“One of the paralegals,” I replied tightly. Turning away, I busied myself trying to figure out what to do with the coffee and filters. Leaving them on the counter now seemed like an epic fail. The nagging feeling of danger remained, but the pretty-boy lawyer wasn’t carrying a machete, so I figured I was safe. Safe being a relative word.
If I didn’t make eye contact, I could pretend he was fat, hairy, ugly and smelled bad—which, sadly, he didn’t. He smelled like heaven… all sexy, soapy man with some kind of clean, woodsy aftershave.
“And does the paralegal have a name?” he inquired casually.
I could hear the amusement in his voice and it ground on my nerves. His question wasn’t out of the ordinary for polite behavior. I simply despised my visceral reaction to him. He was absurdly beautiful, but looks could be wildly deceiving. I’d learned that the hard way multiple times. I certainly wasn’t going to test my theory again with an ambulance-chaser—especially one that my supervisor wanted to nail.
“No, she doesn’t,” I replied evenly and went about my business.
“Now that seems a bit odd to me,” he said, leaning on the counter.
He watched me haphazardly shove the coffee into a cabinet that held toner for the printer and the filters underneath the break table.
“Odd? Not at all. Clearly, you’re not from the south. I go by miss or ma’am, and I’ll even answer to ‘hey you’ as long as you say please and thank you,” I replied as I bravely made eye contact and then regretted it.
He could not be a lawyer. This guy had to be a movie actor doing research for a job, or possibly a serial killer. He was far too good-looking to have brains. People like him did not exist.
“Well, I have a name,” he said as he removed the coffee from its incorrect home and placed it next to the coffee maker. “Would you like to know it?”
“Nope,” I replied as I followed suit and quickly plopped the filters next to the coffee while my embarrassment mounted.
What the hell was wrong with me? I was far too jaded by men to let this one fluster me. Plus, he was a lawyer at the firm where I worked. I was a paralegal who wanted to stay employed. Bad behavior was going to bite me in the ass. I had dead people trailing me. If I lost my job, I’d have to spend more freaking time with them.
Shit.
With a huge internal sigh, I plastered a fake smile on my face and extended my hand. “Let’s start over. I’m Daisy and I was rude. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in the breakroom. Most of the lawyers around here don’t get their own coffee.”
“Laziness is a boring trait,” he commented as he readied the pot to make more coffee and ignored my outstretched hand.
What an ass. “Yep, well, you better find a new profession, buster,” I said, and then slapped my hand over my mouth. I wanted to die—violently. “Oh hell,” I choked out. “I meant…”
His laugh went all through me, and because I was clearly losing my marbles, I desperately wanted to make him laugh again, even though he had no manners and was probably a serial killer. His eyes lit up when he laughed. The man went from plain gorgeous to otherworldly beautiful.
What the hell was wrong with me? I was an idiot to be insultingly entertaining to the rude dude who had the power to send me packing.
“I have to go,” I mumbled as I felt the heat crawl up my neck and head for my face. I forced myself to meet his gaze. “It was… umm… nice meeting you. I’m sure you’ll enjoy working here. It’s a very friendly place usually. I’m the exception. Well, not always—only if people are lawyers. Whoa, whoa, whoa… that was a joke.” I tried to laugh, but it came out somewhat tinny. “A bad joke. I’m just going to leave now before I say something, you know… really stupid. So have a nice coffee and life,” I finished lamely and wondered if I could erase the last eight minutes and start over.
Sadly, life didn’t have a remote and I was stuck having to live with mortifying myself. I squinted my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. The smartest thing to do was quit my job now before I complimented his ass. However, I needed the salary so I did the second-best thing.
I ran.
I heard the Greek god call my name as I sprinted through the office toward the exit, but I didn’t look back. Today needed to be over, and I was wildly grateful to be working from home this week.
Maybe Clarissa would get her claws into… I suddenly realized I didn’t know his name. Whatever.
Hopefully Clarissa would nail him this week and he’d be damaged goods. No one wanted anything to do with Clarissa’s sloppy seconds.
Just as I expected, there were eight new ghosts sitting on my porch swing when I got home. Several looked familiar and had definitely been at the church this morning. I was curious how they knew where I lived, but figured there must be some kind of dead people hotline. Otherwise, how in the heck did they find me? I lived in the middle of nowhere on the outskirts of town.
“Dead people hotline?” I muttered as I closed my eyes and groaned. Not only had I gone insane, I was rationalizing my crazy.
There were several partially skeletal faces peeking out of the windows of my house. Along with the dead group on the wraparound porch, I’d become a regular morgue.
Planting my hands on my hips and surveying the situation, I tried to figure out how to handle it. Maybe I’d call a meeting. It was my house after all and they were here uninvited. The very least they could do was to follow some damn rules.
“Okay, umm… people. We’re having a meeting. You have two minutes to show yourselves and bring your dead selves outside. Whoever decides not to join us is no longer welcome to squat on my property,” I said, using my outdoor voice so the inside interlopers would be sure to hear the invitation.
Slowly but surely, semi-transparent dead people began to gather on the porch and in the front yard. Holy hell, how many were there? I lost count after forty-two—mostly because they kind of faded in and out of each other. After I realized I’d counted the laughing dude from the Stan debacle three times, I gave up. It didn’t really matter how many had taken up residence at my house. They were here and it seemed I didn’t have much of a say about it.
“Can anyone here speak English… or umm… Spanish? I speak a tiny bit of Spanish and I know a few phrases in French. I took it in high school, but that was a while ago,” I called out and almost burst into hysterical laughter.
What was I doing? These people were dead. Sharing my skill—or lack thereof—of foreign languages from when I was in high school over twenty years ago with dead people meant I was crazier than Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah’s couch on national television.
I still wasn’t sure they were real. True insanity had taken over. It didn’t really matter at this point if they were real or I was imagining them. I could see them and I had glued a freaking hand back on this morning. They were real enough.
No one uttered a word. Fine. If they couldn’t speak English, they most certainly could understand it. I hoped.
“Okay,” I said, pacing the grass and keeping a lookout for anyone who might drive up. It wouldn’t do to let the cat out of the bag that I’d lost my mind. “Today’s my birthday.”
I was interrupted by what I could only interpret as some kind of garbled grunting congratulations. Pretty sure a few tried to clap, but their hands went right through each other. The sentiment was nice even if the reality was alarming. I decided to go with my gut here.
“Umm… thank you.” My need to be polite bordered on absurd and definitely embarrassing. “None of you are actually invited to the party. So I think it would be a great idea if you went to the movies or maybe took a walk this evening—a three- to four-hour walk. You know, to the graveyard or somewhere appropriate like that.”
Silence.
The movies were probably a bad idea and the graveyard comment bordered on bad taste. I didn’t need them getting pissed off. Honestly, I was lonely in the big rambling house since Steve died. Maybe I’d conjured up imaginary dead friends to keep me company.
<
br /> “I’m crazier than a fish with tits,” I muttered, repeating one of Gram’s favorite phrases.
I was pretty sure some of the ghosts laughed. At least I was entertaining to someone, even if they were dead. Living alone was hard after sharing my life with a partner for so long.
The farmhouse had been a dream of Steve’s and mine. We’d bought it ten years ago and had spent the last decade fixing it up. It sat in the middle of twenty acres surrounded by lush forest. Steve was a far better decorator than I was, but I was a pro with a hammer and a gallon of paint. The hours spent improving our dream house were some of the best memories I had of my husband.
I’d also had dreams of filling our home with our children and dogs from shelters. Sometimes dreams didn’t come true. With our issues, kids were not an option.
And then Steve died. The end.
Pushing the sad thoughts away, I eyed my attentive audience.
“I’m going for a run,” I explained. “When I get back, everyone will be gone. We clear? Oh, and if anyone left a body part lying around, you need to take that with you. While I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who can see you guys, a random nose or foot lying around would freak my guests out. You feel me?
Again, no one said a word. I didn’t expect them to. If they had, I might have fainted. It would mean I’d gone from simply cracked to completely certifiable. I was fairly sure my transparent buddies understood not to leave their appendages lying around, but I’d take a walk around the house before the girls came over, just in case.
Realizing I was an idiot, I smacked my forehead. I had the rest of the day in front of me and I’d forgotten to take any work home. There was no way in hell I was going back to the office. Running into the pretty-boy lawyer was not good for my sanity.
And considering I only had a little of that left, I could take no chances.
“Absolutely not,” I huffed as I began to sprint the last mile of my run.
I noticed a few of them on mile three of my usual five miles. The dead dude who was so supportive when Stan was talking smack this morning led the pack. They floated along beside me squealing with laughter and moving their legs like they were running. They weren’t. They couldn’t. At one point during the uphill part of my run, I was jealous that I couldn’t float like they could. I needed to stop hanging out with people who should be taking a dirt nap.
“You can’t come on my runs,” I tried to explain, swiping the sweat from my face as I increased my pace. “This is my alone time to think.”
Laughing guy winked at me. I mean, I think he did. His eyes were so sunken into his head, I wasn’t sure. Not to mention, I wasn’t exactly positive he had eyelids.
“Seriously,” I complained as I noticed I was now running with at least thirty dead folks. “This isn’t working for me.”
Stopping abruptly and bending over to catch my breath, I placed my hands on my knees and stared at the ground for a long moment. What did it matter if they ran with me? Maybe the exercise was good for them.
Glancing up, I grinned when I noticed laughing dude was in the same position as me.
“Do you have a name?” I asked in a whisper.
He looked at me and moved his mouth frantically. Sadly, nothing he said made any sense.
Sitting down on the ground in the middle of the forest, I laughed when my posse of spirits joined me.
“Would a Ouija board work?” I asked, wondering how I was going to get one of those. There was no way I would buy one in town. People would think I was trying to communicate with Steve. I didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. I’d just recently stopped feeling sorry for myself.
I had chosen to live life, not hide behind my grief. The dream I’d had where my dead husband read me the riot act had helped tremendously. I knew it was most likely my subconscious speaking, but I preferred to pretend it was Steve.
Laughing dude simply watched me. No one could clue me in about the Ouija board. I’d just order it online and have it delivered. It might not work, but what could it hurt? I hoped it wouldn’t hurt. If my squatters could communicate, all hell could possibly break loose.
Whatever.
At least it was proactive.
Chapter Four
I didn’t like ham salad sandwiches. I hated them. After going to the petting zoo at the state fair a few years back and getting attached to the baby piglets, I’d sworn off pork. It was alarming to Steve, since he considered bacon a food group. However, I never gave him guff for eating Wilber and he didn’t give me crap for not. Pork was a subject where we agreed to disagree. I missed our disagreements. I missed him.
Nope. Not going there today.
No time to wallow.
Today was my birthday. I was making food for my party. Food that I wasn’t going to eat, but food nonetheless.
Basically, I’d become a vegetarian over the past few weeks. Eating meat while sitting with decomposing specters at the dinner table was impossible and gross. The upside was that I was saving money at the grocery store. Meat was expensive. Ham wasn’t allowed in the house now—tonight was the exception because Jennifer and June loved my ham salad.
Actually, all my girlfriends loved my ham salad sandwiches. I’d been ordered to make them for the party. Each gal was bringing a dish. It would be laid-back and simple, just the way I liked it. Using Gram’s secret recipe—which meant adding Miracle Whip, sliced dill pickles and a teaspoon of sugar to the chopped ham—I put the salad together without really looking at it. I felt less guilty that way.
“Hi there,” I said, glancing up to find laughing dead dude staring longingly at the ham salad.
Most of the ghosts had disappeared like I’d requested. Laughing dude and a few others remained. He sat at the kitchen table and watched me with interest. In an hour, I’d insist he and the stragglers leave too, but strangely, I enjoyed laughing dead dude’s company. I was probably close to cracking completely. Right now, I didn’t care. Laughing dude was growing on me whether he was real or not.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, knitting my brows in concern.
Could dead people be hungry? Could they eat?
Laughing dude shook his partially deteriorated head no, but pointed at the salad.
“Umm… it’s ham,” I said as he grew alarmingly more animated. “You like ham?”
I mean, I could make him a sandwich and place it in front of him. Maybe he just wanted to feel like someone cared. I knew the feeling. There was a shitload of ham salad. It didn’t matter if I wasted a little bit. I was Southern. I didn’t know how to make small batches of anything. It was a mortal sin in Georgia to run out of food at a party. I had no plans to commit any kind of sin this evening—hence my no-drinking plan.
“Sssssssssssss,” laughing dude said, pointing at the ham.
I quickly made him a sandwich as he continued to hiss. He didn’t scare me. What I perceived as his hunger made me want to cry.
Why hadn’t he moved on? Why hadn’t any of the dead people who were hanging out moved on? Wait. Was this what happened when you died? You just hung out and haunted random houses? You found a freak like me who could see you and moved in?
How completely depressing.
“Here you go,” I said, putting the plate in front of him. Grabbing a cloth napkin and pouring him a glass of lemonade, I sat down and waited to see what would happen.
If he ate it, I was in trouble. My grocery bill would skyrocket if dead people could eat. There was no way I would starve them. It was bad enough that their body parts were falling off. Not feeding them would be inhumane—not that they were technically human anymore. If dead people could eat, I was screwed.
“Sssssssssss,” laughing dude said, pointed at the sandwich. “Sssssssss.”
“It’s ham,” I told him. “Ham salad. Same stuff that’s in the bowl.”
“Ssssssss,” he said, making a motion to remove the top piece of bread.
Of course, he couldn’t do it. He tried. His hand went right through the sandwich e
ach time. The ghosts were a mystery to me in so many ways. Half the time they seemed corporeal and the other half translucent. Handless woman’s hand felt real to me, yet laughing dude couldn’t use his to remove a piece of bread.
Wait. Maybe he was gluten intolerant and needed me to take the bread off. Would the bread make him sick? Could dead people even freaking get sick? I could offer him a ham salad lettuce wrap instead. Or even better, I could skip my party and check myself into the psych ward at the hospital.
Or should I simply remove the top piece of bread so he would quit hissing and freaking out?
I chose the easiest path and removed the bread. I could swear laughing dude sighed with relief. However, he didn’t stop hissing. Now pointing frantically at the ham salad, his hissing grew louder. The game was getting weird.
Standing up and grabbing a spoon, I prepared to remove the ham salad from the bottom piece of bread—and then I froze. Laughing dude glanced up at me with a hopeful expression on his skeletal face.
Sitting down with a thud, I gripped the edge of the table and felt my entire body tingle.
“You’re trying to tell me something important,” I whispered.
Laughing dude nodded. Pointing at the ham salad, he continued to hiss. Maybe I didn’t need the Ouija board after all.
“Sssssssssssssssss.”
“Charades,” I suggested, feeling like an idiot and excited at the same time. “Do you know charades?”
He nodded.
Charades wouldn’t work. His motions were stilted and odd. Honestly, I was worried with all the frantic pointing at the ham that his entire arm might detach from his body. I didn’t have much superglue left after the hand surgery from earlier—certainly not enough to glue an arm back on.
“It’s the ham salad. Right?” I asked him.
Again, he nodded.
“You like ham salad?” I asked.
Laughing dude shook his head no and scrunched what was left of his nose.
“Neither do I,” I told him. “But it’s important?”
It's A Wonderful Midlife Crisis : A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel: Good To The Last Death Book One Page 4
