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With the box of warm rolls in my hand, I walk up to the door and, finding it unlocked, let myself in.
“June?”
There’s no response to my call, so I walk farther inside and set the box on a stool by the kitchen island.
It looks great in here. Once the countertops are installed tomorrow and the last of the trim is nailed into place, the cleaning crew can come in and get it ready for June. Come hell or high water, my girl will be moved inbeforeChristmas morning.
First, though, I have to find her and make sure she’s stillmygirl.
“June?” I call out again and poke my head into both bedrooms, the bathroom, and even the small office that June decided she wanted to add.
She’s not here.
“Where the hell did she go? Mudroom?” I check, but she’s not in there either. “Damn, this is a really nice room.”
Suddenly, I smell…roses.
It’s happened before while I was living at the lighthouse, and even once or twice while I was working at the inn, but I’d never smelled it in the chapel. Rose, the former owner of the lighthouse property, and my I-don’t-know-how many-times-great-grandmother, has always been around, but she’s never left the lighthouse.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and Iknowthat this is Rose.
“Okay, what are you telling me? Is something wrong?” The scent lightens, and when I walk back to the entrance to the kitchen, it’s gone altogether. “Okay, this way?”
I walk toward the basement steps, and the scent of roses grows overpowering.
“Shit, is June down there?”
I fling open the door and run down the stairs. The lights are on, and I know that she wouldn’t leave them on if she wasn’t down here.
The door to the mausoleum is closed, and I stand in the middle of the room, trying to calm my breathing so that I can listen. After a second, I hear a thump coming from the other side of the heavy door.
“June?”
“Help!” The cry is soft, barely audible, as I rush over and try to turn the knob, but it’s locked.
“Jesus, she locked herself in there.” I turn the lock, open the door, and averyhysterical June spills out into my arms.
“Oh, god.” She clings to me, sobbing into my chest. “Apollo.”
“Come on.”
“Get me the f-f-fuck out of here.”
“You got it, baby.” I lift her into my arms, cradling her against me as I walk through the empty basement and up the steps. The smell of roses is dissipating as I take her into the main house, but before I can set her down, she shakes her head violently.
“No, not here. I need to be out of here.”
“I’ll take you to my place.”
Her face is buried in my neck as I carry her to my truck. She doesn’t want to let go of me as I settle her in the seat, but I untangle her arms from around my neck.
“You have to let go for just a few minutes while I get us home, okay?”
She doesn’t answer, but she does release me so she can pull her knees up to her chin and hold herself in a small ball.
For fuck’s sake, what happened to her down there? My first instinct is to demand she tell me what happened so I know if I have to kill someone for doing this to her.
I don’t bother to ask her—not yet, anyway—and drive to my place. Once we’re there, I go through the same motions of taking her into my arms and carrying her inside.
