by Anne Hope
“You wish.”
A brisk wind stroked her face. Snowflakes danced around her as she slid onto the frozen pond. Matt followed her, gliding a few inches off the ice as if on invisible blades. He skated in wide circles around her, pretending to be a figure skater. Laughter tickled her throat at the sight of him spinning like some clumsy ballerina.
The wind touched her cheeks with ice-tipped fingers, slithering under her scarf to burrow beneath her wool jacket. Despite how well she’d bundled up, she felt the chill. And yet Matt wore only a light pair of jeans and a pale gray T-shirt. Snowflakes swirled in a wild flurry around him, like the fluttering wings of moths, but they failed to rest upon his nose or shoulders. They passed right through him, as did the other skaters, as if he were as insubstantial as a cloud.
Still, to Evelyn he was as real as anyone, and she wondered yet again why he’d been sent to her. Surely not for the sole purpose of taking her ice-skating.
She took a few reluctant steps forward, struggling to maintain her balance as people whizzed by on either side of her. Her feet quivered threateningly, and she prayed she wouldn’t sprain an ankle. Holding her breath, she inched ahead as Matt watched her, thoroughly amused.
What in heaven’s name had possessed her to do this? She’d never been the physical type, even as a kid. While her peers had been dancing or figure skating or playing ball, she’d been at the library reading the next Nancy Drew mystery. Gym class had been her most dreaded subject, and she felt as awkward now, on this skating rink, as she had back then.
“Come on,” Matt called to her, “my grandma skates faster than that!”
She bit back a retort, mindful of all the faces surrounding her. Instead, she focused her energy on remaining on her feet.
It took a few turns around the rink before she began to feel a little steadier on her skates. Slowly, her speed increased, and she actually started to enjoy herself. The crisp wind whipping her hair and cheeks felt surprisingly invigorating. Adrenaline shot through her bloodstream, electrifying her.
Soon, she forgot to feel self-conscious, aware only of the sheer joy of being out here among the glistening trees, surrounded by a shimmering swirl of falling snowflakes. She captured a few of them on her tongue, savoring the cool taste of snow, wondering how long it had been since she’d last taken the time to truly appreciate the pleasures of a winter’s day.
Matt gave her a thumbs-up from the far end of the rink, his expression brimming with delight and unmistakable smugness. Despite the I-told-you-so look on his face, she graced him with a grateful smile. She really was having fun.
Then everything spun out of control. A teenage boy came barreling toward her, jostling her. Evelyn lost her balance and plunged backwards, landing on the ice with an ungraceful thud.
Within seconds Matt was beside her. “Are you all right?”
“My ego is a little bruised, but apart from that I’m fine.” She tried to stand, but lost her footing and slid right back down again.
Matt swallowed a chuckle. With a withering glare in his direction, she tried to get up again, this time by lifting her butt first and trying to thrust herself up with her hands from a push-up position. Again, her feet slipped out from under her and she landed flat on her face.
Laughter exploded from Matt. She spent the next minute or so unsuccessfully fighting to get back on her feet, and all the insensitive jerk could do was stand there laughing at her. Embarrassment lumped in her belly, tears of frustration stinging her eyes.
“Wish I could give you a hand,” he said, “but unfortunately, I don’t have one.”
Anger crowded out reason. “This is all your fault!” she yelled, oblivious to all those around her. “I told you I couldn’t skate, but you kept insisting. Serves me right for listening to some stupid ghost.”
All of a sudden, she glanced up to find herself the center of some freak show. Everyone had stopped skating and was looking at her as if she’d fallen on her hands and knees in search of her marbles. A flood of mortification drowned her voice, swelling in her windpipe until she could hardly breathe. With as much dignity as she could muster, she crawled off the ice.
She sensed Matt floating toward her. “Is the tantrum over?”
She ignored him, stripping the skates from her feet and quickly sliding on her boots. Then, without a backwards glance, she plowed home, hoping the brisk wind would blow Matt Alexander back to L.A. and out of her perfectly ordinary world.
The insufferable woman had gone right back to ignoring him. She sat in that ugly puke-green velvet recliner, a white blanket wrapped around her shoulders, reading one of her brainy books. Not the Charles Dickens’ one. She’d apparently had her fill of ghosts for the day.
For the past hour, Matt had been pacing in front of her, trying his damnedest to distract her. He’d tried talking, singing, even dancing a jig to no avail. Evelyn Hyde was as stubborn as the New England winter. He might as well have been invisible again, and there was nothing he hated more. He’d spent most of his childhood feeling invisible. He’d be damned if he ever felt that way again.
At least Slippers acknowledged his presence. The scruffy beast prowled around him, hissing with unmistakable dislike.
“Don’t you have a mouse to go catch?” he growled.
Evelyn’s gaze remained riveted on her book.
Irritation crested inside him. So she’d taken a tumble and bruised that astonishingly well-shaped butt of hers. What was the big deal? As to the embarrassment she’d supposedly suffered, what difference did it make if a dozen or so people thought she was a little batty? Bats could be cool. Take Batman for instance.
Matt was way out of his league here. What kind of sick joke was the universe playing on him? Why would the powers that be send a depraved playboy to win the love of an introverted librarian, who quoted Shakespeare for God’s sake?
That’s when an idea struck him. Maybe if he started reading some of her books, he could figure out the sort of man she liked. He perked up at the thought. The plan had definite merit. He was an actor after all. His job was to bring to life the very fantasies she so eagerly devoured. He could be any man Evelyn Hyde wanted him to be.
He eagerly scanned some of the titles on her bookcase, which spanned the entire wall on his right. Jane Austin’s Pride and Prejudice caught his eye. He remembered the movie with Keira Knightly. She’d forced him to watch it back when they’d dated for a spell. He’d start with that one, he decided.
A few shelves down he saw the book Evelyn had been reading when he first appeared to her, Jane Eyre.
BBC serial with Toby Stephens, he thought. Movie with William Hurt.
Perhaps he’d skim a few chapters of that one as well. Assuming he could figure out a way to get the thick volume off the shelf and flip the pages.
Hey, if Patrick Swazye could do it, so could he. All he had to do was concentrate. Right?
This concentrating concept was a load of bull. What did he know about channeling his emotions? All his life he’d taken what he wanted when he wanted it, and now he couldn’t as much as pull a damn book off a shelf. Matt sighed in frustration. This whole Casper deal wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Evelyn was fast asleep, so he figured—since he was a ghost and no longer needed eight hours of shut eye—he’d use this time to do some research. Unfortunately, things weren’t going his way.
Once again, he attempted to take hold of Pride and Prejudice, and failed.
“Ebe, I could really use your illustrious guidance again.”
The darkness shivered, slowly filled with light. Within seconds, Eberhart stood before him, as scintillant as if he’d swallowed a piece of the sun.
Matt puckered his mouth appreciatively. “Neat trick.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Alexander?”
“Thought I’d kill some time by doing a little late night reading. Any way you could give me the use of my hands?”
The old saint watched him with a wizened gaze. “You don’t need my he
lp for that.”
Matt snorted. “Really? Take a look at this.” He tried to pull out a book. As he expected, his fingers slid right through it.
Eberhart shook his head. “You’re energy, my dear boy. Energy is as tangible as matter, and it can be molded into anything a person—or spirit—wants, if he or she desires it strongly enough. Desire can be a very powerful thing.”
Matt snickered. “You don’t have to tell me that.”
“You’ve never experienced true desire, Mr. Alexander, only the desire of the flesh. True desire stems from the soul.”
“Flesh, soul, it’s all part of the same package,” he replied with a dismissive shrug.
Eberhart eyed him disapprovingly, like a parent scolding a child. “And you’ve just proven my point. The day you experience true desire is the day you gaze into the heart of existence itself. Only then will you understand how magical the soul really is.”
And with that vague, totally useless remark, he melted back into the darkness.
With an exasperated huff, Matt focused all his energy on taking hold of the book again. “I really want this book,” he chanted over and over again. “I deeply desire it.”
When nothing happed, he muttered an oath. “I’m a flaming idiot.”
This blasted situation was hopeless. Evelyn Hyde would never fall in love with the likes of him, which meant he’d spend eternity in purgatory, atoning for his sins. For a moment earlier today, out on the skating rink, he’d actually thought he had a chance of winning her over. She’d gazed at him and given him a smile so radiant, he’d felt it deep down in the pit of his soul. She really was quite lovely when she smiled, in an earthy, wholesome sort of way.
Suddenly, he was assailed by the shimmering desire to see that smile again, to be the one who placed it on her face, and the most incredible thing happened. His fingers closed around the book.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” With a triumphant chuckle, he pulled the volume from the shelf. “Ebe ol’ buddy, guess you’re not a total kook after all.”
Chapter Four
Matt spent the entire night reading. All those years of whizzing through scripts at lightning speed had finally paid off. He’d finished Pride and Prejudice and an impressive chunk of Jane Eyre, when he heard the telltale shuffle of Evelyn’s feet the next morning.
Time to put the books away.
He placed the volumes back where he’d gotten them, then stretched out on the couch and assumed his most innocent expression, as he waited for her to come padding into the living room.
The evening had proven more than a little enlightening. In fact, he’d made a shocking and unexpected discovery; he was exactly the sort of cad Evelyn loved to read about. The heroes in her favorite books were real arrogant, self-serving bastards. Take Mr. Darcy, for instance. He hardly gave Elizabeth the time of day, and when he finally did it was to tell her that she was beneath him, but he’d do her the honor of having her anyway.
Edward Rochester was no better. He attempted to trick Jane into marrying him, all the while hiding his deranged wife in the attic.
Women. They just loved to hate the men they loved, if that made a lick of sense.
All the better for him. This was one role he knew how to play exceptionally well.
A good half hour passed before Evelyn strolled into the living room, dressed in a plain pair of loose-fitting beige slacks and a black cardigan, a cup of tea in hand. Her hair was pinned up in that despicable bun again, but her skin glowed rosy with health and her face held a warm, peaceful expression.
Until she caught sight of him and it contorted into a dark scowl.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said. “Miss me?”
She visibly stiffened. “Like a toothache.”
He cleared his throat, pretended to scratch his temple in reflection. “Listen, Evie, I know you said some pretty nasty things to me yesterday, but I’ve decided to be big about it and forgive you.”
She gasped, nearly spilling her tea. “You swaggering, pompous, self-absorbed—”
“Sexy, irresistible rake?” he finished for her.
Rolling her eyes, she exhaled a long, suffering breath. “Leave me alone.” She spun on her heels and headed to the bookcase.
Matt smiled. In the stories he’d read, the more the heroine wanted the hero, the more she struggled to avoid him. If her dogged insistence to ignore him was any indication, Evelyn was probably half in love with him already.
A frown carved a deep groove between her brows. “Have you been reading my books?”
“What makes you say that?”
“I have them sorted in alphabetical order by author. Pride and Prejudice comes after Persuasion, not before.”
He’d forgotten the dratted woman was a librarian. “You must have put it in the wrong place.”
He could almost see her hackles rise. “I never misplace a book.”
“Then it must have walked over there on its own, because I’m a little low on substance right now.”
Evelyn harrumphed, but she must have bought his explanation because she dropped the subject. She stood before the bookcase for an exceptionally long time, staring pensively, then put her tea aside and selected a few volumes from the overstuffed shelves.
“Don’t tell me you plan to stay in all day reading again?”
She carefully placed the books in a tan-colored canvas bag she pulled out from a nearby drawer. “No, every Sunday I go to Cedarhill Orphanage and read to the children.”
Matt felt as if he’d been sucker punched.
A librarian who reads to orphans. This just keeps getting better and better.
“You’re a regular Mother Teresa, aren’t you? I don’t think there’s any doubt which door you’re getting.”
She flung him an annoyed, befuddled look, right before she strapped the bag onto her shoulder and pranced out of the living room.
“Yup, she’s got it real bad for me,” he muttered, floating off the couch and quickly following her out the front door.
Arrows of gray light poured into the small room, streaking the faded linoleum floor. Fifteen children sat upon an oval, Oriental rug with gold and burgundy prints, watching Evelyn, their young faces alight with eagerness. She occupied a wooden chair before them, one of the volumes she’d selected earlier perched in her lap.
Matt had chosen to sink into a tattered yellow couch he’d found in a quiet sitting area a few feet away, from which he could observe without distracting her. For the past few minutes he’d been listening to her read, lulled by the melodic rhythm of her voice as she brought the story to life. He’d expected to be bored but was surprised to realize he was enjoying himself. She had a way of infusing passion in each word she uttered, a way of adding the proper intonations to heighten the effect or pausing at just the right moment to build anticipation. There were some actors he knew who would benefit from a few lessons with her.
The children were mesmerized. All except for one.
He sat in the armchair across from Matt, doing his best to look bored. The boy, who was about eight or nine, was pretending not to listen. But every now and then when no one was looking, he’d slant a sideways glance at the storybook to catch sight of a picture Evelyn was showing.
Matt recognized the slumped body, the cocky hitch of his shoulder, the I-don’t-give-a-damn look on his face and felt a clutch of compassion.
Invisible, he thought. Alone and trying real hard not to let anyone know how crappy it makes him feel.
But Matt knew. Even though both his parents were still alive, he understood what it felt like to be an orphan. Nothing was more important to his parents than their careers, and growing up he’d always felt like an afterthought. Sure they’d sent him to the best schools, had thrown money at him every chance they got, but never once had they read to him or taken him ice-skating or tossed a ball his way. So he’d learned to experience life on his own and not give a shit about anyone but himself.
Self-preservation 101, he reasoned.
> Evelyn paused, jarring Matt out of his morbid thoughts. She was gazing at the boy, and the sadness on her face was palpable.
“Children, the sun seems to be in my eyes,” she said. “Would you mind if we moved?”
Standing, she dragged her chair across the room to the sitting area. All the children rose and followed, crowding in around the lone boy until he melted into the heart of the group. “Much better,” she exclaimed, continuing where she’d left off.
Matt stared at her, amazed by her perceptiveness and empathy. For a moment she looked his way, and he glanced into the crystal depths of her eyes—eyes that were neither blue nor gray, but an enthralling combination of the two. In that fleeting second when their gazes locked, he saw beyond the horn-rimmed glasses, beyond the plain clothing and tight-woven bun to the woman who lay beneath. And her beauty damn near took his breath away.
“That was quite something,” Matt said when they returned to the cottage. “What you did for that boy back there.”
Evelyn busied herself placing the children’s books back on the shelves in just the right order. “He wants to join us,” she replied, “but he’s too proud. For weeks now he’s been sitting on his own. I figured it was time I put an end to it. Maybe next week he won’t feel so awkward sitting with the group.”
Silence swelled between them, and she felt compelled to glance over her shoulder to see if he was still in the room with her. He stood in front of the fireplace, studying the pictures on the mantelpiece.
“Are these your parents?” He pointed to her favorite family photograph, which she’d lovingly placed in an antique pewter frame.
“Yes.” Emotion made her voice sound gravelly, and she swallowed to wash away the tightness in her throat.
“Are they still around?”
“No. They died five years ago.”
“Both of them?”
She nodded heavily. “My father passed away first, and my mother followed a short month later.” She paused, allowing that old, familiar ache to blossom inside her. “The doctors said she had an aneurysm, but I’ve always believed she died of a broken heart.”
