Who the hell was Sarah Price, and what connection did she have in all of this?
* * *
Sarah woke with a start. Her bedroom was filled with sunlight, despite the fact she couldn’t recall ever going to sleep in the first place.
She sat up, turned off the light on the nightstand. She’d left it on because the dark suddenly didn’t seem so friendly anymore. She didn’t know which she was most afraid of now: the stranger or worse yet, knowing that maybe there was no stranger. That maybe she had imagined the whole thing. That maybe she was going crazy. It ran in her family, after all. Look at Uncle Stan.
She pushed herself further up in bed, looked around her tiny apartment which was the second floor of The Bookworm. Boxes, still unpacked, cluttered the room. She and Art had bought a beautiful 1800s Victorian on the southeast side of Syracuse. She had painstakingly redecorated it over the years between while working part time at The Book Connection. Every dollar she’d made had gone into that house. She’d gone to auctions and filled it with period furniture. The roll-top desk, the only piece of antique furniture that she hadn’t sold, sat on one side of the room. The Tiffany lamp sat on her nightstand. They didn’t seem to fit the grandeur of this unfinished loft.
She wondered about the family who had bought her house, wondered if they were happy there. She remembered when she’d met them. They had one grown son in Seattle and no grandchildren. No doubt they would change the baby’s room into something else.
Sadness settled dark and heavy on her. Today would be difficult. They always were when she thought of Michaela, the name she’d planned for her, especially when she thought of her so early in the morning. And today she had so much to do.
Mister Cuddles leaped on her bed and padded his way to her lap. She hugged the twenty-pound mass of gray fur. It would be too easy to stay in bed all day…
She could stay here and feel sorry for herself, but she had done too much of that already. And besides, she told herself, life was betting better. She’d dreamed of owning a bookstore all her life, and now she did. Living one’s dream was something few ever did.
She heard something downstairs. Panic stood the hairs up on the back of her neck. What if it was the stranger? She’d never been haunted before—was that what this was? Haunted? Wasn’t haunting only done at night? She went downstairs and snapped on the light. Her store was in perfect disorder. Exactly as she had left it.
Just her imagination. As usual.
She went back upstairs, quickly showered, and dressed in baggy jeans and a white tee shirt.
She made her bed slowly, taking time to smooth out the wrinkles and pile it with pillows that she’d either bought or inherited from her grandmother. Her bed, it seemed, was the one thing that the move hadn’t affected. It was the one thing she kept neat, never disarrayed like her life seemed to have become. And she vowed to make it everyday, even on the days that felt like she didn’t have time to breathe.
She wondered suddenly where the order in her life had gone. Back home, when she’d had a husband and a house, there were afternoons when she literally had nothing to do. Time to read or watch a movie or just talk to Mom on the phone. And now she couldn’t recall even an hour of possessing such leisure.
She carried Mister Cuddles downstairs and set him on the counter where he could look out the window. The phone rang making her jump.
“The Bookworm.” She put on her cheeriest customer service voice. “Sarah speaking. How may I help you?”
“Sarah.”
“Art.” Today would be a bad day.
“How are you?”
“Good. I, uh-wonderful.”
“Getting your store ready?”
“I open in four days.”
Silence on the other end. She read his thoughts. Art had never approved of her working at The Book Connection, had always told her to get a fulltime job or at least one which would pay more. She could only imagine what he must think of her pursuing her “pipedream”.
She wondered if Tanya was there with him. She’d later learned from half the neighborhood, who apparently had known about Art’s affair months before she herself ever did, that Art and Tanya met at a grocery store. In the frozen food section, to be exact, where Tanya had dropped her can of soup and Art had gallantly retrieved it before it rolled into the TV dinners. If that wasn’t something right out of Days Of Our Lives, she thought bitterly.
“Listen,” his tone was upbeat. “I called to ask you something.”
“Of course you did.”
“Why are you being sarcastic?”
Because you’re a self-centered ass, she wanted to say.
A sigh came from his end of the line. “I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Why change now?” She couldn’t help herself.
“I’m marrying Tanya.”
Sarah swallowed. She knew this would come, had known it for over two years. She just hadn’t expected it today. To deny it hurt, all the same, would be a lie. She’d been divorced a little over a year now. One year to get over five miserable years of marriage should be enough. But somehow it wasn’t.
“Sarah, did you hear me?”
“Why did you call?”
Long pause. “I need the ring.”
Sarah started to speak, but was too dumbfounded to form words. There was nothing to say, she supposed. When one’s ex called out of the blue to request the return of the engagement ring, the symbol of the promise to love you forever, despite the fact that Tanya—twenty-two, petite, perky, a paralegal who didn’t waste her life as a parttime bookstore clerk—had broken the bonds of that promise—She was getting a headache.
“You know it was my grandmother’s.”
Yes, she knew. A three-carat marquee cut imported from England. It had belonged to Colette Price, whose husband came all the way from Europe and built up his furniture business in the tradition of the American Dream. Art had presented the ring to her on Christmas Eve at his parents’ home in Lafayette. His entire family had been present. They’d all hugged her and welcomed her to the family. Now they treated her like the plague.
She felt a lump form at the base of her throat. She wanted to be sarcastic again.
“Are you still there.”
“You already took the house I loved.”
“I didn’t take it. We sold it.” His tone was defensive. “If you wanted the damned house, you could have paid me off. You’re the one who had to have—”
“The bookstore,” she finished for him. And there it was. Her store. It always came to this. Throughout their five year marriage, Art would always bring it up. Every time he heard of a business going under, whether he read it in the paper or heard it from one of his partners, he’d throw it in her face. “Another business gone. Aren’t you glad you never went with that ridiculous bookstore idea of yours? You’d be in their shoes right now.”
How dare he have the balls to call her up and try to take one more thing from her. Especially so he could give it to Tanya.
“The answer is no.” She clenched her teeth. “The ring’s mine.”
“You’re just being bitter.”
“Maybe.”
“Look, I’ll come up and get it.”
Wasn’t he just the hero? “You’re not welcome here.”
“You’re being childish.”
She felt a nerve along her temple throb. “Maybe I sold it.”
The ring was tucked in the bottom of her underwear drawer along with her wedding band, but that was nothing he needed to know. The thought of selling both rings had crossed her mind countless times. She could get a pretty penny for the engagement ring alone, she knew. And she could certainly use the money. Keeping them was just a reminder of her poor judgment in men.
“It was my grandmother’s,” he said again, as if it would somehow cause her to take pity on him. .
“It’s mine now.”
“Don’t think for a minute—”
“Art, I don’t have time for this. I have work to
do.” She slammed the phone on the receiver.
She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples with her fingertips. She struggled to deny the hurt, the emotions that still betrayed her by digging in and exposing the rejection and feelings of failure. To say she had never loved Art was foolish, just as foolish as trying to talk herself into believing he’d leave Tanya if only she were a better wife and spent less time at the bookstore or refinishing their home.
Growing up a child of divorce, she’d watched Mom grow bitter and resentful of marriage and anything to do with love. She wondered if she would come to hate the institution that once promised a life of happiness. She supposed it was inevitable. The apple, as they say, didn’t usually fall far from the tree.
Sometimes she would lie awake at night and wonder if she still loved Art. Or if she’d ever really loved him at all. She didn’t have room for love when she held so much anger for him.
She opened her eyes and stared out her storefront window. The sidewalks were littered with tourists. Some stopped and looked in her window to read her grand opening banner. When they walked away, she noticed one still remained.
She put her hand over her mouth to stifle a shriek.
The stranger.
As if on cue, he saw her. He lifted his chin, as if acknowledging her.
Her heart went up in her throat. She was insane. There was no doubt about it now. She was going crazy.
She ran to the door and locked it.
And then it happened again. Just like she suspected it would.
CHAPTER FOUR
The stranger materialized through the wall.
He stood in the middle of Sarah’s bookstore, right between the romance and sci-fi section. His frown was deep set, as if he’d just received terrible news.
Sarah frantically shook her head. Her pulse beat like a jackhammer. She wasn’t going to faint again. If she did, this thing—this figment of her imagination—would have power over her. And she’d come too far to let anyone control her ever again.
“I’ve not afraid of you.” She held her chin up, refused to allow him to sense her fear.
“I’m glad.”
When he stepped toward her, she took two back and bumped into the cash counter. “Get away from me.”
“You are afraid of me.”
“You’re not real.”
“I am. And you can see me.”
“You’re just a figment of my imagination.”
“I don’t know what I am anymore.” He took two more steps toward her. “But I know I’m real.”
She jumped up on the counter. She searched for a weapon, but came up with only books.
“I will not hurt you.”
“W-why are you doing this to me?”
“You can see me when no one else can. I need to know why.”
“Because I’m crazy.” She jumped behind the counter. She yanked the frothing tube from the cappuccino machine and wielded it like a knife.
“What is the year?”
“2005.”
“Good Christ!” He ran his hand in his hair. He backed away, walked toward the door, then paced back to her.
Sarah stayed behind the counter. “You’re not real.”
He charged her so fast she had no time to run. He slapped both palms on her counter. “If I’m not real then why do you ask me questions? If I was part of your imagination, you would already know the answers.”
“What the hell are you?”
“I’m dead.”
Sarah gaped at him. There was desperation in his expression. It was as if he’d just learned his fate and refused to accept it.
Ghosts didn’t exist. They were merely the subjects of late night stories told to scare children.
She grabbed her purse from behind the counter and took out her medication. They were pills prescribed by a therapist she’d visited twice after her divorce. The tiny blue tablets promised to lift her spirits and make it easier to cope. She found out through experience that her bitterness was ample therapy.
She turned to the sink, poured a coffee mug of water, and gulped down a double dose. When she turned around, he was behind the counter standing inches behind her.
Sarah shrieked.
He jumped.
She picked up the frothing tube again and jabbed it toward him. “Get back!”
He walked around to the opposite side of the counter.
Sarah lowered her weapon. “Don’t do that again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And don’t ever come through my wall again.”
The ghost frowned. He balled his hands into fists and glared as if suddenly irritated with her. “You’re not the only one suffering through this.”
“Don’t drag me into your problems.”
“No one can see me but you.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Well, it’s your responsibility. You’re in this just as much as I am, and I intend to find out why. No matter what.”
* * *
The grand opening of The Bookworm came with mixed blessings. A consistent stream of people came all day, but few actually bought anything. Sarah’s day passed in a blur. Worries raced thought her mind faster than the speed of light. Maybe her prices were too high. Maybe the coffee sucked. Maybe the place was a joke. Maybe she was a joke. No one would buy anything from her store. The idea of opening one in the first place was the stupidest thing she’d ever done. And there was Nathan McGraw…
Thankfully, he had not returned last night.
The more she thought about it, the more she realized he was right. Nathan wasn’t a figment of her imagination. If he was, he couldn’t possess to know about things she herself didn’t already know about. She didn’t know if it was possible, but right now she didn’t know anything anymore, it seemed.
Except one thing: She needed to hire an assistant.
There was no way she could handle the bookstore and the cappuccino counter together. She hadn’t planned on hiring help, at least not for another six months or so, when steady money was coming in. But it seemed like she didn’t have a choice. She would put a help wanted sign in the window as soon as the crowd settled.
“Miss, do you think it would be remotely possible to give me some service?”
Sarah looked up from behind the counter. The first thing she noticed about the sarcastic man seated on the other side was his glasses. Jet black, they took up his face like a snorkeling mask.
“What can I get you?”
“Do you have The Shining?”
“Who is the author?”
The man, he must have been about fifty, rolled his eyes as if she were the stupidest creature on the planet. “King. The master of horror. Are you new here?”
“The entire store is new. I’m sorry.” She raced to the bookshelf and found it on the top shelf. “I guess I should have put that one out front.”
“I should say so.” He took it from her. “It’s a classic.”
He flipped through the pages as if he were inspecting it for defects. Sarah stared at his eyebrows. They were as dark as his glasses, thick and bushy unlike his head which was as bald as a spanked baby’s bottom.
He reached into the back pocket of his corduroys and pulled out his Visa. He looked her up and down with obvious disapproval. Sarah usually wasn’t one to stereotype, but she couldn’t help but wonder if he was gay.
“You’re not from Lake George.”
“I just moved here.” Since he was one of her few paying customers, she held out her hand. “Sarah Price. I own The Bookworm.”
“I was transferred here myself.” He didn’t take her hand. “Eight God awful years ago.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m retired.” He sighed. “I don’t know how anyone can call ‘retired’ a career. I was an art teacher. Little hoodlum bastards. They don’t appreciate you any more than they do the arts. They just put in their time, and I suppose that’s what I did at the end.”
His harsh exterior seemed to fa
ll away. She followed him back to the coffee counter where he pulled out the first stool and sat.
He drummed his fingers on the King novel. “You need an art section. Did you even think of an art section?”
“No, I guess I didn’t.”
“You see? No one cares anymore.” He handed her his credit card and she ran it through. “How long do you plan on staying in business?”
The little man’s question took her off guard. She didn’t plan on ever going out of business, but she’d been so wrapped up in the present, she realized that she hadn’t given thought to the future. The thought that her business may not be successful hadn’t really crossed her mind, despite all the things she’d read and heard about chain bookstores destroying the smaller, independently owned stores. She’d always believed that her sheer drive and determination to make her dream succeed was all she needed. She’d put everything she owned into her business, including her share of the money from the sale of the house after the divorce. If The Bookworm was not successful she would be forced into bankruptcy. And then what?
That was a possibility she didn’t want to think about.
“I’ll be here until someone forces me to retire.”
She almost thought she saw his glasses fog up. Then he extended his hand. “Therman Biddleman.” He paused, as if waiting for a response. A response she supposed he must get often with a name like that. “You can call me Therm.”
Then he smiled. It was her first happy paying customer.
* * *
Nathan trailed down the dark galley of Fort William Henry. The last of the visitors were gone, and the guard dogs had been left to roam inside as they pleased. They still couldn’t see him, but they seemed to have become used to his presence.
He’d been here fourteen nights. He didn’t think his mood had ever been so sour. He wanted to hit something. He wanted to find out all the things that had happened. He wanted to find Sarah Price.
He went to the north bastion and stared out over the Lake of the Sacrement, Lake George, as he’d learned it was now called. To the east stood French mountain. Prospect lie to the west. Farther out, Rattlesnake Cobble.
Maggie Webb.
The name came to him from out of nowhere. He wasn’t sure if it had appeared in his head or if someone—or something—had just whispered it in his ear. Maggie Webb was a name he’d never heard in his life. He was sure of it.
Ghost Of A Chance Page 3
