Both paintings were superb.
Ivy turned each of them over. To her surprise, scrawled in one corner on each painting was the name Elizabeth. “Elizabeth painted these. Marcus’s second wife was an artist. A good one, so it appears.”
“The paintings seem–” Max seemed perplexed. “–haunting.”
He was right. There was a quality to both paintings that exuded deep emotion. Ivy was overcome with such sentiment. Tears sprang to her eyes. She swiped them before they fell to her cheeks.
A draft of cold air passed through the room. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She wrapped her arms around her chilled body as she kept her eyes on the paintings. She felt Max’s eyes on her. Minutes seemed to pass in slow increments until he finally asked, “What do you know of this house’s history?”
She swallowed as she searched for her voice. “I really know so little about Marcus and Elizabeth. There was only a minuscule amount of research I had luck in uncovering. Most of the information comes from years of rumors passed down from generation to generation. Each tale gets juicier and further from the truth, I’m sure. There is probably only a figment of fact left to any of them. But one legend still remains the same.” She looked up at him, hoping he couldn’t see the remnants of tears left in her eyes. “Marcus was known for his kindness. History labeled him as quite the charming gentleman who’d had more than a few single, and married, women interested. He was roguishly handsome, as we can see by his portrait–” She darted a glance back at the man in the painting. “–passionate, and exceptionally wealthy.”
“But as you said yourself, they could have molded his memory into a kind man. It seems a man can be shaped by the untruths of others.”
Ivy understood there was hidden meaning to his words. He was referring to himself and how the media had dogged him for months until he disappeared from the spotlight. And then he was criticized for running away. “I find that if a yarn gets twisted it’s usually to make the person bad, not good.” There was a flash of something that passed over his features. It was gone before she had time to investigate it. “Some of Morgan Sites’s oldest residents said that Elizabeth’s father worked here, on the farm. Marcus established his riches through an inheritance but acquired his fame by way of farming and real estate. The details of his career are vague, but he was known for building the economy of the town.”
“Do you know any particulars about his and Elizabeth’s marriage?” Max took a step closer to Elizabeth’s painting. He lifted it, holding it out for closer examination.
“Elizabeth was said to have been in her late teens and Marcus in his thirties when they married in the late 1800s. Age wasn’t of much concern, I’m sure. It hadn’t been unusual for an older man to marry a young woman, especially a man as wealthy as Marcus. He was probably the prime catch for young and old.” Aspects of the story that she’d heard and read became clearer to her. As if it had been only yesterday that she’d learned the facts.
Max set the painting back against the wall. He strode to the window and stared out. Ivy wondered what thoughts crossed his mind. She brought her attention back to the portraits. She couldn’t deny that she found the intensity of their eyes mesmerizing. It was almost as if Marcus and Elizabeth pulled her into their paintings, tugging her into the molten colors. Although it didn’t appear that Elizabeth had painted herself with the intention of seduction, Ivy thought that the young woman staring back at her from the canvas was bewitching by nature. Any woman, with even the slightest amount of pretension, would have been bejeweled with diamonds and gold in her own portrait. Marcus could have afforded to adorn her with the finest jewelry. Elizabeth had deliberately painted herself as a simple, demure woman. Her beauty was enough embellishment.
“I wonder what type of person Elizabeth was,” Ivy wondered aloud. “Was she madly in love with her husband? Was he crazy in love with her? Did they share great happiness before tragedy struck? Did Marcus die a heartbroken man after losing all his loved ones?”
Max’s chuckle reverberated off the bare walls. “If you believe in all that romantic bullshit.”
Ivy turned on her heel and swiped a stray tendril of hair off her cheek. “Some people do believe in love.”
He snagged her with a cold stare, then pushed away from the window and started for the door. It slammed shut before he reached it.
Ivy’s breath swooshed from her lungs. “Did you do that?” She wasn’t sure if what she saw was accurate.
There was a slight hesitation before he muttered, “What the hell?”
* * * *
Max had seen a lot of strange things over the course of his career as a ghost hunter. He’d seen enough outlandish events that he’d written books on haunting and mystical spirits, sold millions of copies, but he’d never been invaded with the kind of deep-rooted sense of unease he felt at that moment.
But even with everything he’d seen over the years, he still didn’t chalk anything up to paranormal unless he had proof. A slamming door wasn’t enough to have him calling it a ghost at work.
He jiggled the knob, but the door didn’t open. “It’s locked.” He gritted his teeth. “Damn old house. It must have been a draft.”
“Yeah, must have been.”
He could hear the speculation in Ivy’s voice. She looked a bit green around the edges. He laughed. “You scared?”
She turned her lips down at the corners and she shot him her priceless “I could slap you” stare. “No, I’m not scared.” She blew a long breath through tight lips. “How will we get out of here?”
“Relax.” He gripped the handle again but it wasn’t giving. Just when he thought he couldn’t be more miserable, something happened to prove that things could always get worse. When Ivy started tapping her foot in frustration, he knew it had gotten bad. He wanted out of the room.
Running his hands along the frame, he quickly realized that he wasn’t going to break the door. It was solid wood, thicker than doors made now. He turned and looked at the window. He sighed in irritation. “I guess I gotta do what I gotta do.”
“Through the window? That’s what your big idea is?”
“Do you have another way out in mind?” She remained quiet. “Didn’t think so.”
To his luck, the window rolled up easily and was large enough to accommodate his size. Once he placed one foot on the roof, he silently hoped that it would hold his weight. He didn’t trust its durability.
With both feet planted firmly on the wood, he tapped lightly and stomped and checked out the best way down. Nothing looked safe, but he’d been in tougher situations. Satisfied that he wouldn’t fall through, he made his way slowly across the unevenly-shaped shingles toward the edge.
And there he stopped. The only way to the ground was either jumping, which risked death–not going to happen–or the rickety trellis that looked to be a relic from when the Thorntons called this place home. The paint had chipped and parts were broken. Bending, he pushed the lattice and investigated its strength. It didn’t move, but that didn’t mean anything. It was nailed to the side of the house securely but he wasn’t sure how decayed the wood was. With great caution, he scaled the lattice, securing his footing with each step. The old wood creaked and cracked under his weight, warning him that an apparatus meant for a climbing bush wasn’t built for this.
Half way down, a loud splintering sounded seconds before he felt shaking and the loosening of the boards. “Shit.”
The lattice completely separated from the house.
* * * *
Ivy heard the stomping of Max’s footsteps long before he opened the door. She had a feeling something was wrong. When the door swung open and she saw his bitter expression and the disarray of his clothes, she had