by Lyla Payne
I snort, which is totally unladylike but impossible to hold in. “Besides not getting any sleep because of wondering whether or not a freaking ghost is following me around, I spent the morning in an awkward conversation with my ex-boyfriend’s wife over coffee. Apparently, I smell like a husband-stealer.”
The silence seems to indicate he’s contemplating this information, which isn’t what I expected, and stirs a bit of anger.
“Did you plan on stealing her husband?”
“That’s insulting,” I snap, quickening my steps back toward work, something I hadn’t imagined wanting to do twenty minutes ago.
Beau shrugs, as though insulting me ranks pretty low on his list of things to avoid. “First loves are hard to let go.”
“I never said first love, I said ex-boyfriend. And not that it’s any of your business, but my coming back to Heron Creek has nothing to do with William Gayle.”
Not entirely correct. My coming back here has nothing to do with wanting to rekindle the flame with Will, but the memories we share weave thick through the tapestry of my childhood and this town, the tapestry that made it seem, through hindsight, at least, safe and warm.
“You used to date Will Gayle?”
It’s the first time the mayor has shown surprise since we met, and that rousts my suspicions. “When we were kids. So what?”
His hand circles my wrist, pulling me to a stop at the library steps. It has the opposite effect of Anne’s chilly grasp, though they touch me in the same place; this time heat pours into me, swirling and pumping its way to my heart.
Those eyes, green this afternoon, project desire, with the tiniest bit of guilt swimming in the middle. “I’m sorry for pushing. We just met. You don’t have to talk about your past with me if you don’t want to.”
“You asked about my morning and I told you. There are a lot scarier things in my past than my relationship with Will, but I’m not hiding anything. Ask away.”
It occurs to me that perhaps he’s giving me space because he’s hiding something. Or plans to. The tension between him and Leo springs to mind, more interesting now that the situation is relegated to memory and not playing out in real time. Along with the fact that I don’t know much about him.
“I plan to. How else shall I solve the vexing mysteries behind those pretty green eyes?”
I snort again, unable to stop myself. Beau looks startled, and I pull my arm out of his grasp. Now it’s easier to think. “Sorry, Mr. Mayor, but I can solve one of those mysteries for you right now—I’m only a fan of romance in books and movies. In real life, it’s almost always trumped-up bullshit.”
“You realize that a true Southern gentleman can only see that as a challenge.”
“Please don’t. I beg you.”
“Graciela…would you like to go to dinner with me tonight?”
It’s weird to be flabbergasted at his request. I haven’t been out of the game long enough to miss the cues he’s been giving me, but it’s hard to believe he can’t see how wrong we are for each other.
“I mean, I’ve coerced you into spending time with me on three occasions now, so I think it’s high time I act like a man and ask you outright. Of course, if you say no, there’s always the chance I’ll keep popping up here and there. This is my town, after all.”
This is as much my town as Beau’s, no matter his job or how long I’ve been away. “You realize if I had that recorded it would be grounds for an approved restraining order.”
The smile that breaks out over his hard features, dimples and all, tries hard to crush my resistance. It makes me think that, wrong for each other or not, we’d have a pretty good time figuring out all the reasons why it will never work.
“Judge Mike would never dare. He enjoys his weekends off for fishing far too much.”
His persistence, which likely charms most women, drags an exhausted sigh from my chest. “Mr. Mayor. Beau. It’s not that I don’t like you, and for sure as hell you’re attractive—a fact that can’t escape your notice, with the way every female in this town starts drooling whenever you’re around—but I’m a mess. A big disaster of a woman at twenty-five, and I don’t think, as much as I’d like to spend more time with you, that it’s a good idea.”
“Hmm. I have to admit, like most fool men, I can lose track of things while a beautiful woman’s in front of me. Something about your mouth—your lips, likely—but either way, I’m afraid I heard nothing except that you’d like to spend more time with me. So, I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear a dress.”
“Wait, Beau—”
But he’s gone, hands over his ears like a small child, deaf to the remainder of my protests. It’s equal parts adorable and frustrating, and it’s possible he’s lost as much of his damn mind as I have, given that he’s the mayor and he’s walking down the street with his hands over his ears. People have stopped to watch, and whether or not they’ve overheard our conversation, the scene sets my cheeks on fire.
I can’t wait for Mrs. Walters to get wind of this.
The library offers respite from the onlookers, but it also harbors Mrs. LaBadie’s pointed look toward the clock, which shows that I’m three minutes late. It’s on the tip of my tongue to blame the mayor, since she likes him, but I let it go instead. At least there’s story time to prepare for, and after I wrangle a list of the most recent reads from the head librarian, I spend the next hour scouring children’s books for the right one.
And considering Mayor Beau and his proposed date.
It would be smart to blow him off. Stand him up, spend the night curled up in my blue-and-cream bed with a bottle of vodka and maybe a book on local history. Even taking a chance on another visit from Anne.
Spending time with him tempts me far too much, but I’m nowhere close to ready for a new relationship. There’s no way half the date wouldn’t be dedicated to me embarrassing myself in one way or another. Then again, he’d been warned.
No. Even just on principle, I had to refuse him. Handsome or not, charming or not, he can’t force me to do anything I don’t want to do. I’d spent way too much of the past four years playing the dutiful subservient to David and his demands, and look where that had gotten me.
A broken engagement, buckets of shame, and the complete loss of myself.
I’m sitting on a folding chair in the children’s reading area, a pile of slender illustrated books balanced on my knees, when Anne appears by the window.
“Holy shitballs!”
The books slump to the floor in a quiet but noticeable flutter of pages. We stare at each other, the ghost and I, my heart struggling to stay in my chest. If it were possible, it’d be halfway to the door.
“Why do you insist on sneaking up on me like that?” I hiss at the apparition.
“What in tarnation is going on back there, girl? You makin’ a mess?” Despite the fact that Mrs. LaBadie hollers to check on me, it’s clear from her tone of voice that she couldn’t care less if I’m hurt. She’s probably more worried about her books—not that I can blame her.
“Fine,” I manage, not taking my eyes off my new ghostly BFF.
I take a step toward Anne, trying to keep my sandwich down in the presence of her stench. Her reek grows with each encounter, but the expression in her eyes—smoldering anger laced with sad desperation—doesn’t change.
It hits me that I’ve started calling her Anne, and given up “the ghost.” Ha. It’s easier than referring to her as the woman, or the ghost, and at least this way when I inevitably start referring to her in public it will take longer for people to realize I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.
She doesn’t move, just stares at me as something like pleading strains her expression, and my frustration at our inability to communicate grows. “What? What do you want?”
That thing again, with her finger. Pointing, beckoning, all of it too vague to be helpful. Except this time she moves, shuffling until her mournful gaze focuses on the locked door to the local archives.
“The archi
ves? You want to go in?”
Anne disappears without answering, leaving the lingering smell of fish slime in the air. When Mrs. LaBadie’s weathered, lined face glares at me from around a stack, it’s clear why she scooted. Apparently Anne’s a little shy around strangers, a fact that again leaves me wondering, Why me?
“Who you talking to back here?”
A nervous giggle escapes my lips, and it occurs to me that she makes me even jumpier than Anne Bonny’s ghost. “No one. Myself. I do it all the time.”
“I’ve heard you’re crazier than a shithouse rat, and a drunk, too.” She huffs, her gaze falling toward the mess on the floor. “Makes no difference to me, as long as you keep the beasts quiet during story hour. Clean that up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m going into the archives while the children are here. I expect you’ll be able to handle it.”
She stalks off into the other room, leaving me to wonder why she came to tell me about her afternoon plans. She’s in charge here, not me, and it’s almost as though she knew what Anne wanted me to do. Knew I planned to find a way to sneak through that door the moment her back was turned.
The sounds of laughter and chatter tumble through the stacks, stick to the books like gooey little smiley faces, and a moment later the reading nook under the big, west-facing windows fills with children under the age of five. Their grins and shouts turn to curious looks peeped from behind their parent’s legs, and the joy of the moment steals away my suspicions and curiosities.
“Well, fancy running into you twice in one day.”
The voice comes from behind me, but its familiar, teasing tone brings a grin to my face. Leo grins back when I turn around, his hand engulfing a much tinier one attached to a little girl with black pigtails. Her huge, dark eyes make her the spitting image of Leo, but there are so many Boone offspring that all look alike. This one may or may not belong to him.
“Hey, Leo. I’m glad you’re here for story time—all these years I wasn’t sure you could read.”
“I can see that time hasn’t improved your manners.”
I turn my attention to the girl at his side, who gives me a tiny, shy smile. “Who’s this?”
“This is Marcella.” He squeezes her palm. “Ella to most of us.”
“Hi, Marcella.” I squat down, then hold out the two books clutched in my hand. “I wonder if you can help me decide what we’re going to read today? I can’t decide between Ballet Shoes and Do Pirates Take Baths.”
The second reminds me of Anne, and makes me grimace. Pirates most definitely do not take baths. The little girl considers the titles with a serious expression, one finger between her lips. I didn’t know Leo when he was quite this young, but I’ve never known him to sport such focus. Finally, she pokes the pirate book.
“Pirates it is! I would have chosen the same one, little lady.”
I straighten up, my gaze meeting Leo’s. He’s watching me with something new in his eyes, as though he’s never seen me before, even though we were so sick of each other’s faces in middle school I would have bought him a new one if I could have afforded it.
“Is she yours?” I ask in an attempt to nudge things back to normal.
“She’s my niece, but she’s my responsibility, yes.”
The answer births a million new questions, each one more insistent than the last, but none of them are appropriate in Marcella’s presence. I wonder which sibling she belongs to, what happened to them, and how she fell into Leo’s custody. Maybe he’ll tell me one day, but for now, the crowd at my back is getting unruly.
Heaven forbid the “beasts” and I disturb Mrs. LaBadie and her communion with her precious archives. That room is a big reason this job appeals to me, and if she continues to block me from it we’re going to have words.
The rest of the afternoon goes off without a hitch, if I ignore the looks several of the mothers launch in my direction. The slant of their eyes, the way they glance at me from underneath their lashes, as though meeting my gaze might mean having to talk to me, suggests Mrs. Walter’s rumors have spread past our little riverfront neighborhood. Damn church. The soil in that fellowship hall grows excellent cookies, true, but also gives gossip and hearsay a place to put down strong roots. From there, it spreads like ivy over stone.
Mrs. LaBadie spends the rest of the day hidden behind that locked door, but based on the fact that no noise comes from the archives, it seems likely she’s using the time for a nap. I could use one, too, and given that exactly one patron comes in before five o’clock, quitting time, I have to walk a few laps to make sure I don’t nod off at the front desk. I spend the rest of the time plotting the best way to get into those archives. Because if that batty old woman thinks she’s going to keep me out while I’ve got a ghost that won’t quit who wants in, she’s got another think coming.
Chapter Eight
In the end, I decide to go along with the date with Mayor Beau not for him, or me, but for Gramps. The memory of the looks from the mothers in the library tweaks my stomach for the rest of the afternoon. My being back in town is stirring up gossip and rumors, and sooner or later they’ll find their way to our house. Make Gramps worry, which is the last thing I want.
Beau showing up and me refusing to go out to dinner would only cause another scene. Gramps wouldn’t understand, and with Mrs. Walters’s ability to rival the U.S. Department of Homeland Security on spying, word would get out. It could mature into any number of monsters by the time it reached the end of the line—not only am I crazy, but if I’m not interested in the most eligible mayor ever to grace Heron Creek with pinstriped suits, maybe I am back in town to steal William Gayle back from sweet Melanie Massie.
And that would be the nicest result. I came here to help Gramps, to spend whatever time he has left together, not to make his life harder. Throwing a fit, clinging to the banister and screaming like a little girl determined to avoid Sunday school, won’t do. I’ll go, I’ll smile and pretend it’s my idea to be there. For Gramps.
At the end of the night, when we’re alone, I have every intention of letting Mayor Beauregard Charles Drayton—of the Charleston Draytons; I couldn’t help Googling him at the library—know, in no uncertain terms, that this isn’t what I want. I’m not ready. I want to be alone, with my memories and my failures and my booze.
And my ghost, if she insists.
Regardless of why I’m going or what I mean to say at the end of the night, my nerves refuse to back the hell off. My palms sweat so much the tube of eyeliner slips from my fingers twice, and I get ready in a bra and underwear to keep my armpits aired out. No need to start the rumor that I smell like a rotting pirate corpse.
The dress is new, bought on the way home since my laundry still waits in trash bags. That stupid to-do list haunts me more than two weeks after pulling into town, and everything is still wrinkled to hell and back. Mrs. LaBadie’s going to give me shit, probably, if I don’t show up in clean, pressed things at some point.
Tomorrow. I’ll do the laundry tomorrow, swear.
My purchase satisfies me, and the mirror reflects a girl who looks something like me. She’s skinnier than the Gracie I used to be, and the weight loss has flattened my boobs more than I care to admit. The black dress is cut well, though, and shows off the legs that have long been my one vanity.
Those and my hair, which after a wash and dry and curl with the flat iron, looks better than it has in a month. Maybe longer. My appearance leaves a bit to be desired, with the bones too prominent under my skin and the smudges that won’t vacate my under eyes, but I won’t embarrass the mayor. If we can keep it short enough, maybe my mouth won’t, either. My stomach flip-flops, then cartwheels as though it’s trying out for the next summer Olympics. A shot of vodka stops my hands from shaking, or maybe it’s my tight grip on the bathroom counter.
I stare my reflection down, checking briefly for Anne in the space behind me. “It’s a date, Graciela. I know it’s been, like, five years, but I’m sur
e it’s like riding a bike.”
Not that I’ve ridden a bike in better than five years.
The doorbell rings and startles me out of my skin. Gramps answers it, having been prepped as far as my night out, and his booming voice tangles with Beau’s smoother one. I pat my hair, swipe on some lip gloss and an extra coat of deodorant, then say a quick prayer that Gramps’s attempts to embarrass me will be minimal. He lives to tease his grandkids, and the fact that we’re both girls never slowed him down.
My mind wanders to Amelia on my way down the stairs. I wonder whether, based on our family’s history with childbearing, she expected the issues she’s having conceiving and carrying to term.
I was happy with dreams of adventures. I think I can be, again.
Beau’s face lights up, though whether it’s because of the sight of me or the fact that I manage to get all the way down the stairs without falling is hard to say.
“Graciela Harper, you look more gorgeous than ever. Thanks for not giving me any trouble about the dress.”
I bat my eyes at him, doing my best impression of innocence. “Me? I would never dream of giving you any trouble, Mr. Mayor.”
Beau rolls his eyes, and Gramps snorts. I turn to him and squeeze his hand, more than a little concerned about leaving him alone at night, even if it’s only for a couple of hours.
“You going to be okay? There’s a snack on the counter if you get hungry, and I’ll be home in time to help you to bed, so just stay in the living room until then.”
“You’d think I can’t wipe my ass without help. We’re not there yet, Gracie-baby. Stay out as late as you want, and I promise I’ll be snoring away when you get home.” He leans down and kisses my cheek, then cups it for a second. The calluses on his hand scrape against my skin, sending me spiraling backward in time to a place where things were simple, smeared with marsh mud and love.
My eyes fill with tears as he turns away to give Mayor Beau’s hand a shake. “You kids have a good time. I’d get all fatherly and give you a lecture about treating my girl with respect, but you’ll learn Grace can take care of herself. If you haven’t already.”
