How To Bring Your Love Life Back From The Dead

by Wendy Sparrow

  Now, that had been difficult. A hundred year old oil painting had been quite the fire hazard. Apparently, she’d stomped out the flooring beneath it fast enough that Lara wasn’t counting that as a casualty.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Her voice squeaked at the end when an arm snaked around her waist, and Shane bit into her shoulder. She shoved his face away. This was hard enough to work up a sad voice, without him kissing his way along her neck. Oh, that felt good, but if she moaned Lara would think she was a perv. She leaned forward while covering her neck with her free hand. Reluctantly. Very reluctantly.

  “It’s okay,” Lara said. “Carly discovered it and completely lost it. She’s talking with the police right now about book defacement and keeps saying strange things about your…uhm…cousin and blackmail.”

  Huh. It appeared the prosperity of the Franklins might also end in fire—ignominiously.

  Ignominious—shameful; disgraceful; disreputable—see also the bulk of the Franklin family.

  “How strange,” Ana said, yawning.

  “Oh, I’m sorry I woke you. I just thought you’d like to know. I’m sure you’ll understand that the private collections room will be closed for a while. And I don’t think our board of directors will allow anyone in there after-hours.”

  “Oh, I finished up last night. Thank you, Lara.” Shane was back to kissing her neck and was determined this time. So much for that little energy problem he’d had. He’d gone from fading fast to solid in an instant when the last inch of the painting had lit. She’d been busy stomping out ash as it fell, but not so busy that she hadn’t been terrified she’d sent him toward that white light. One second, he’d been a shimmering vapor, and she’d been crying and biting her lip to stop herself from sobbing. Then, he was there, solid, real, and he’d grabbed her in a tight hug. Those moments from last night—that hellish fear she’d lost him, and then that “I can’t breathe—he’s alive—he’s not gone” moment stuck with her. You didn’t almost lose a guy like Shane without it leaving a permanent mark on your heart.

  It was just as well that he didn’t have an energy problem.

  He couldn’t indulge it while she was talking to sweet grandmotherly Lara, of course. Ana scrunched her shoulders up to thwart his attack until she was off the phone.

  “Oh, well, I’ll let you get back to what you were doing,” Lara said.

  “Thanks, bye,” Ana said, squeaking again as Shane bit her neck.

  “Bye.”

  She rounded on him, in frustration. “Do you have any idea how difficult it was to sound awake—let alone remorseful?”

  Shane chuckled, lying back on the bed and putting his arms behind his head. “I almost believed you felt sad, mouse, if it’s any consolation.” It was strange to see him in the light drifting through the windows. Human. Solid. Warm. If she wanted to kick him, she could. Not that she wanted to—not with his body looking all warm and yummy.

  The phone rang again.

  “The retirement home?” she murmured, looking at the display. “Oh, I bet Dolores is calling to find out if I want to look at those journals.” She pointed a finger at Shane who’d begun grinning mischievously again. “Behave. She’s an old woman. We don’t want to give her a heart attack.” Ana didn’t trust his smile one iota. “Hello?”

  “Analise. Analise Franklin?” Dolores asked.

  “Yes, Dolores. It’s me.”

  Shane was contenting himself with playing with her hair—so that was a little better.

  “Well, I realized this morning that I forgot to mention something about that whole business with breaking the curse—that might interest you specifically. I forgot that she’d mentioned that only someone from Charles Franklin’s family line could break it due to the prosperity blessing tied into the other bit. It was something like that. I can look up the exact wording for you. I can’t imagine why I didn’t remember it before, but when you get to be my age, dear, you’ll understand. My memory is nothing like what it once was.”

  A laugh burst out of her, and the silence on the line made it clear—Dolores thought insanity might reach Analise before senility.

  “Sorry, Dolores, I was just thinking of all the strange irony of it. It wasn’t really a laughing moment. I was up really late last night.” Really late. Gloriously late. Mmm.

  “Oh, well, I’ll let you get back to sleep then, dear. Stop by and see me again soon, and let me know if you want a closer look at those journals.”

  “I will,” Ana said. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  “What?” Shane asked her. “What did she say?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said, laying on her stomach.

  Shane took advantage of her position to kiss the back of her neck while crowding her right side. He definitely felt flesh and blood this morning…and last night.

  “You taste so sweet,” Shane said against her skin. His mouth was sending shivers along her skin—which he could feel—and made him laugh. Stupid…not ghost…unghost…undead. Whatever.

  Her phone rang again.

  “What the…? We’ll need to destroy that thing,” Shane said.

  Shane hadn’t turned out to be keen on all technology. He’d read about much of it in the books that had wandered into the private collection. Cars—he liked. The bathroom in her apartment had seemed endlessly fascinating. Perhaps if he was still interested in history, they could watch TV later on. She had recorded a documentary on haunted castles that he might like. Maybe he could even help them out with their haunted tour they were planning. It was probably rare to have a former ghost as a tour guide.

  Analise picked up the phone and read the display before groaning. “It’s this guy that my mother wants me to date.”

  “Analise, I forbid you to answer the phone.” It was a good thing he was solid enough to kick. Ana was sensing a lot of kicking in their future.

  “I told her I’d answer it. I promised her.”

  He reached out a hand. “Give it here after you press the button that turns it on.”

  Curious, she answered it and handed it to him.

  “Hello?” he answered. “Yes. This is her phone. No. I don’t approve of her talking to other men.” He held the phone out to her. “Okay, now, make it stop working.”

  She put it up to her ear. Dead air. Great. Her mother was going to kill her for that. After turning it off completely, she set it on her side table. “You know, you are in for a rude awakening if you think this arrogance thing is cute, Shane,” she said. “I swear, if you say the word ‘forbid’ one more time….”

  Flipping her onto her back, he pulled her underneath him. “You’ll what, little mouse? Spank me?” He raised his eyebrows.

  Ana rolled her eyes. “You are shameless.”

  “Mmm hmm,” he agreed, kissing behind one of her ears. Shivers tickled across her skin.

  “Also, we’ll need to call you something else when you meet my family—the ones who aren’t in jail by the end of the day—and Jenny, my best friend. She’s been helping me investigate your death.” Speaking of which, she should really call in sick. For irony’s sake, she should say she had a toothache. That could be like their code.

  “Alexander,” he said. “It’s my middle name.”

  “What about your last name?”

  “I’ll simply take yours when we get married. It’ll serve Charles right. It seems like the perfect revenge.”

  Despite the thrill his words gave her, his assumptions were arrogant. He hadn’t even asked. “Oh, so we’re getting married then, huh?”

  He should at least ask her…at some point. Preferably at a point when his hands weren’t doing what they were—and she could concentrate.

  “Yes,” he said. Then, with a spreading grin—that she didn’t trust, he added, “I forbid you to marry anyone else.” He was a scoundrel.

  Scoundrel—rogue; scallywag; knave; Shane Alexander Blythe; hers.

  It was as haunted as a house could be, and it was his. He’d
bought this monstrosity that the rest of the town suspected was haunted, but he genuinely knew. Something bad had happened here. Ten years ago, this upcoming fall. The worst day of his life. The house was good and haunted, and he should raze the entire thing. Bulldoze it. Somebody should have long before he’d added his own ghosts.

  The wallpaper was yellowed and peeling off the walls. Every time he set foot in this place, he disrupted years of dust and displaced entire families of mice and spiders. It was nasty. It was disgusting. It had sat vacant for most of his life.

  He shouldn’t bother.

  The whole house damn near screamed, “Give up! Save yourself!”

  In one of the back rooms a faucet dripped ominously. He sniffed, shook his head, and then coughed before pulling his mask over his mouth. It sure as hell smelled like something had died in here.

  Hefting his mallet, he swung it into the nearby wall. That felt good. It crumbled. Old sheetrock spilled around his feet.

  First, he’d destroy the house, and then he’d tackle its ghosts.

  Nine Months Later

  “Do you know what I find appalling, Duck?” Clay asked, dropping down to sit beside her under the oak tree. The crisp autumn leaves crackled beneath him as he sat.

  It wasn’t the only shade or the only tree, and she was clearly reading. The book was in front of her, her eyes had been skimming the pages, and it was right-side up. Clearly she was reading…not just pretending to read so that everyone would leave her alone—that was just an added benefit. Especially today. And if there was anyone she wanted to see less, today of all days, they didn’t come to mind right away.

  “Probably not the same thing I find appalling,” Corrine said, keeping the book directly in front of her. She snuck a quick look at him, without actually turning her head to look at him. He was wearing coveralls covered in sky blue paint. It must be painting day at the house he was flipping. She’d bet it would be cream-colored because it would off-set the brick nicely. He’d found out what her money was on and painted it blue just to spite her.

  “It might be.” he said.

  “Do you want to bet?”

  Clay pulled a dollar out of his pocket and held it up between two fingers.

  She went to take his dollar, but he yanked it out of reach. “I was actually paying to hear what you think is appalling, not betting you. I have no doubt you can make up something that’ll sound decent.”

  She did turn her head this time—to glare at him. “One,” she said—loudly—in a voice she was sure he’d mock when she was out of earshot. He called it her librarian voice. He always had.

  “There’s more than one?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Clay, with you, there’s always more than one. One, I find it appalling that you still call me ‘duck’ because I haven’t waddled since kindergarten.”

  “It wasn’t the waddling,” he said.

  Oh. She’d thought it was. It surprised her so much that she dropped the book into her lap. She frowned. “Well, what was it?”

  “It was that you followed me like you were a baby duck.”

  She looked away from him and down at the book on her lap as her cheeks flushed with heat. Oh. That was so much worse. The nickname was bad enough—for the most part. Okay, it sometimes made her feel a little like she had an ‘in’ with the town’s local eternal bachelor even though she’d been away from here for almost a decade when she returned a year ago. Now, it’d just make her feel stupid. She should ask him if everyone else knew the reason for the nickname, but she really didn’t want to know.

  “Two?” he asked, his voice was a little quieter, less arrogant than when he’d sat down.

  “Uhh, two, you’re nearing the age of thirty without realizing that a person holding a book in front of them while sitting under a tree is exhibiting a behavior indicative of societal mores stating they wish to be left in peace.”

  “Sometimes I think you use big obscure words to remind me you had to tutor me in English.”

  “That was a long time ago,” she said, feeling deflated.

  “Appalling was three syllables. I should get points for that one at least. I could have said scary…or even bad, but appalling fit the best.”

  Every sentence made her shrink.

  First, he knew she’d had a crush on him for who knows how long. He’d been calling her ‘duck’ since they were five. She’d followed him around for a good long while, and even when she’d stopped being obvious about it—in retrospect, maybe she hadn’t stopped being obvious about it.

  Second, now he thought she was pretentious and patronizing—that she used big words to prove she was smart—no, to prove she was smarter. She’d never believed that. She’d worried he’d think that when she’d been randomly assigned to tutor him for his college entrance exams. He was gifted in other ways. He seemed to have a savant ability to do the math required for remodeling in his head and then the skills to do it all himself. He’d flipped over a dozen houses in the area since he’d gotten out of high school. How could she not be impressed?

  She didn’t use big words to make anyone feel bad—she just sort of liked how they felt on her tongue. It was like a language she’d learned in another country, and it trickled into her everyday talk because she liked those words better.

  Third, he’d accused her of making up stuff to find appalling in order to win a bet. People in Rye Patch didn’t cheat on bets. They were many things—a little stuck-up, far too insulated, probably slightly in-bred, but they didn’t cheat on bets.

  “Three?” he asked. “I know there’s got to be a three. There’s always at least three once you get going on a list.”

  Three. Three was three too many insights into their past and his feelings for her. She held her book up in front of her face. “Three is keep your damn dollar and go find someone else to harass.”

  He sighed and took the book from her hand, despite her attempt to grab it back. Sticking the dollar in as a bookmark, he set it to the side of him, out of her reach—unless she dove across him which she wouldn’t do. Anymore.

  Swallowing, she settled back against the trunk of the tree and kept staring straight ahead, even though she could feel his gaze on her. She pulled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She always felt gangly and fifteen when Clay was around. In a minute, she’d get up and leave without her old, dog-eared copy of Dracula. In a minute, she wouldn’t care that he was paying attention to her—as if finally, she merited a second look. In a minute, she wouldn’t wonder why he hadn’t dated anyone since she’d gotten back to town.

  Then, a minute passed, and he kept staring at her.

  Another minute passed.

  Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. “What do you find appalling?”

  “That you haven’t completed the one bet you left hanging when you bolted out of town and, here it is, ten years to the day, and you haven’t made any plans to complete it. I might start calling you chicken instead of duck.”

  She froze. There was only one thing he could be talking about—the thing that had been the last straw—the thing that made her realize he didn’t see her as anything more than some joke instead of an equal. The one thing that made him the last person she’d wanted to see, especially today. October twenty-fourth seemed to exist for the sole reason of making her feel stupid. A week before Halloween. A week before Rye Patch’s fall festival.

  The town was already ramping up. Decorations were going up on lamp posts. People were already buckling down to improve on last year’s apple pie recipes for the contest. There would be a dance in the high school gym open to everyone, but she hadn’t gone even when she was in high school. In a week, this park would have a small carnival.

  They were sitting under the tree where they usually sold caramel apples. When she was eleven, the boy beside her had bought them both caramel apples with his birthday money.

  Only he wasn’t a boy anymore. Not by a longshot.

  Last year, they said there’d been a kissing
booth and several of the local firemen had manned it to raise money to replant the acres that wildfires had destroyed a couple years back. Somehow Clay had got roped in, possibly because he was a volunteer firefighter, but she wouldn’t rule out maybe he’d just jumped at the chance to kiss a bunch of women. Clay had made quite a bit of money for charity that day—apparently. She’d heard there’d be a booth again this year. Bets had been placed on how much Clay would make.

  She’d planned to skip it for that very reason. Skip the whole night. And then muscle through this week leading up to it—this week she affectionately called “hell week.” Maybe being back in Rye Patch tonight and this week would finally vanquish her ghosts, and she could get on with her life.

  “Duck?”

  She shook her head as she dragged a hand through her short, blonde curls. “What does it matter? The Miller place belongs to you now and, clearly, it’s not the scary derelict spook house it once was.” She gestured at his coveralls. “I can’t believe you’re painting it blue.”

  “Who told you I was painting it blue?”

  She turned and looked him square in the eyes. “You’re covered in blue paint.” Did he really think she was that dim or was he just teasing her again? He even had flecks of blue paint on the tips of his light brown hair. It looked like the worst highlight job the small town’s salon had ever seen.

  “I haven’t even started on the outside. I just finished the remodel on the inside. Figured I’d let the new owner pick the outside color.”

  “You’ve already sold it?” Wow, the rumor mill had failed rather spectacularly. They’d said he wasn’t in any rush. Of course, she’d heard there was speculation a year ago that he was leaving Rye Patch for good, but clearly that hadn’t been true either.

  “Nope.” He snorted half a laugh. “I heard you were betting on white.”