But now it was April, for heaven’s sake. Seduced by visions of new adventure, mild winters, and doing a Master’s degree at UVic’s first-rate history department, when she made the decision to move west she’d ignored the possibility that ‘mild’ equated to ‘gray’. Nothing could have prepared her for this eternal layer of stratus.
To be strictly truthful with herself, being half a continent away from Clint was a factor in her decision to move west. But she was well over that.
Right?
Now, here she stood, one year into her Master’s program, staring into a dark, dusty attic festooned with cobwebs. Instead of living in a vibrant student community, the tight housing market had landed her in the single rental room in Mrs. Roberta Cummings’ house—only lady guests, if you please—from which she lumbered along on municipal buses to the campus and returned to be buried alive in a bedroom decorated in frilly pink and white.
She fumbled for the light switch, illogically placed at the top of the stairs rather than the bottom.
This summer, as soon as she finished with the attic, she’d devote whatever time it took to finding new accommodation, somewhere to invite her few colleagues that didn’t involve a polite cup of tea with her fussy landlady. Mrs. Cummings was invariably gracious, and later offered a critique, in the kindest possible tones, of her visiting friend.
Mrs. Cummings had owned the left half of the two-story house for twenty years, since it had been divided and remodelled into a duplex. To hear her tell it, it was high time the junk abandoned by the previous owner disappeared from her pristine domain. Kate was welcome to keep anything she found under the white sheets shrouding a hundred years of furniture that, supposedly, was too good to abandon, too shoddy to use. A quick perusal last autumn had engendered visions of letters tied with faded ribbon, old fashioned jewellery, dressmaker’s dummies and fabulous dresses a century old. The fantasy had tickled the back of her mind all winter—not an impossible dream, given the age of the house.
Clint would sneer. Romantic idiocy had no role in the modern world. Got it? She’d learned early to keep her silliness to herself.
The bare bulb flickered. Forty watts, she estimated; she needed to deal with that. First, though, she treated herself to another quick survey of her assignment.
In the distance she could just make out a plywood wall separating Mrs. Cummings’ half from that of the adjoining house, which was full of rowdy students who couldn’t care less if the neighbours got a decent night’s sleep. Random shapes crowded the space, made mysterious by dust covers which appeared not to have been disturbed since the underlying items were banished from downstairs rooms. Like ghosts in the half light, the sheets dared her to whip them off. The dust alone could start a garden, Kate’s cynical mind speculated, something James Bay residents excelled at. Even now, spring bulbs flowered manically in every garden despite the chilly overcast.
First things first. Kate turned her back on her assignment, fled downstairs, grabbed her waterproof jacket from the coat rack by the front door, and set off for the hardware store to buy a light bulb. She’d beg a lamp or two from Mrs. Cummings later, assuming she found electrical outlets up there.
The tall, skinny guy from next door, the one with the glasses and that mass of unruly, blondish curls—didn’t he own a comb?—lounged on the shared porch with his ubiquitous mug of coffee, looking unkempt in faded jeans and a hoodie. She gave him a curt nod as she passed him.
~~*~~
As Kate thumped down the stairs, one of the ghostly shapes shifted, just enough to keep her in its line of sight until the door closed behind her. The shape, which assumed an uncanny resemblance to an elderly man, nodded. “Yep,” it muttered. “Feisty. She’ll do him well.”
~~*~~
Gripping his coffee and inhaling the damp April air, Jamie watched Kate’s precipitous departure. Something had set her off. Nothing new there. She stomped around as if she considered the bus she caught in the morning an affront to western civilization. He’d never seen her in anything but black. A cobwebby thing decorated her short, dark hair, a fact she obviously wasn’t aware of. The occasional day they’d shared a commute, he’d learned her first name, degree, and major but nothing more.
That hadn’t stopped him from keeping track of her. Not his usual type, perhaps, but something about her intrigued him. His sister would call it pheromones; he called it curiosity.
After she turned the corner, her petite, trim shape storming in the direction of the little shopping centre embedded in the heart of James Bay, he gulped the last of his coffee and went indoors, the screen door crashing closed behind him.
Note to self: fix the door. As the only living member of his family residing in what was left of his ancestral home, he kept the undergrads boarding under his roof in line, mostly. Not a bad gig; at least it meant free accommodation and rental income.
The little dynamo didn’t need to know that every year Mrs. Cummings—no one he knew had the nerve to use her first name, other than his Gramps—took in whatever lost waif turned up on her doorstep. If the girl was lucky, she’d escape before she was smothered in old-fashioned décor and equally outdated ideas about food, dress, and behaviour. If she wasn’t lucky… well, a couple of times over the years he’d found the waif-of-the-moment at his adjacent door, frantic for normal, and eager to detail all the horrors of life under Mrs. Cummings’ half of the shared roof, in exchange for a burger and a beer.
No doubt about it, this year’s resident tugged at something in him, but so far he hadn’t explored it, certain that with her attitude she was bound to brush him off. The whole non-situation had to come to a head soon, though, because Mrs. Cummings’ captives never lasted longer than a school year. Any day now she’d be gone.
All was still in the house. The undergrads were either studying or sleeping off an end-of-exams celebration. Jamie dropped his mug in the sink and jogged up the stairs to the attic. There was little to be seen other than a battered chest of drawers and the suitcases that had arrived with the undergrads.
He switched on the light. “Gramps?” he asked quietly. Touching bases with the old fellow had become a kind of Saturday morning routine.
A shape materialized through the plywood. “Damn wall,” it grumbled. “Gives me splinters.”
“It does not. Let’s stick to the laws of nature, shall we? You’re a ghost. No flesh, no bones, ergo no splinters.”
“Symbolic, Jamie. Your young lady’s into poetry. I’m practicing metaphors here.”
His lady? In his dreams. Jamie peered at the etheric figure sceptically. “How do you know?”
“All the stuff on her desk. Books, poems in a notebook…” The spectre put its hand up to its mouth. “Oops.”
So Kate was a closet romantic, despite the attitude and the short, spiky hair—although to be fair, it was growing out. Interesting. But… “You’ve been snooping again, haven’t you? Gramps, you’re going to get yourself into more trouble than you can get out of one of these days.”
The ghost rumbled a laugh. “My talents are myriad. Learned a thing or two in my time, yes sir.”
Jamie sighed. It would be easier to force a gallop out of those plodding horses that pulled carts full of tourists around downtown than to extract a straight answer from his Gramps. “Is that what’s got her riled up this morning? Does she know you’ve been poking in her room?”
“Nah.” The shape made a dismissive gesture. “Spunky, that one. She was just up in the attic. You wouldn’t believe how much stuff’s over there. Guess she didn’t like what she saw, but she promised Roberta she’d clean it out. Fine figure of a woman, that Roberta, back in the day.” He smacked his lips.
“Gramps!” Jamie hissed. “You’re too old to be thinking those kinds of thoughts.”
The ghost gave him the eye. “Not really. I am too dead, though. I concede that.”
“Please,” Jamie pleaded.
The ghost of his grandfather pulled his mind out of the gutter with a visible effort
. “Artifacts. Bet you didn’t even know all that junk was over there. It was ours once, right back to your great-great grandparents. Next thing, she’ll be selling family heirlooms.”
Jamie wasn’t surprised to hear about the clutter on the other side of the plywood. Mrs. Cummings’ side held the original staircase, so any old possessions naturally had congregated over there. “Any true heirlooms got carted off to pay my dad’s—and your son’s, I might add—debts.” Jamie hesitated. “So tell me… what do you think of Kate? Without innuendo, please, do you approve?”
“To carry on the family name? No brood mare, that one. Frisky filly, and liable to buck if you don’t give her her head.”
Jamie sighed again. Gramps had that effect on him. “She’s not a horse.”
The ghost grinned. “Got your goat, eh? No time to waste mooning around, kiddo. Make your play soon, or you’ll lose her.”
“Like I ever had her.”
“Think Clark Kent. Removal of glasses. Miraculous transformation.”
Almost as a reflex, he took off his glasses. Gramps stayed in focus; must be a quality of ectoplasm. But Superman? Superman wasn’t an accountant.
“Goodbye, Gramps.”
“Talk to you soon, son.”
Jamie shoved his glasses back on his nose and left the attic, little wiser than when he’d arrived.
He made another cup of coffee, unearthed a stale donut from a box in the fridge, and sat at the beaten-up Formica table in the outdated kitchen, brooding. Kate chose not to know he existed, despite eight months of casual effort. But suppose he possessed something she wanted, like the inside track on the historical significance of the junk in the attic…
He found himself hoping that a few heirlooms had been overlooked.
CHAPTER TWO
Jamie herded the last of the undergrads out the door and sanitized the kitchen before climbing the stairs again. By late morning the donut energy had worn off, and he planned to pick up a sub for lunch—but the old house was anything but soundproof, and there was activity in the other half of the attic.
First, he arranged the undergrads’ assorted bags in the hall at the foot of the stairs. They’d be gone in a week; he just might throw a little private party to celebrate. Surely he’d never been that young. Then he walked over to the old chest of drawers, positioned next to one of the studs supporting the plywood wall. The barrier extended only eight feet up; above that were open rafters. A power feed snaked down from the roof. It seemed to be in good condition, metal clad, ending in the double outlet.
On the other side of the wall, Kate was pushing around something heavy, with no light. She was so small, almost skinny… like a little mouse, except for the tigress attitude warning him to keep his distance.
But hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained. To revert to his grandfather’s unfortunate use of every cliché in the book.
So he wouldn’t startle her, he called out, “Hello!”
He got a grunt in response.
On the chest sat a lamp dating, he guessed, from his Gramps’ day, with crystal dangly things, a fabric cord, and a shade that looked as if a cat had gnawed on it. He said a quick prayer against electrocution before pushing the little black thingy that switched it on. The newish bulb filled the room with 100-watt brilliance.
Artifacts, huh? He remembered the bureau from his childhood, and a treasured set of Matchbox cars hidden in it. A check of the drawers turned up nothing but an old school exercise book. He took it out and leafed through the yellowed pages. Algebra from the late nineteen forties, his Aunt Jane’s name scrawled on the inside cover. He tossed the book back in the drawer.
Where was Gramps, anyway?
~~*~~
Faint light filtered through the grubby window tucked under the eaves. Kate carefully balanced in the near dark on Mrs. Roberta Cummings’ four-step utility ladder and reached for the bulb, currently extinguished, hanging from the rafters at the end of a long cord. She could just reach it… almost… if she dared go to the very top step without anything substantial to brace against.
She climbed, stretched, overbalanced, and jumped down with no grace whatsoever to avoid a tumble. Damn. The bulb must be ten feet or more above the floor. She wasn’t tall enough. Heck, she wasn’t tall at all, a fact Clint had lamented whenever he got the chance. Like she could do anything about it.
Kate looked around, spotted a tallish shape that looked solid, and carefully removed the dust cover. Yes! After allowing herself a fist pump, she folded the material with the dusty side in and shoved the six-drawer dresser to position it under the light.
She’d have sore muscles tomorrow for sure. The dresser was weightier than expected. Full of treasures? But she forced herself to be pragmatic. All old furniture weighed a ton. No reason to expect… well, anything, really. Hadn’t life taught her to curb her expectations?
Still, maybe…
Footsteps next door, then the rafters suddenly lit up. Disoriented, she looked around, her eyes wide—because the attic, even with the additional illumination, was spooky. All morning she’d fought off the uneasy feeling she was being watched.
At least she could now see what she was doing. And hear someone on the other side.
It was the blond guy. He shouted a greeting. She grunted, temporarily out of breath.
The catch in her throat was from shifting the bureau, not from the guy. For eight months she’d made a point of not noticing him.
More light from next door. Hardly fair.
From the short ladder, it was an easy clamber onto the chest, and from there she succeeded in giving herself the gift of wattage just as the lights went off next door.
Back on terra firma, she considered breaking for lunch but rejected the idea. The more she conquered before food, the better. Gingerly, because she wanted to get through this without buying a dust mask, she began removing, folding, and stacking the dust cloths.
A life’s worth of furniture—several lives—gradually took shape, slowing the unveiling down considerably. Who could resist opening drawers, poking in boxes? In amongst the outdated items she found an old lamp with cut crystal trim. She’d already ascertained that a power line ran down the stud—but no outlet. If it existed, the wall prevented her accessing it. She needed that outlet. Punch a hole in the wall, perhaps?
She pounded on the plywood and shouted, “Hey! Next door!”
The only answer she got was her stomach, growling in protest.
Okay, food first. Options were limited to a polite sandwich involving cucumber with Mrs. Roberta Cummings or another walk to the village.
No contest. She wiped her hands on her once pristine black jeans, switched off her new ceiling light, and descended, hauling the utility ladder behind her.
~~*~~
Gramps showed up just as Jamie stepped out of the shower, debating whether to bother shaving. “Your young lady’s been up there again,” he reported.
“I’m aware.” Maybe from hunger or because he was standing there stark naked, maybe the absence of his Matchbox cars had been a bigger disappointment than he’d expected, but he lacked the patience to fence with his ghostly grandfather. He wrapped a towel around his waist.
“She’s looking for a power outlet,” the wraith explained as if to a four-year-old. “And you’ve got one.”
Jamie’s mood lifted as his logical mind grasped the concept. “She needs light.”
“Go buy a giant extension cord, son,” the spectre said. “Toss it over the wall. She’ll be grateful, you’ll see.”
He could be as wily as his grandfather. “If I offer first…”
“Atta boy. Give her a chance to show her gratitude. You might even get a walk in the park out of it.”
He wanted more than a walk in the park, but saw no need to belabour the point. Courtship, he’d already concluded, had proceeded at a different pace in his grandfather’s day.
Could his grandfather have been speaking euphemistically?
Electing to skip the shave—
it was Saturday, after all—he dressed and grabbed his jacket, grateful that his Gramps appeared to be confined to the second floor and the attic. As he bolted down the stairs, he calculated the length of extension cord he’d need.
~~*~~
Kate locked the front door, turned, and her nose collided with the skinny guy’s chest. Jared? Or Jason? Something like that. As she regained her balance, she looked up and…
Skewered by a pair of the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
Clint’s were hazel. Sometimes he’d affected eyeliner.
How had she missed his eyes all these months? The glasses? Momentarily empty-headed, she said nothing, but her stomach chose that moment to announce itself.
At first he looked as stunned by their collision as she was, but then he grinned. “I heard that. Want to share a sub?”
Jamie. That’s what it was. “ I have too much to do.”
They both turned right out of the white garden gate. Kate couldn’t come up with any way to shake him, so she did her best to ignore him… and the electrifying effect of his eyes.
Clint. Now that was a man’s name. Not Jamie. A person named Jamie could be a girl.
Clint, snorting lines on Saturday night and radiating contempt for anything older than six months and that edginess, and his… expectations.
“You’re from back east, right?” her unwanted companion asked, jerking her free from her memories.
“What makes you say that?”
“A hunch, based on your low tolerance for the winter cloud. Every day you scowl more. Happens to everyone, the first few years. Trust me, the sun’s due to come out tomorrow. And Ontario’s flowers aren’t blooming yet, I bet.”
Dreams and Promises: Love, Loss and Redemption in a Land of Infinite Promise Page 15
