How To Bring Your Love Life Back From The Dead

by Wendy Sparrow

  Carly no longer looked snide, only baffled. Then, her eyes narrowed as if she was staring straight into Ana’s soul—right before she sucked Ana’s humanity out with a horrible suctioning, squelching noise.

  “That’s not how you know him?” she asked Ana.

  “Know who?”

  Was Carly completely unable to speak clearly? This coyness made her want to rip Carly’s arms off and smack Carly upside the head with them. It wasn’t her fault Ana was out of sorts; people were just being extraordinarily annoying today. And Carly was Carly. They’d once worked together on a fundraiser for the library. It was the longest two hours of Ana’s life, and it ended with them both muttering obscenities under their breaths. Ana had used her entire knowledge of profanity that day…and she’d briefly dated a Marine—it was extensive.

  Carly gestured for Ana to follow her. They walked back into the private collection room which Ana had been avoiding until dark. It felt pathetic to hang around when Shane wasn’t here. In the corner of the room, amongst a dozen landscapes portraying lame rural scenes, sat a full-size painting of her ghost. In the portrait, he was standing in the C. Franklin Collection room, staring into a book with a thoughtful frown on his face. The painter had managed to capture a lot of his personality in there. You could see the arrogance in his stance and the frown that was charming and a bit of a pout. It was as if being painted had pissed him off. You could tell he was a bad boy. A scoundrel. Her hormones sat up at attention.

  “How did I miss this?” Analise asked.

  Carly was back to looking snide. “Beats me. We used to get teenage girls mooning over him in here so we made this a room that needs approval.” The Franklin Collection room housed all the rare books for the entire library as well as a plethora of small printings of local books. There was a velvet rope across the entrance with a sign that said “See front desk for approval.”

  “So, who was he?” Ana asked. The hair on the back of her neck was prickling up as if someone was watching her. Was he here?

  Carly laughed—a stupid grating laugh that sounded like a horse neighing. Was it wrong to smack someone just for an annoying laugh? Of course, one didn’t need the accompanying eye roll from Carly to know that she was laughing at you—and never with you. “Your great, great grandfather’s business partner.” Once again, the ‘duh’ was implied. How did people like her make it to adolescence? If they ever were put on a committee together again, Ana would have to renege or face a prison sentence, and the feeling was obviously mutual. “He disappeared shortly after this painting was completed and was never seen again.”

  That shows what Carly knew. Ana had certainly seen him since. Not only had she seen him, but she’d gained some carnal knowledge of him. Hah. Take that, Carly. Still, mentioning that might negate the approval she’d gotten to stay another night after-hours in the collection room working on “research.”

  “That’s about all anyone knows but, still, as he had a connection to your great, great grandfather, you’d think you’d know that,” Carly said. “He was his partner after all. Their business made your family rich.” She looked down her nose at Ana. She had a really long nose to look down too. “I guess maybe you don’t care where the money comes from as long as it keeps coming?” There was that horsey laugh again. Gah. Ana had heard rumors that her cousin Max dated Carly on and off, and how could he stand it? That laugh! Ana was two seconds from braining her with a nearby book.

  But she didn’t. She took a deep breath and focused on the painting in front of her.

  Having disavowed being “rich” after Keaton, Ana could shrug off Carly’s comments, literally and figuratively. Whatever. Ana wanted to live without money for a change. It’d never made her happy. In fact, finding out Keaton was more attracted to her money than her, had set her self-esteem back to junior high when she’d had braces and even less control on her unruly hair than she did now. No one likes to know that given the choice between a hundred thousand dollars and the person you’ve professed to love…well, Keaton had taken the money and run. Ana hadn’t touched a penny of her family’s money in over a year. And she was doing great. She was earning her own place in the world, and it felt like a hundred thousand bucks.

  “It must be nice having money,” Carly said.

  Ana shrugged again, just to be annoying. It worked.

  With a growl of irritation, Carly stalked off muttering about restocking all the books thoughtless people yanked out.

  Finally. After she’d left and Ana had looked around to ascertain she was the only one there, Ana whispered to the painting, “Shane?” She swore she could feel a presence. She might be crazy. Hell, she might be certifiable. After all, she was talking to a ghost—or hoping to anyway. Her skin shivered with what felt like a caress, but maybe that was her imagination.

  *****

  Shane jumped at her voice, though he could do nothing. Well, nothing that wouldn’t scare her. He could make the air colder and sometimes blow things around. If he really concentrated, he could make the air around him freeze long enough that someone saw a vapory form, but that seemed mean. Shane normally reserved that for the librarian who had just left the room. He didn’t dislike many people during the day, but he didn’t like her. Not at all. That other woman. Carrie? Catty? No, that was what he called her in his head.

  “Shane?” the redhead whispered again. Then, she smiled at the painting—not realizing he was watching from a few feet away beside her.

  She talked to paintings—that was funny. Maybe she only talked to paintings of living things, though. There were sheep in the painting next to him. It would be funny if she walked up to the painting and said, “Sheep!” Yeah, that would be funny.

  The pretty redhead was the one he’d been watching for all day. She was the one. He had no idea what that meant, but she was the one. She’d come with that other woman, the catty librarian, who used to take her lunch breaks in front of his painting. Just having the pretty redhead here made him feel better. It felt as if he almost had form. That was nice. Hopefully she’d stay around longer. His nighttime self wanted to see her. His nighttime self would know why too.

  Shane looked at the painting of the sheep. Sheep. It was even funny when he did it. His nighttime self wouldn’t find it as funny. His nighttime self was boring and stuffy.

  Sheep!

  Then, he looked at his painting and thought Shane! but it wasn’t as funny—not really.

  *****

  It was as if Ana could feel him nearby, but he couldn’t communicate. Clearly that whole sundown thing was a hard and fast rule as it seemed. Still, it felt strange to walk off after calling his name without letting him know that she wasn’t brushing him off.

  “I’m going to go find out more about you,” Ana whispered.

  The private collection was primarily about the city’s history and books by notable authors who’d lived there. There were older books that had come from her family’s personal collection also, but the bulk of the books were about Seaside’s population of eighty thousand that her great, great grandfather had been a founding member of. History—it had a lot of history in it. Some of the country. Some of the county. A lot of the city of Seaside. As Shane had also been a part of the original town’s ancestors—there should be something in one of these books about him.

  Since she didn’t want Carly back in there following her, Analise was more careful about which books she pulled out. There was no more of the quick flipping through she’d been doing with the books on ghosts. The town’s history was colorful and seemed thorough—with one exception. Besides the painting, it was as if Shane had never existed. Even accounts of her great, great grandfather’s business and its overnight success didn’t include more than a mention of Shane. She was only able to find where Charles Franklin had insisted he be declared legally dead after a decade of being missing. So ended the sad short history of the man haunting her. How had he disappeared for so long without anyone searching for him? His family had died in a cholera outbreak w
hen he’d have been a teenager, but did he have no one else?

  It made her chest ache. Maybe that was why he’d acted so arrogant. When you were on your own, you put up a good front…or façade. Ana would use the word façade, but Jenny would punch her for it. That word of the day calendar was…insidious.

  Insidious—sinister; devious; stealthy.

  Insidious was last Tuesday’s word. Everything had smacked of insidiousness ever since then.

  She shook her head to clear it.

  Right. Shane. Her ghost.

  Someone must have cared that Shane had disappeared. There was no way the man she’d met could have little to no impact on those around him. Even his painting had a following. If the women of Seaside hadn’t noticed he’d gone missing, they all deserved to be dead because, really, he was a guard-your-daughters type of sin on legs.

  No. People must have noticed. In fact, she was beginning to suspect his history had been purposefully left out. It was the only explanation. When she found a few books with missing pages, she was sure of it. Hmm. A missing business partner. Missing history. Missing pages. There certainly was no shortage of mystery revolving around Shane.

  “We’ll be closing soon,” the older librarian, Lara said, poking her head in. She was sweet and all grandmotherly—much more so than any of the grandmothers in the Franklin family.

  “I’m still okay to stay after-hours, right?” Hopefully. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. If she couldn’t see him after a day that had seemed to stretch endlessly with wanting to be with him, she might do something desperate. Breaking in and entering.

  Lara nodded, smiling.

  The vise around Ana’s heart loosened. She tried not to sigh in relief. She could stay. She could see Shane. Tonight.

  “You’ve been busy today,” Lara said. “I hope you’re finding what you’re looking for.”

  No. Not really. But if Lara didn’t know about all the books missing pages, she wasn’t about to bring it up and chance not being able to stay. Ana cleared her throat. “Are there other books on my own family’s history outside of what is in here?” Most of the missing pages had been in her own family’s genealogical accounts. After she was done here in the library, Ana would casually bring up the missing pages.

  Lara’s smile widened. “Isn’t it fascinating to trace one’s roots?”

  Ana tried to manufacture a look of fascination. “Err. Yes.” Her family had always stepped on the less fortunate to get to where they were, and they showed around their bank statements more than pictures of their kids, but…sure.

  “Well, your family may have some of their own books. I seem to remember your great, great grandfather’s journals were withheld from the collection.”

  His journals? Those would probably have missed this censorship wave that seemed to have wiped out all records of Shane. She would definitely check into that.

  “Has this collection received any newer additions—in regards to historical records?” Ana asked.

  Lara’s calling was clearly meant to be that of a librarian. She looked nearly giddy at the question. “I think we did have something come in from an estate.” Analise followed her to the local history section where Lara pulled out a book. “It might be slightly salacious. It’s more about the town’s dabbling in witchcraft and the occult—along with a few crimes of…passion that were related to that.”

  Salacious. Lara was a woman after her own heart. Salacious had been the word of the day about two weeks ago. Salacious—indecent; sexually suggestive; sensational.

  The title of the book was “A History of Dark Deeds in Seaside.” With a name like that, Lara might be right. It also might be worth showing Jenny even if it said nothing about Shane Blythe. Jenny liked salacious. Well—as long as Ana didn’t use the word “salacious.”

  “Was there a lot of belief in witchcraft back then?” Ana asked.

  “You’d be surprised how superstitious people can be. There were a number of accounts of hexes and séances if I remember right. Some of the other librarians fought having it included in the history section, but even a town’s history with the occult—its emotional history—is history in my opinion.”

  She left Analise there with the book which Ana took to a chair to peruse. There were distant thuds as doors were shut to the outside world. Lara wasn’t wrong about the book’s scandalous tales. It appeared the city’s founding fathers had been an extremely superstitious lot.

  Lara’s voice startled her. “If you’d like, I can make an exception for you and allow you to check out that book, since you’re Charles Franklin’s great, great grandchild.”

  Ana bit her lip. She was planning on taking the book with her, for sure. “I’d still like to stay for a bit. I might need to cross reference with other books.” It was as good a ploy as they came for staying here after everyone left. Ana needed to stay to see Shane. Her temperature was rising every second. She hadn’t been this excited for Christmas when she was a child. It was only through a supreme effort she wasn’t checking the clock or staring out the window willing night to fall and the moon to rise. Minutes had been hours since she’d arrived.

  Lara shrugged, but nodded. “You’ll remember to make sure the latch catches on the backdoor?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  With a wave, she left, and Ana was alone again in the room—the room where a ghost would soon appear. She glanced up at the window and sighed. It might be a while. She turned another page and buried her nose in a story about someone hexing someone else’s cow.

  She was still here. His exultant feeling only grew as he gained form. Ana was back again in the library. Normally, he eased into being slowly, and he only materialized so he could gain access to the books to try to discover what had happened to him. Tonight, Shane slammed into the physical plane so quickly, he stumbled in front of his painting where he always gained form at night.

  Maybe it was egotistical that this was where he appeared—in front of that giant display of himself. That painting—the painting that he loathed and wished Charles had never commissioned, let alone ensured the damn thing was immortalized forever in this wretched room. It mocked him. “Here, Shane, remember when you existed? Isn’t it sad that you don’t anymore? Hah!”

  Someone was having the final laugh there, and he’d always believed in a merciful creator. Perhaps this was hell, and his torment was nearly his size; an oil painting that was framed, and impervious to malicious spirits. He was his own Satan. If he could destroy that thing—maybe then he could rest in peace.

  Plus, it looked nothing like him. Nothing.

  The painting of the sheep beside it looked more like him—which triggered a weird memory from his daytime self that he was grateful was ephemeral. It was just as well he couldn’t talk during the day—though that might lower the public’s interest in ghosts if they found out how rock dumb they were during daylight hours.

  But none of that mattered anymore. His little library mouse was back again—and she must have come back to see him or she would have left by now. She was so engrossed in a book while tucked into a corner chair that she didn’t notice him. Her right hand was worrying her lower lip while her left hand turned the pages. He wanted to kiss that luscious mouth of hers again and nibble on that lower lip of hers. He wanted to nibble all of her, but his energy wouldn’t allow an in-depth perusal of her. Besides, for the first time that he could remember, he was just as interested in exploring a woman’s mind as her body.

  “Hello,” he said, causing her to jump, but then a slow smile spread across her face as their eyes met.

  She catapulted out of the chair, and he barely forced solid form when she dove into his arms. His energy was draining rapidly, but he didn’t care as she pressed kisses across his face while standing on her tip-toes. Even though she thought she was tall, he was over six foot. Her mouth found his, and her fingers pressed against the back of his head to deepen the kiss. When her tongue brushed his, he reconsidered his supposition about this being hell
.

  He tightened his arms.

  Ana kissed like a harlot—he was in heaven.

  In his experience, while alive, women hadn’t been this openly amorous. He could only applaud what women’s liberation had done for kissing, even as he wondered how liberated Ana was in other ways. For once, he didn’t feel in charge. In fact, his brain felt decidedly mushy. He wanted her so bad he couldn’t think straight. It was every bit of her too which his energy levels wouldn’t cooperate with.

  Reluctantly, he pulled back, saying, “I think we should slow down and talk.”

  Had he ever said such a thing?

  No.

  Who was this strange new person who wanted to find out everything about Ana and not just what she looked like without her clothes on? Although, the thought of Ana naked on the library floor was certainly an appealing visual to entertain. Still, he did want to talk—just talk. This wasn’t like him at all. Was it possible for a ghost to become possessed?

  Ana’s mouth looked swollen and soft, but she nodded and dazedly slid from his arms, walking back toward the chair. In relief, he shifted to a less energy-draining form and followed, sitting in a nearby chair. He glanced at the book she was reading.

  “You’ve chosen some interesting reading,” he said, smiling. He’d brushed by that book several times and been tempted to move it from the history section, perhaps even throw it out into the main library to be shelved with other dross and scandal rags. It had always seemed a waste of his precious energy however.

  Ana wrinkled her nose. “Actually, it is. Did you know that Seaside had its own version of the Salem Witch Trials to a lesser degree? It was spear-headed by my great, great grandfather, Charles, after he killed a practitioner.”

  The realization that she was from that Franklin family shocked him. Clearly, she knew of their shared history because she was watching his face. “When was this?” he asked. He certainly didn’t remember Charles killing someone, and Charles had always been fascinated with the occult—indulgent even. No, this book was nonsense. There was no way. Charles had been self-absorbed, but a murderer? No.