Читать книгу Haunting at Remington House - Laura V. Keegan - Страница 5

Tom hadn’t been away from Jamestown since his wife’s death. He’d forgotten the simple pleasure of traveling. Aboard the Eastern Express, a trip that would take about eight hours, he found himself content to watch the passing autumnal landscape of vivid reds, bright oranges and dazzling yellows. Quaint New England towns slipped by, one after another. Tom smiled, was caught by surprise at his reflection in the window. It’d been a long time since he’d felt this calm. I’m doing the right thing. To the depths of my soul I feel it. I think, at last, I am free.

The porter knocked on his compartment door. “Lunch is being served in the dining car, Mr. Gardner.”

Tom straightened his tie, ran his fingers through the thick waves of his hair. Whistling happily under his breath, he made his way down the aisle. As he entered the dining car, he froze. “Elise!” Her name escaped Tom’s lips. She was there, waiting, her back to him, in the first dining booth.

The steward stepped forward to greet him, his smile quickly changing to one of concern. Tom tried to compose himself, sensed everyone staring at him. He struggled for self-control. This couldn’t be happening again. A drop of perspiration rolled down his forehead to the tip of his nose, hung then dropped onto his upper lip, the taste of salt bitter as he nervously licked his parched lips.

Tom took a quick breath and focused on the face of the woman now turning toward him. Of course it wasn’t Elise. He had to get a grip. Turning to the steward he said, “I’ll have something in my compartment. I’m more tired than I realized.” Tom turned and strode down the aisle as steadily as his shaking knees would allow.

Irritated, the steward muttered under his breath, “Yeah, you poor rich guys—you don’t know what tired is.” To Tom’s retreating back, he said loudly, “I’ll send someone with a tray.”

After a quiet lunch, Tom lay down on the sleeping berth, his feet dangling uncomfortably over the end of the too-thin, too-short mattress. He slept until the train arrived at the Ravenswood depot. A cab waited on the street in front of the station, the driver, a man perhaps in his late thirties, tall, sturdy of build, wavy blonde hair sticking out from under a hunters cap, impatiently drummed his large fingers on the roof of the car. “Hey! You Tom Gardner?”

Tom nodded. The man came forward, hands out, to take the suitcases from him.

“Train’s running late tonight. Should’ve been here at six!” The driver hesitated, waited for an acknowledgment from Tom. Getting none he asked, “Have a good trip?”

“I did.”

The driver hoisted the heavy leather suitcases into the trunk, then opened the rear door, motioning Tom to get in. “Remington House, right?”

“Yes. On upper Beach Highway Road,” Tom said, sitting back in the threadbare, gray-cloth seat. He cracked his window a few inches so the side window would defog. He wanted to see where he was going.

“Get cold, let me know. I’ll crank the heat up for you.”

“I’m fine. Thanks.”