Hawthorne by Sarah Ballance Page A

accomplished that.
    Noah closed in on the convertible, giving the nearby grounds a cursory look. The lawn was meticulous, the beds overflowing with sprays of purple garden phlox which trailed around the bend in the road and disappeared. A riot of white and rust-red irises backed the smaller purple flowers, their leaves deep green and glossy. Overhead, Spanish moss swayed only occasionally atop a maze of live oak, more likely a result of a passing swarm of insects than an actual air current. The land was still. If there were tourists snapping photos of the historic plantation — or doing anything else — he didn't see them. But someone had been there. The car was certainly real, even if that too-familiar scream had been a figment of his imagination.
    Wasn’t it always?
    Resigned to another night alon e with his memories, Noah pivoted.
    And found himself nose to nose with Emma Grace.
    Astounded, he opened his mouth, then closed it . He wanted to reach for her, but his arms refused the notion; they hung uselessly by his sides, the effort futile. His mouth wasn't much on cooperation, either. Finally, he found his tongue. "Em—"
    Her expression cut him off . Green eyes wide, skin pale, her small frame shaking, she spoke. "I saw her, Noah. She's back." The words, nearly soundless, seemed to catch in the thick air. Lingering. Threatening.
    And r ipping the heart from his chest.

Chapter Two
     
    Noah's fingers methodically caressed the condensation from his water glass, leaving Emma almost as mesmerized by the way the water dribbled and pooled on the polished tabletop as she was by the sight of his hands. Work-roughened even before the passage of an unforgiving decade, they'd always set electricity coursing through her. So many memories between them, so many touches. What she wouldn't give for the simple pleasure just to lace her fingers through his one more time.
    But she couldn't reach for him now. The distance was too great. Surely he'd moved on after all of these years. Regardless, she'd given up her claim on his heart the moment she left without saying goodbye. Finding him here, still under the shadow of their past, nearly broke her heart.
    "Are you sure you saw her? " Noah wasn't a worrier, but the strain in his voice conveyed his torment.
    Emma met his eyes. He knew the answer to his own question. To see her sitting in the chair across from his was evidence enough of the improbable.
    "She's here for the same reason I am… because of Grandmother's death. I can't explain why or how I know, but that's why she's here."
    For ten years she'd been content to stay away, but with the news of her grandmother's death she had been so compelled t o get to the mansion she'd thought of little else since. Margaret Hawthorne had been like a mother. Emma's mother had died when Emma was too young to remember her. The majority of Emma's memories revolved around the portrait of her mother in the grand hall of Hawthorne rather than with the woman herself. Still, her grandmother had told a few stories that had seeped into Emma's heart over the years, eventually becoming part of her own recollections.
    Emma never knew anything about her father — only that he died before she was born — so her grandfather filled the paternal role for much of her childhood until he, too, was gone. Her grandparents hadn't been the warm and fuzzy type, but they'd been there. It was unbelievable Margaret Hawthorne could be anywhere else. Emma needed to see it for herself, which is as good a reason as any she could come up with for going home again.
    Noah's chin lifted a notch . The tense, white shock that descended over his face when their eyes first met had been replaced by mixed amounts of curiosity and something she couldn't quite read — warmth? Melancholy? Maybe both. His fingertips still worked the water glass as he said, "Her will is missing."
    Emma studied his expression, still trying to read his emotions. "Missing? What happened to her high-priced