Harper could write anywhere, but it was still a writer’s dream to have a few square feet dedicated to mental wanderings. If only she could climb up the turret and just listen, in case one of Via Belle’s many characters wanted to join her on a new journey. Or take a cart from shelf to shelf like she was at some sort of boutique shop, rescuing characters who’d never made it into a book.
Then again, the characters in her screenplays had always found her first. Like with poor Miles when he walked right onto the pages of her script, uninvited, and took over.
She’d missed hanging out with him this week.
No one but the birds and turtle heard her groan. What was wrong with her, wanting to spend time with pretend people? Most of the world would think her mad if she told them she talked to her characters.
But Via Belle would understand. Those who dreamed up imaginary friends really needed to stick together.
She wouldn’t go inside the house, of course, but maybe she could glance to see if the place was more like the mansion inLavender Ridgeor, after all these years, the hovel in Verity’s mining town.
According to her watch, it was almost two, and while she had no pressing engagement, her stomach begged to be fed. Perhaps Betsy’s daughter would serve her a late lunch at the café. She’d simply pass by the old Belle house, then find her way back to the gate. A much shorter path than following the river.
The chirp of a hidden bird accompanied her as she circled the lake path, walking toward a patch of oak trees at the base of the hill. A clear trail divided the trees, leading up to the house. Surely, no one would—
“Is that your truck?”
Harper whirled so fast that she almost tripped over a stump. A man stood between her and the lake, arms crossed over his beige T-shirt and black vest.
So much for being alone.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her breath barely a gasp, unsure if the man before her was one of the good guys. He certainly wasn’t a ghost.
His gaze didn’t leave her face as if he could read exactly what was happening in her head. “Is that your truck by the gate?”
She stood a little taller. “Technically no, but I drove it here.”
His dark blond hair, parted and perhaps even combed at one time, skewed different directions like it had forgotten which way to turn. His eyes were iron-gray, and with his cargo pants and hiking boots, he looked like he’d just stepped out of REI. More city chic than a rugged mountain man.
He was approaching thirty and would appear harmless enough if she met him in town, but out here, with no one around. Most serial killers appeared harmless before they—
She forced herself to blur out the images of those movies where single woman meets creepy man in lonely woods, not a soul in screaming distance.
Then again, she didn’t need a filmmaker to tell her to panic.
Confidence was what she needed to exude. The serials smelled fear.
“I’ll be heading home now.” Right around the wall of this pseudo mountain man.
He glanced up at the tower before looking back at her. “Do you mind telling me what you were doing by the lake?”
She brushed her hands together and checked her watch like she had someone waiting on her. Either way, she was done with this conversation. “That’s none of your business.”
He drew a cell phone from his back pocket. “I suppose we can let the Catawba police sort it out. Around here, they actually treat trespassing as a crime.”
What would Gerald and Marcia think if their houseguest was arrested for criminal trespassing? Everyone in their town would be whispering about Angeline’s girl, no longer a godsend.
“I wasn’t planning to trespass.”
He shrugged. “You can explain your plans to a judge.”
He started dialing, a loud beep for each number. Perhaps she would have to share a bit of her business before he finished. “I was just out exploring and—”
He didn’t appear the least bit sympathetic.
“I wondered where Via Belle lived,” she explained. “No harm done.”
He lowered the phone. “You know about Via?”
