summer of 1988.

CHAPTER 1

Patience Small: 1862-1885

Time: Past, Present, Alternate

The old woman could fall down the cellar stairs. A little shove was all it would take to send her catapulting to her death. She would barely have time to cry out before the deed was done.

Patience could feel her heart race behind the wall of her chest. It was possible to kill the old bitch and get away with it. The only problem then would be finding another post.

No easy thing. Her thick body and wide, large knuckled hands, her fleshy face and disquieting eyes had been off putting to the other ladies for whom she had interviewed. It was, in the end, only Astrid Snipe who had taken her in out of the cold and given her shelter in exchange for great quantities of labor. Patience both needed the old woman and hated her.

* * *

The room around her shifted and changed and Patience felt herself slipping again into the corridor of some past place and time. She could no longer control the amorphous stuff of which her consciousness was made. Time was all mixed up here, in this holding place between life and afterlife. Her ghost self shuddered.

* * *

The man was dark and dangerous, with his unshaven face, flashing eyes, and broad muscled chest. He strode across the room, closing the distance between them and catching her in his arms. The breath went out of her as he crushed her to him, trailing kisses down her throat while his hands worked to pull the pins from her hair.

Her body yearned for his touch, for his command. At last she would be fulfilled. She would be loved and she would be desired. His mouth devoured and his hands possessed and Patience knew the taste of ecstasy.

As quickly as he had captured her, he thrust her away. She reeled backward, crashing into the wardrobe in her tiny servant’s bedroom.

What are you? He asked, horrified.

She gasped in pain and surprise. Gaping up at him, she struggled to right herself, reaching out to him with clumsy hands.

Miserable troll. His voice was hard and filled with contempt.

Patience cringed and cowered, the hair he had unbound dripping about her face in stringy tendrils.

Calling out in a wordless cry, she lunged for him, clasping his hand in hers. He tossed it away in disgust.

Do not touch me, abomination. Do not ever presume to touch me again. Grimacing, he threw open the door and strode from the room, his booted feet echoing on the hardwood floor.

Patience crumpled to the floor and slid without awareness into another dimension.

* * *

Patience: Age 8, 1870 (A Memory)

Hugging her skinny knees to her chest, Patience wept. She looked out through bleary eyes at the tree, sky, and stagnant pond of her beloved woods. The trees swayed. The water and sky rippled.

Squeezing her eyelids tight together, eight-year-old Patience Small wept for all that had been and all that would never be. She wept for the mother she had never known and the brother who was lost to her. Her tears were bitter on her chapped lips as she licked them away.

Breathing deeply, peacefulness surrounded her and tears dried on her tiny face. The clearing was hers alone. Hers and the animals, she corrected silently. The animals accepted her. The animals loved her.

The sky tilted and bled blue into the moss green of the pond and trees. She tried to hold on, desperate to stay in this place, and could not. She yearned for cohesion, for acceptance, for love.

At times she knew it was far too late for any of those things. At times she knew she was dead. But to remain in that knowing was a nightmare all its own.

To remain in that knowing meant she had to face the cold reality. No one wanted her in life and no one wanted her in death. To slip away from that reality, even if it was to relive, in jumbled up pieces, the tragic life that, so very long ago, had been hers, was respite of a sort.

* * *

The blue-gray mists of the room surrounded her, choking the air from her lungs. The dead place. The fragrant woods were nothing but a memory. Rage swelled like red fire and flamed within the husk of her body. Others would feel her pain. Others would know her degradation.

Wind gusted, rocked the house. Windows cracked and blew outward in shards of shattering glass.

CHAPTER 2

Paige Malone: Present Time

Of course we’ll have to replace the windows, Paige said, staring up at the dark empty holes of the house. It looks like something exploded. Any explanation as to how they burst out like that?

Riley shook her head. Everything’s been checked and triple checked. The place is sound. No explosion, though that’s what it looks like. Kids must have gotten inside and broken them.

Paige sifted shards of glass with the toe of her loafer. I could understand kids throwing rocks at the windows from outside, but to go to the trouble to get in and then methodically break each window pane on both floors? Seems unlikely. Not to mention the glass was projectile, landing five plus feet out from the house.

I know, but there it is.

Maybe I shouldn’t buy a house where weird things happen, Paige said, furrowing her brow at the house. It looked back at her with wide vacant eyes.

No backing out now, Riley warned. And don’t try and tell me you’ve got a case of the heebie-jeebies either.

I’m not allowed to have the heebie-jeebies? Paige took in the gleam in her friend’s big blue eyes and the pretty face framed by perfectly coiffed auburn hair. How much hair spray did she go through in a month?

Allowed? Yes. Capable? No. Not with what you do for a living. So don’t give me that.

Paige stared at the house. Perched on top of a low cliff overlooking Lake Michigan and surrounded by a valley of quaint inland shops, the two-story A-frame was perfect as an investment property. The driveway wound up through a forest of thick oaks, willowy birch, and tall evergreens. A shallow brook meandered along one side and could be glimpsed through the trees.

Inside, the ceilings were low and the floor plan choppy, in keeping with the era in which the house was built. Wide plank hardwood floors made the most of the modest thousand square feet. A blocky, walled-in staircase at the back, led to two bedrooms and a hallway bath.

Paige was still reeling from the chain of events set in motion by Riley who had called her flat in Manhattan the evening before with news of the property. The fact she’d ended up making an offer on the place had shocked her. The reality that the sellers had accepted it, nearly sent her into apoplexy. R

Riley Woodhaven, Paige’s closest friend, had been on her for over three years about moving back to Michigan. And now, at last, it looked as though she had succeeded.

Riley’s argument was good; Paige had to admit. Since she had made the leap from reporter for the New York Times to True Crime writer she could write anywhere and do large chunks of research on the Internet. Besides, her friend the realtor prodded, it was time she took advantage of some of the excellent investments along the lakeshore.

The adult children of the man who’d owned the house had accepted her offer. They seemed anxious to be rid of the place. The house, vacant since 1995, needed updating, but was built sturdily and the parcel of land on which it stood was certainly prime.

Yet Sylvan and Delores Canton priced it to sell and snapped up Paige’s offer, $10,000.00 below the asking price. If Riley hadn’t moved fast, it would have gone to another buyer within the week.

You’re never going to regret this, Paige, Riley said, stepping gingerly in stiletto heels along the rocky path toward the cliff’s edge where Paige stood. You will absolutely love living here.

I wanted to talk to you about that. Paige pulled the gray wool scarf closer around her neck as she spoke.

What do you mean?

The stiff suspicion in Riley’s voice had Paige cringing. Bracing herself, she turned toward the other woman. "The place needs some major renovations, a new kitchen, a third bath, an extension off the master bedroom, a deck off the back, new floors.

That will all take time. I thought I’d get bids on the renovations and hire a contractor to do the work this fall and winter so the place will be ready by spring. Until then, I stay in New York.

Spring! Riley groaned. Here we go again. I miss you. Do you have any idea how boring it is around this place in winter?

Not a good selling strategy, sugar pie.

You know what I mean. You and I could liven things up. Besides, how can you keep an eye on the renos if you’re in New York?

Easy. I’ll have my best friend do it for me. You’ve got exquisite taste and you know mine. More importantly, you know what to do for resale.

And if I refuse? She crossed her arms over her chest.

Paige watched the lift of the delicate chin, as the waif of a redhead struggled to look immovable, and smiled. I wouldn’t believe you. Nothing short of a coma could keep you from poking your nose into the plans and the progress.

Riley stuck her tongue out at Paige and the starch went out of her, shoulders drooping. Fine. Stay in a city of strangers instead of coming home to the only one who really loves you.

It’s only ‘til spring, Paige said, wrapping an arm around the other woman’s neck. Riley was five foot two on the days she lied about it and weighed 105 if she skipped no meals and devoured a mammoth hot fudge brownie sundae just before bed every night for a week.

Paige sighed, longing to be tiny and delicate. Not in this lifetime, she thought as she watched her six foot long shadow eclipse that of her friend’s.

I’ll believe it when I see it, Riley said, but she hugged her back. Come on, it’s time for ice cream. My treat.

CHAPTER 3

Duncan O’Connor sat stunned, staring across at the bartender, a man who had befriended him ten years before when he moved to the small lakeshore town from downstate.

Hey, don’t look at me like I just ran over your puppy, Turner said. I tried to reach you as soon as the place went on the market. I couldn’t get your cell to ring through and I left messages marked urgent at the front desk.

I know, I know. Duncan gave a wave of acknowledgement. Cheap cell service wouldn’t work overseas and the concierge at that fancy French hotel always looked at me like I was some particularly disgusting form of maggot.

And I thought the French only hated Americans, but your Irish accent didn’t win you any points.

The French hate everybody. Duncan took a long swallow of Guinness. It’s not your fault. I just can’t believe they would sell it out from under me that way. They knew how much I wanted that house. I’d been talking to their dad about it for years.

Maybe he didn’t like your art.

Duncan harrumphed. Who’d they sell to again?

Her name’s Paige Malone. She writes books on serial killers. You’ve read her stuff. Two bestsellers in three years. I heard she’s a looker too.

What’s it matter what she looks like? I’m not going to date her.

How much do you want this place? Turner said, leaning across the counter and wriggling his eyebrows expressively. I hear she and Riley go back a long way. You get in nice with her, maybe I’ll get a chance at the lovely realtor.

Maybe the French have the right idea. You Americans are disgusting. You’re nothing but whores, the lot of you.

There, my friend, you are wrong, Turner said, affecting a look of wounded pride. You would be the whore. I’m the pimp. How long have you lived in this country and still you get those two mixed up?

Shaking his head, Turner added, What I’m really saying is that it wouldn’t hurt you to work a little social life into your excruciating artist’s existence. This woman sounds smart, talented, wealthy, and attractive. Not to mention, she has something you want and she’s best friends with someone I’ve wanted for longer than I can remember.

I don’t get why you keep pining for that little orange haired bundle of nerves. Didn’t she tell you she doesn’t date bartenders?

Draining the last of his Guinness, Duncan slammed the glass on the bar a little harder than he’d intended. After that I wouldn’t date the little bitch if she hooked both feet behind her ears and begged.

She didn’t mean it, Turner said dreamily. She’ll come around.

Yeah, and Paige Malone will call me tomorrow saying she’s a huge fan and she bought the house for me as a sign of her devotion.

What if it’s no more than an investment property to her? If she’s not planning to live there, you could talk to her about renting the place for your gallery. Turner motioned to the empty glass to inquire about a refill.

Duncan frowned, looked at his watch and shook his head. That’s a possibility. Worth finding out at least. It just irks me that I would have to pay rent and deal with a landlord when I’ve tried so hard for a spot of my own. He sighed. She staying at the Skipper or Aunt Delilah’s B & B?

Good thing I’m a gossip or you’d never know where to follow your next lead. She’s at Auntie D’s. And you need to make the trip soon. I hear they close on the place tomorrow morning and she’ll be on a plane back to the Big Apple by afternoon.

The lady wastes no time. How do I look?

Rumpled, as usual. Take the time to shower and change. You don’t want to smell like a bar when you make the pitch.

* * *

Patience: Present Time

The wind moaned through the sturdy timbers that made up the attic of the house. It sounded desolate and alone, the way Patience felt. She floated along the landing and down the stairs, accompanied by the barest breath of sound that was her etheric form.

The darkness shrouded her and she trembled, feeling the shiver course through what was left of her body. Always damp. Always cold. Always longing for strong arms to hold her and never feeling them.

Patience drifted through the closed back door and out into the night. Wind howled through her, reminding her again how truly insubstantial she was. She let herself be carried on it beyond the cliff’s edge and out over the choppy water until it settled her on the shore, too close to the quaking, foaming waves. She lay on her back, gazing up at an ink black sky and millions of distant stars.

With no moon, the backdrop of sky appeared like velvet. The sight echoed her loneliness, but was beautiful nonetheless. She wished she could be beautiful. Instead, hers was a homely desolation.

It would be nice to have someone sharing the house with her. A writer. Something like anticipation rippled through her and she allowed herself to believe that this woman might be the one to set her free.

* * *

It was 5:30 by the time Duncan showered, shaved, found clean jeans and a T-shirt that didn’t have a hole in it and walked to the B&B two streets from his small house.

Delilah herself was at the front desk when he walked in. She smiled in greeting as he crossed to her over the faded Persian rug in the entryway.

Delilah, in her middle sixties, had a face that would have caught any artist’s attention, with its sharp clear bones and interesting lines. Thick white hair was piled neatly on her narrow head, the pins used to secure it hidden snugly within its luxuriant folds. Her face glowed and her brown eyes brimmed with vitality. The turtleneck sweater she wore was petal pink and suited her fair skin perfectly.

Hello there, tall, dark and handsome, she said, coming around the counter to throw frail arms around his neck in an exuberant hug. Have you come to take me away from all this?

Duncan teetered under her scant weight.

She felt him sway and laughed delightedly. You’ve got to learn to balance your weight on the balls of your feet. Brace yourself, or you’ll never hold up under my demands.

You’re too much woman for me, you exquisite creature and you know it. I could never deserve you.

Ah, she sighed as she pulled away and stepped down from the tips of her toes. Such a shame and you’re so pretty too. Well, since we’ve established that you can’t have me, what is it I can I do for you?

I heard a rumor that the woman who bought the old Canton place is staying here. I’d like to talk to her. Is she in? He watched the play of emotions on Delilah’s face as she studied him.

Looking at her watch, she said, She’s not in, but she should be back anytime, I’d imagine. She was wearing some fancy running clothes when she tore through here about twenty-five minutes ago.

Delilah brushed his hair away from his eyes and looked at him with concern. I’m so sorry, Duncan, you were away when that old geezer died. The place should have been yours. It’s so unfair.

Thanks sweetheart. I’ll lap up all the sympathy you’re willing to offer.

Come back in half an hour and I’ll let you lap up dinner. Meatloaf tonight, your favorite.

Duncan looked to the heavens. The woman even fortifies me in my sadness. Who could ask for more? He turned to go.

Oh, she called after him, "I almost forgot. Your Pigs on Mars painting sold to the honeymoon couple just this morning."

On top of sustenance for the body, the mind, and the eyes, she pays my mortgage. I am truly blessed. Thank you, dolly. I’ll be back for me evening meal in two shakes. Duncan affected a thicker brogue to the sound of her giggles and pushed through the door.

He walked down the steps of the quaint six-room B&B and saw her. Dressed in sleek runners’ spandex, she ran smoothly, long legs pumping against the pavement on the opposite side of the street. All curves and muscle beneath the nylon, the six-foot brunette was definitely drool-worthy. Her dark hair was in a ponytail that swung rhythmically as she ran.

He watched her slow as she neared the corner, crossed the street. Then she was on the sidewalk in front of him, stretching her long legs in graceful, perfectly orchestrated lunges. Her face was flushed, the peaches and cream complexion striking against her dark brows and the long black lashes that rested against her cheeks.

Duncan leaned on the newel post at the base of the steps. She must have felt his eyes on her because she turned to him with a quizzical expression. Her eyes were a startling blue-green and shaped like a cat’s. Her full-lipped mouth was unsmiling.

May I help you with something?

Sorry, you caught me. I was admiring your workout. You’re movements are very graceful, very focused.

When her only response was to narrow her eyes, he cleared his throat and tried again. I’m Duncan O’Connor. He held out a hand that she studied briefly and took in a quick, firm shake. I wanted to congratulate you on the purchase of the Canton house.

She took a step back. Thank you, Paige Malone, though you probably already know that part.

Her face was a soft oval and her neck swan long. She looked like a woman who was feminine despite herself. I’m a local artist, he said. Sell my work in the various shops around town. I was out of the country when the house went on the market.

Ah, I see, she said, nodding. You must be the other interested party.

His eyebrows shot up and she laughed. The sound was musical, girlish, infectious. It surprised him.

The Canton’s realtor said there was someone very interested, but they took our offer anyway. I even low-balled. I figured the other guy was either taking a real gamble by making a lower offer or he was a product of the realtor’s imagination. Looks like I was wrong on both counts.

Looks like. He struggled and failed to keep the edge from his voice. "I’m not good with small talk, Ms. Malone, so I’ll get right to the point. I’ve had my eye on that property for about five years now, but Mr. Canton refused to sell to me. He never explained why.

"I didn’t know what your plans were for the place, but thought it was worth asking. If you are planning to make it your home then we have nothing further to discuss.

However, if you purchased it as an investment property, I thought it possible we could do business.

I’m intrigued, Mr. O’Connor. Tell you what, have dinner with me here at Aunt Delilah’s, your treat, and tell me what you have in mind. Myself, I haven’t entirely committed to living in the house. Perhaps you’ll sway me in a direction.

Without waiting for his answer, she took the steps up two at a time. On the porch she turned and said, Meet me in the lobby in twenty minutes.

Duncan was still standing on the sidewalk with his mouth open after she had gone inside.

CHAPTER 4

It came to her in the shower. The reason his name was so familiar. She’d admired his work in several little nooks and crannies of the Bed and Breakfast, so much so, she had troubled herself to look at the artist’s name and tags for price.

He was versatile and talented, not that she held any illusions about being a worthy critic. But his work did draw her, and the Pigs on Mars piece had sold right out from under her. She cursed herself for not buying it when she’d checked in.

Closing her eyes and letting the hot water finger through her hair, Paige imagined his work showcased in the little house on the bluff. Of course he wanted that place. It was the perfect backdrop for his art. The fact that he sculpted offbeat furniture out of plaster, rock and metal, in addition to his paintings, made the cozy house with its arched doorways and rounded stone fireplaces even more suitable.

Paige stepped out of the shower onto the cool tile floor. Toweling off quickly, she dressed, blew dry her hair, and applied a touch of mascara and lipstick all within an efficient fifteen minutes. Looking at herself in the mirror, she decided it would do and walked out of the room and down the graceful spiral staircase to the lobby.

He stood when she reached the landing. She could see the appraisal and the appreciation in his eyes. It felt good to be found attractive.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t had admirers, but her size, her demeanor, and, she supposed, her success, had thinned the herd considerably of eligible men her age. Duncan O’Connor appeared to be somewhere between his 30th and 35th birthday, which put him in the ballpark and he didn’t seem put off by her size or her style.

You look fabulous, he said.

He had gorgeous dark eyes and dusky skin. His name was O’Connor, but she would have pegged him for a handsome Italian. It definitely felt good to be appreciated by such a man. Well, thanks. Now let’s go eat and you can tell me your proposal.

He recommended the meatloaf. It was melt-in-your-mouth delicious. She reminded herself to take dainty bites as the succulent flavors swam along her palate.

I’ve wanted my own gallery for a few years now and the Canton place seemed perfect. Gorgeous views, nice layout, and just on the edge of town.

But Canton refused to sell.

Yeah, he sighed, setting his fork down on his nearly empty plate. He told me that I wasn’t right for the house. He said she, the house that is, wouldn’t like me.

He called the house she? Paige took a swallow of Merlot. Was there a little touch of dementia going on, perhaps?

He shook his head. The old guy was sharp as a tack. His wife died a few years ago. They’d raised their family in that house.

He shrugged and Paige noticed the sadness that touched his brown eyes. He genuinely looked like he cared about the old man’s pain, even after being screwed over from beyond the grave.

It’s my guess he made his kids promise not to sell the place to me and they were probably relieved I was out of the country when he died.

For all this, you don’t sound bitter, she noted as she played with the base of her glass.

Duncan only smiled. I guess I kind of feel for their position. If my father, on his deathbed, made me promise not to sell to a certain person, I’d be hard pressed to betray that promise.

Even if that promise is nothing more than a swatch of silly sentiment?

I think a lot of what makes us human is nothing more than swatches of silly sentiment.

He smiled and she found herself staring into eyes that looked wise and sad and sweeter than any she’d seen in a long time, maybe ever.

Shaking the thought away, she leaned back to put some distance between them. Be careful Michael Angelo. If you’re just acting all sweet and sensitive to butter me up, it won’t work. I live in Manhattan, remember?

And you work with agents and publishers, not to mention interviewing the periodic serial killer.

Delilah’s grandson had chosen that moment to take their plates away. Duncan’s last comment had him dropping a knife on the floor at Paige’s feet. When he went to pick it up, the other knife and both forks slid off