by Trisha Telep
“Wow,” Owen whispered.
I eyed him. “You can see them?”
“I can,” Owen said in a low voice. “They look so . . . happy. So . . . in love.”
And they did. Thomas brushed a strand of Tess’s hair back over her shoulder, his fingers lingering there like he couldn’t believe she was real, like he couldn’t believe they were finally together again after all these long years apart. Tess clamped her hands over her mouth like she was trying not to cry, then threw her arms around Thomas’s neck. She rained kisses on her lover’s face, and a silver star exploded with each press of her lips against his skin. Thomas turned his head and caught Tess’s lips in his, and a whole shower of stars flickered and danced around them.
“Wow,” I whispered, echoing Owen.
We sat there and watched the two lovers. Finally, Owen spoke again. “Do you think that’ll be us in a hundred years?”
I arched an eyebrow. “You mean will we finally be reunited after you’ve spent almost a century being a soul-sucking vampire’s power source and lightning bug? I sincerely hope not.”
Owen bumped me with his shoulder. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
“I know,” I said, laughing.
I turned my attention back to Thomas and Tess. They had their arms wrapped around each other. Somehow I knew they’d never be apart again. Tess saw me staring and gave me a happy wave. Her smile was so wide and bright that I thought she’d never stop glowing. Maybe she never would, in whatever afterlife she was headed to now that she’d been reunited with her long-lost love.
“I don’t know if that will be us or not,” I said, my voice thick with all sorts of emotions that I didn’t want to think about too much right now. “But it’s a nice thing to hope for, isn’t it?”
Owen slipped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. I wrapped my arms around his waist and rested my head on his shoulder.
Quiet, still, bruised and bloody, we sat there on the bench until the sun set and Tess and Thomas finally faded away for good. Finally at peace and with each other as they belonged, as they were always meant to be – and as they’d always stay from now on.
Always.
Hat-Trick
Gwyn Cready
APT FOR RENT: 2 BR, 1½ BATHS, GAS FP, BUILT-IN
BREAKFAST NOOK, PARKING SPACE, PET-FRIENDLY BUILDING,
CLOSE TO TRAIN, AFFABLE GHOST
“Seriously?”
Cass pointed a finger at the last part of the ad and thrust the folded newspaper in the direction of the rental agent, who shrugged.
“Seriously. I don’t know what to make of it, but the last tenant swore he had run-ins – well, ‘run-ins’ probably isn’t the right word. He said the guy was very nice. But the law says we have to disclose it, and you never know,” the woman added with a nervous laugh, “some people might actually like that sort of thing.”
Cass made a private eye-roll and reminded herself some people also liked butterscotch and Gordon Ramsay. She gazed fondly at the small but adorable fireplace, the perfect antidote to a broken heart in the middle of a Pittsburgh winter, and weighed that against what she imagined to be the infinitesimally small possibility of running into a ghost, friendly or otherwise.
“I’ll take it.”
She took the last sip of coffee, put down the crossword puzzle and stood. Then she turned the key at the side of the hearth. The fire died with a whoosh. The final clue – “Macbeth laundry nemesis”, ten letters – had proved beyond her capabilities this morning, and in any case if she didn’t leave now, she was going to be late for work.
In the weeks since she’d moved in, she had grown to love the little Tudor apartment building, as much for its steeply pitched roof, diamond-paned windows and half-timbered facade as for the independence it represented to her. “Broken heart” had been an exaggeration, especially a year after her break-up with Brian, though Cass still felt an involuntary stab of longing each time she saw him. However, she had to admit the ability to move out of the house they’d shared had brought a sense of much-needed closure to her. This place was hers. Her life once again was hers. Things were starting anew, like the grape hyacinths in the pot on the windowsill, happily thrusting their tendrils into the room’s warmth in anticipation of spring, or the unexpected bubbles that had raced through her veins when she ran into the broad-shouldered and utterly too young MBA student who lived on the first floor, across from Mrs Cantor.
As she slipped on her boots and donned her coat, she heard the muffled thump of the third-floor tenant’s cat, Misty, jumping to the floor. She hadn’t met all of her neighbors yet, but she liked the sense of them she’d gotten so far.
She spotted the box sitting beside the door and felt an odd charge go through her chest. The box held stuff of Brian’s she’d found while moving. She was planning to leave it at his office the next time she was downtown, and while part of her reaction was irritation at finding herself still cleaning up for him after all this time, another part of it was fueled by a seemingly unkillable hope that she might run into him when she was there. She had also written the note – about a zillion times in her head – she might or might not leave with the box.
Ugh. She wished this unattractive phase of broken-heartedness would end soon, as had the anger, the crying and finally the depression. To be still wrestling with feelings of attraction left her feeling vulnerable and more than a little ridiculous. Brian had been one part shy of being a perfect guy, but the part he’d been missing – fidelity – had been a damned important one.
The box was big and clumsy, and Cass shoved it over the threshold with her foot so she could lock the door behind her. The December sun had not risen yet, and the hall was inky black.
Once the door was secured, she picked up the box and started down the staircase, when her foot came down on something illogically uneven. In a harrowing nanosecond, she knew she would fall. She convulsed with the horror of this inevitability before something caught her, setting her upright on the landing. Misty, a black, angular thing with pumpkin eyes and an alarming habit of appearing when you least expected it, ran hissing down the stairs.
“My God!” Cass’s heart thumped in relief. “That was close.”
“The landlord needs to put in a light. Are you OK?”
The man, swaddled in a blur of grey wool and cashmere, gazed at her with concern. His eyes, the only spots of color in the darkened hall, shone a friendly blue. Though his features were in shadow, he exuded that air of attractiveness possessed by certain good-humored men just north of forty. A slightly less handsome Gerard Butler came to mind . . . er, a considerably less handsome Gerard Butler, but still a very pleasant face.
“Yes.” She mentally checked her ankle, which seemed fine. “Thank you.”
He said nothing, just smiled, and Cass, suddenly warm, murmured, “I guess I’d better be on my way,” before starting down the stairs again, this time more carefully. She could feel his eyes upon her, and she tried to walk in a manner that showed she was generally capable, if occasionally clumsy. She also tried to recall how he had caught her and whether he’d been ascending or descending the stairs, but even though a small charge ran through her arm where he’d presumably caught her, she had no physical memory of his touch.
“It’s a damned spot for a cat,” he added.
Damned spot! The answer to the crossword clue!
She turned at the landing to thank him, but he was gone.
Tired after the long day, Cass made her way back up the walk that led through the snow-covered garden in the apartment building’s small courtyard. According to her rental agent, it was – or would be if spring ever arrived – “typically English”. Cass grinned at the pink glints of setting sun that sparkled on the snow’s surface.
She slipped the ancient-looking key into the front lock, pushed the knob and discovered the MBA student rifling his mailbox in the entryway.
He’d been jogging, for his cheeks were flushed and he wore a clingy red runner
’s suit, which set off his trim hips and muscular thighs. He smiled when he saw her, and his tousled blond waves, brushed away from his face, shone in the glow of the overhead light.
“You look happy,” he said. “Big plans for tonight?”
“Only if you call a feta and tomato omelet big plans.”
He grabbed one Saucony-covered foot and pulled, setting off an awe-inspiring ripple of muscle. “I have to tell you, this kind of weather really puts the ‘wind’ in ‘wind sprints’.”
A small derisive noise came from the stairway.
She turned. Her morning rescuer reclined on the stairs, leaning back on his elbows, mild disgust on his face. As far as jokes went, the student’s observation had been on the lame side, and she had little doubt the muscle rippling had been as much for his benefit as hers, but still . . .
She scanned the student’s face, looking for signs of irritation but found none. Evidently he hadn’t heard.
“I admire anyone who runs on a day like this,” she said pointedly. “I give up if it looks like there might be a cloud – and that’s in May.”
The MBA student laughed. “I’m actually thinking of inventing an app that encourages people to run,” he said, “you know, like a personal coach. I’m very entrepreneurial, actually. The trouble is, I’m in finance – the money thing is a real interest of mine – so I don’t have all that much time to execute.”
Her rescuer snorted. Loudly.
“Look,” she said to the student, “if this is bothering you . . .” She gave the seated man a sharp glance.
“No, no, I love to talk,” he replied, running a few steps in place.
“Gee, there’s a surprise.”
Cass turned pointedly away from her rescuer, hoping to silence any further comments from him. “I am very pleased to meet you. I’m Cass Oakes. I moved in a month ago.”
“Greg Wilder.”
His hand was large in comparison to hers, and Cass suddenly wondered what the relative ratio of other key extremities might be. You sly old predator. He can’t be more than twenty-five. Not that there’s that much difference between twenty-five and thirty-six, she reminded herself. And she was an extremely good-looking thirty-six, if she said so herself – but more to the curvy, soft end of things than the ripped and trim.
“I guess I’ll be seeing you around.” He picked up a scraper, and she saw he was heading out to clear his car. She waved him out the door.
She gathered her mail, which included three magazines and an oversized box of free dryer sheets, hoping that when she turned the other man would be gone. He was, and she decided as she climbed the stairs he must be the new tenant Mrs Cantor said was moving into the third floor.
“I don’t think he’s right for you.”
“Jesus.” She nearly dropped her mail. How had he appeared on a landing she’d been certain was empty? “Not that it’s any of your business.” She fumbled for her key.
“Well, not technically.” He took the mail from her arms.
“Well, not at all.” Now that she was closer, she could see he wasn’t wearing a scarf or a coat. It was simply that the edge of his outline was blurry, like she’d forgotten to put on her glasses. Only she didn’t wear glasses.
“He’s not smart enough for you.”
“He’s going to graduate school.”
“For an MBA.”
She squeezed her eyes tight, like she was removing ocular sludge, and reopened them, but it didn’t help. Her rescuer had an attractive face – wide cheekbones, a strong jaw and the sort of full, quirked lips that usually made her dizzy with longing – but the rest was a blur.
“And, of course, there is the other issue,” he added under his breath.
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but I’m entirely capable of handling my . . . What other issue?” She narrowed her eyes.
He coughed into his fist. “It would be ungentlemanly of me to mention it.”
“And we wouldn’t want you to be ungentlemanly, would we?” Good Lord, why was she engaging him in this? She flung open the door, grabbed the mail from his hands and kicked the door closed. So, if the lips are capable of making me weak-kneed, why is my only instinct to actually knee him?
As she tossed the armload of mail on the chair, he knocked.
“Go away.”
The door made a funny shimmer, like steam coming off glass, and he stepped through, as if the wood were no more than air.
“It’s not quite that easy,” he said, unperturbed. “I live here.”
She clutched her chest, biting back a moaning shriek. “I know who you are,” she said, pointing. “You’re that . . . that . . .”
“‘Affable ghost’. Yeah, I’m going to be honest. I’m not really loving that title. How about the ‘Incredible Wraith’ or ‘Ghost Invader’ or something like that? ‘Affable Ghost’ sounds like a kids show.” He slipped off his scarf and hung it on her coat rack.
“I . . . I . . .” She didn’t know what to say. She took a step back and swallowed. “Do you come in peace?”
“Do I come in peace?” He shook his head, incredulous. “Good Lord, I wish I were still alive. The ghost world could use a good PR agent.”
She clutched the back of the couch. “Is that what you were?”
“Yes. For athletes.”
He didn’t look any more dangerous than he had in the hallway, just equally irritating. She felt her shoulders relax a degree. “How did you . . . you know?”
“Die? I was on my way to meet with a whiney client who’d called right in the middle of a freakin’ Pens game, saying we had to talk immediately. You know, until you spend time with professional athletes, you can’t imagine how completely self-centered a person can be. They’re like two-year-olds with handguns and Lamborghinis. Whatever happened to a plain old love of the sport? Anyway, I was just crossing the street to hop the train when a snowplow hit me. I don’t think it was planned – by the powers that be, that is, not the plow driver. At least I’m pretty sure the plow driver didn’t plan it. Though now that you mention it, he was driving the wrong way down a one-way street, and I’m pretty sure I heard ‘Weapon of Choice’ playing before I went down.”
Cass winced. “Did it hurt?”
“For a second or two. But then this sort of euphoria came over me, and I was standing on the side of the road again, looking at everything that was going on. All I could think about was that I didn’t have to go to that stupid meeting – or any stupid meetings ever again. I felt wonderful! Then I heard a cheer go up in this building. I knew the Pens must have scored. I walked toward the cheer – well, floated would be a better word – through the entry hall, up the steps and into this place. Richard – that’s the guy who lived here before you – was standing right where you are now, beer in hand, jumping up and down, playing air guitar to that Gary Glitter song. And I knew I was home. No hassles, no deadlines, no complaining clients.” He made a happy sigh.
“So that’s what heaven is like, huh? Gary Glitter and beer?” If I hadn’t been agnostic-leaning before, that would have been all I needed to hear. “Well, I’m terribly sorry, but you can’t stay here.”
“Look, I’m not sure how much you know about ghosts, but there isn’t a lot of choice. You go to a place when you die, and that’s it.”
“But you haven’t been here for the last month.”
There was an odd silence. Then it hit her. “Oh, my God! You have been here for the last month!” Her mind raced over all the baths she’d taken, the time she brought home an angel food cake and ate the whole thing, and the underpants dance she did every time that Kesha song came on. Her jaw fell open and she swung around. “You . . . !”
He held up his palms. “Don’t say you weren’t warned. I heard the rental agent say it myself. Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I’m not breathing.”
“That’s why you said, ‘damned spot’. You knew!”
“Oh, that.” He grinned. “You’re good. I thought I was good, but you’re really go
od. I hated to see you get so close without finishing.”
The cock of his brow when he said it made her remember with a rush of embarrassment what else she had done in her apartment in the last month. “I. Always. Finish.” She felt the smoke start to build in her ears.
He held up his palms. “Whoa. Calm down. It’s only a crossword puzzle. I’m just saying, it goes faster when you have someone to help. I’m Danny, by the way. And, of course, I know you’re Cass.”
She was speechless. All this and she hadn’t even taken her coat off yet. “So I take it invisibility is one of the joys of the afterlife?”
Danny winked out of sight with a soft click then reappeared with a flourish. “Harry Potter has nothing on me.”
Cass rubbed her forehead. “This is definitely not going to work.”
“Did I hear something about a feta and tomato omelet?”
Day freakin’ ten.
Cass felt like she was on some strange version of Lost, where instead of a deserted island it was an apartment-turned-sports bar that showed hockey 24/7, and while you could go home anytime, you never really wanted to.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon! They shoot! They score!” Danny jumped off the couch, corn chip in mouth, and pumped his fist in the air. “Woo-hoo! Man, you gotta love an offense like that.”
Cass picked the crumbs off her book and slid her wine glass out of the line of fire. “You do.”
“What? You’re not a hockey fan?”
She gave him a forced smile. “I’m certainly learning to be.”
He sunk onto the couch, abashed. “Well, what would you be watching now if you were alone?” He held the remote out to her half-heartedly.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a cooking show or the latest on Masterpiece Theatre.”
