Ghost Times Two

by Carolyn Hart

It takes only a heartbeat to sense whether there is a magical connection—or the beginning of one—between a man and a woman.

  They faced each other, not touching, but he was intensely aware of her and she of him.

  Tall and lanky, in his late twenties, he was fair skinned with big freckles, dark brown eyes, and features too uneven in a long face to qualify as handsome. Short-cut, straw-colored hair resisted taming, unruly sprigs hinting at clipped curls. His two-button blue and white striped seersucker suit was wilted, no surprise. Bony wrists jutted from the sleeves of a coat a shade short for him. The droop I’d seen when I arrived was gone. His expression was jaunty, eager. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I love to come to the park.” Her voice was unusually deep for a woman, especially such a small woman. Curly dark hair framed a heart-shaped face. She placed small hands on the railing, looked out at the sun-sheened water. “My uncle planned a treasure hunt here for my sixteenth birthday and he rigged the clues. I was the one who found the keys to a car. A car for me, a shabby, secondhand Dodge, but she was red and she was mine.” A quick wry smile. “I’m still driving her. On a good day, her name’s Dancing Queen. On a bad day, she’s Witch of the West. But she’s always Dancing Queen when we come to the park.”

  “And here”—he knocked on the wooden railing—“is where my dad proposed to my mom. And”—his voice was fairly deep, too, resonant, and now he boomed—“I have a proposal for you.”

  She swung a startled face toward him.

  He stammered, “I mean, not that kind of proposal.”

  Her eyes widened for an instant, then she laughed, a lively, throaty, happy laugh. “Blaine, that sounds somewhat compromising.”

  His fair skin flushed bright red. “Be my partner,” he blurted. “The office . . .” He was clearly struggling to get back on track, be dignified. “I’ve rented an old house two blocks off Main, not very big but the bottom floor living room can be the reception area and there’s a study and a downstairs bedroom to convert to offices.”

  She listened gravely. Petite and slender, she was perhaps an inch or so over five feet in height. Her face was distinctive with deep-set gray eyes, high cheekbones, straight nose, and generous mouth. She gazed at him with a depth of intensity. There was intelligence here, quickness, and perception. And, at the moment, great focus.

  His words rushed out. “I’m fixing the place up. I refinished a white desk and painted the bedroom walls pale green. You wear a lot of green. . . .” He trailed off.

  “Partner?” She spoke steadily enough, but her eyes were luminous.

  “Smith and Wynn, PC, attorneys-at-law.” His sandy brows drew down. “I put my name first since I rented the place but—”

  “Of course your name would be first. You’ve worked hard to build up a practice.” She was emphatic. Her lips spread in a delighted smile. “You’re asking me to go in with you?”

  He gave a quick nod, then stared out at the water. “I know you’re with an established firm. Lots of clients. A great future. I can’t offer anything solid like that. I guess maybe I shouldn’t even think about it.”

  He didn’t see her face, a wash of excitement but something more, intense and emotional. Relief? Deliverance? An odd reaction.

  He rubbed knuckles along his right jaw. “I don’t guess you’d want to take that kind of chance since you already have a good job.”

  “Want to?” A huge breath. “Blaine, how wonderful. Yes, yes, yes. I can’t tell you how—” She came to an abrupt stop.

  I felt I could finish the sentence that she’d begun: . . . awful it is where I am . . . much I want out of there . . . Not . . . how exciting to be on my own . . . how wonderful it will be to work with you . . .

  He was oblivious to that truncated sentence. He swung toward her, eager, excited, amazed. “You’ll do it?” He reached down, and his large knobby hand closed over her small hand. “We can make a go of it.” Now he was on top of the world, rushing to a future festooned with ribbons, heralded by trumpets. “You’re first-rate. I’ve seen you in court.” And his eyes told her that she was lovely and desirable.

  “I’d love to be with you.” It was her turn to flush, say hurriedly, “In an office.”

  “I know you’ll have to think about it. There’s no rush. That space is for you.” And so is my heart, his eyes said.

  “I’ll give notice tomorrow.”

  Had he been less excited by her acceptance of the offer, he might have realized—and wondered at—her heartfelt relief at the prospect of exiting her current job. Instead he was triumphant, “Hey, that’s great. That’s wonderful. Megan, you’re wonderful. We’ll build a great firm, you and me. Together.” Now his left hand caught her free hand. He pulled her near, looked down, slowly bent to kiss her.

  Megan’s large tote bag, bright cotton with peonies and violets and dandelions, rested on a wooden plank a few feet away. A slight movement caught my eye. My gaze settled on an outside pocket. A cell phone rose an inch or two, the screen flashed on. Music blasted, a high, sweet male voice and guitars.

  Megan gasped and jumped. She flung a panicked look at her purse.

  Blaine looked from her to the purse.

  The forlorn song continued at a decibel level that made me wince.

  Megan bolted toward the purse and blaring cell phone with an expression of fury. “Stop it. Stop it now.” She reached down, grabbed the cotton handles. The cell phone, still playing, bounced from the pocket, landed on the pier. Megan’s breaths came in quick spurts. She bent to grab the phone, lifted it, pressed down to turn it off. She straightened, phone firmly gripped in one hand, and looked frantically about, her face set in tight lines of irritation.

  Blaine Smith watched with an odd look of confusion.

  I imagined he was trying to make sense of what he’d hoped to be a sweetly romantic moment, standing at the end of the pier, partnership offered and accepted, a winsome face upturned, bending toward Megan, then the abrupt, stunning blare of music where there should be no music, and Megan stalking toward her purse with the intensity of a hunter sighting a marauding wolf.

  “Megan—”

  She stood a few feet away, still breathing quickly, cheeks flushed, the now mute cell phone clutched in one hand, her purse in the other. “Blaine—sorry—have to go—I’ll give notice tomorrow—talk to you later.” She whirled and clattered toward shore.

  “I thought we’d have dinner—”

  “I’ll call you,” she flung over her shoulder.

  He stared after her, puzzled and disappointed.

  She walked swiftly, head down, reached the path, strode to the parking area. She flung open the driver’s door of her car, slid behind the wheel, plopped the purse onto the passenger seat. Her face set in grim lines, she turned on the motor. She backed up and glared again at her purse. “Jimmy, you are a louse.”

  No answer.

  “How could you do that to me?”

  No answer.

  Megan drove at a furious pace, jolted to a stop at Reverie Lane, the main entrance to White Deer Park. I always loved the name. Reverie suggests tranquillity, a Zen delight in a moment fully realized whether in pleasure at the past or anticipation of the future.

  The small bundle of fury crouched behind the wheel emanated no such tranquillity. She started to turn right, shook those dark curls vehemently, turned left.

  I gave a small murmur, but she was too engrossed in her thoughts, thankfully, to hear me. I cautiously edged the tote bag nearer the center console to afford myself a small space on the seat.

  As the Dodge picked up speed, Megan continued to speak. “I’ve reached the breaking point. This has to stop. Who knows if I’m ever alone?” She glowered at the passenger seat, twisted to look in back. “Jimmy, you know where I’m taking you. And I want you to stay there.”

  We rode in silence then turned onto a familiar road. W
e passed St. Mildred’s and suddenly I, too, knew where we were going. We passed through open bronze gates to the lovely old cemetery adjacent to the church. It seemed an odd destination for an angry woman on a hot summer evening. Not that I don’t enjoy the cemetery. Some graves date back to the early nineteen hundreds with dull gray granite stones tilted to one side. Mausoleums mark the final resting places for a family of means. Much more modest was the cheerful memorial our daughter, Dil, erected for Bobby Mac and me.

  The Dodge picked up speed, rather too much for a cemetery. As the car curved around a hill, I knew Megan was heading for the more recent grave sites. I took an instant to visit the Prichard mausoleum, gleaming in the late slanting sun. The Prichard mausoleum was a favorite spot for Adelaideans down on their luck. At the head of Maurice Prichard’s tomb a carved greyhound stares forever ahead. A carved Abyssinian cat curls atop Hannah’s tomb. Legend has it that stroking the greyhound and the Abyssinian with proper reverence, noble dog, regal cat, will right foundering lives in a flash and good fortune is sure to follow.

  I ducked inside, respectfully patted the greyhound’s head, slid my hand across the back of the stone cat.

  Tires screeched outside.

  I popped into the sunshine.

  In a plume of dust, the Dodge pulled up to a gentle slope with shining urns and bright granite stones. Several Bradford pear trees, their leaves deep green, offered a smidgeon of shade.

  Megan jumped out, slammed the car door, marched, I can only describe her progress as a march—shoulders forward, hands clenched—up a slight incline to a grave site. She looked over her shoulder at the car. “Get out, Jimmy. I know you were on the pier and rode here with me even if you wouldn’t say a word. You’re always where I am, and right now I’m where you should be.” She pointed at the headstone. Her curly black hair quivered with fury.

  I dropped down beside her. I was reminded of a small black cat who came to our house as a stray. In peril or anger, her fur increased her stature from the size of folded socks to a ferocious miniature hedgehog.

  “Jimmy, you’ve got to stop.” Her deep voice seemed too large for her height, possibly five-two. She stood taller on those pink stiletto heels.

  “Jimmy, please!”

  She stared straight at a white headstone.

  JAMES NICHOLAS TAYLOR

  July 4, 1990–July 4, 2014

  To the next great adventure . . .

  “Jimmy, how could you do it?” She stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at the stone.

  “You can do better than that dweeb.” The voice was undeniably male and young, a warm tenor with charm.

  No one stood near us. A male voice, the girl in the pink suit, and, unknown to her, me. No one else. I looked at the stone. James Taylor. Jimmy?

  “Blaine is not a dweeb.” Her deep voice was adamant.

  “Blaine is a pain. In the rain. Or sun. Or whatever.”

  She stamped a foot. “You made me look like an idiot. I freaked out. I couldn’t believe that song started. I knew it was you.”

  “Yeah, well, kind of rude to act nuts.” His voice exuded hurt. “That was our song.”

  “He starts to kiss me and all of a sudden my cell phone blares Sam Smith singing ‘Stay with Me.’” A pause. “Jimmy, how’d you do that?”

  “Oh,” he said, sounding pleased with himself, “I planned it. If you’d turned on iTunes that’s what you would have got. I had the song ready to play. See”—and now his voice drooped—“I figured he’d want to kiss you and when he tried . . .”

  “Oh, Jimmy, what am I going to do about you?”

  “I have your best interests at heart.”

  “You sound like my friend Janey. Megan, don’t you think you could do better? After all, he isn’t very handsome.” Clearly she was quoting.

  “There’s an astute woman. I heard the rest of it, too.” His voice oozed satisfaction. “Jimmy was sooo good-looking.” Clearly he was also quoting.

  She gave a reluctant laugh. “Self-esteem chugging right along? Okay, you were the handsomest guy in the room.”

  “She said I looked like Ansel Elgort.”

  “You did.” She sighed. “But you’re gone. At least you’re supposed to be gone. Why are you still here?”

  “I can’t go yet. The thing about it is, I don’t want you to marry a guy with a chin that juts. By the time he’s fifty, he’ll be a clone to George on Mount Rushmore.”

  “Blaine has a perfectly decent chin.” Her voice was hot.

  “He’s a suit.”

  “Of course he’s a suit. He’s a lawyer.”

  “Most lawyers swank around in dressy casual. What’s with him and a suit? Does he think he’s Clarence Darrow? Besides, his suits never fit him, the sleeves are too short, and the pants too long. The next thing you know he’ll drape his Phi Beta Kappa key on a watch chain.”

  “Jealous,” she taunted.

  “There’s more to life than grades. I had a great future at the Gazette.”

  “A great future . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  The leaves in a nearby cottonwood rustled in the hot late-afternoon breeze. A scent of new-mown grass mingled with the sweetness of honeysuckle. A mourning dove’s haunting cry sounded once, twice, again.

  Abruptly, she whirled. Head down, she hurried toward the little red car.

  Again a male voice called after her, “Hey, Megan, don’t go away mad.”

  Chapter 2

  Megan again drove fast, small hands clamped on the steering wheel.

  I nodded approval at pink nail polish that matched her suit. An eye for detail distinguishes those who dress well. Her suit made me feel festive. I know what I’m wearing even when I’m not visible. I changed to an adorable rosebud print silk polyester dress, the rosebud pattern enhanced by a deeper rose band a few inches above the short hemline. The finishing touch was rose high-heel pumps with ankle straps.

  Megan stared straight ahead. “I’ll be graceful, say all the right things, such a splendid experience to be at Layton, Graham, Morse and Morse, but here’s a chance to go out on my own.” Her smile was huge. “The icing on the cake is being with Blaine! Maybe Jimmy will leave me alone. Maybe I’ll stop hearing his voice. Maybe I can leave Layton, Graham, Morse and Morse behind forever. Or stop feeling like I’m in a twilight zone instead of a law firm. Or am I nuts about all of that, too? Mr. Layton and Doug never talk to each other. They pass in the hall and don’t say a word. Sure, they have their own clients, but it’s something more than that. Ginny and Carl are really nice but I never work with them. And ever since last winter, they treat Mr. Layton politely but look at him with about as much warmth as two boa constrictors. And maybe Sharon’s having a midlife crisis even if she is only in her thirties. Sometimes when she comes out of Doug’s office, she looks drained and sad. I mean, the man can make anyone mad, but sad? She needs some of Geraldine’s spunk. But if she had Geraldine’s sex appeal maybe she wouldn’t mope around. And if Nancy tells me again how she lusts for a Porsche like Doug’s I’ll lose my control and tell her wanting what we can never afford is terminally stupid. Even sweet Lou, who never says an unkind word about anyone, has eyes like ice when she looks at Doug. And poor Anita! I hate to leave Anita. I’ve covered for her as much as I can, but if I don’t get out of there I’ll go crazy. Or maybe I’m already crazy. Maybe I’m imagining the gloom I sense around me. I didn’t used to talk to myself. Now I can match Hamlet for soliloquies. Maybe that’s why I keep imagining Jimmy. Maybe I shouldn’t go with Blaine. He doesn’t need a nutty partner.” Her voice held despair.

  “Of course you should go with Blaine.” I spoke with the authority of a lifetime lived. Carpe diem is trite because it’s true.

  “No, she shouldn’t.” The young male voice was equally adamant.

  Megan jammed on the brakes, swerved to the shoulder of the road. Her head jerked to
ward the passenger seat.

  I wasn’t buckled. Not that I am one to flout rules. I do my best with the Precepts, but even a most abstracted driver might wonder if the belt in an apparently vacant seat slid into its slot and clicked. So I was riding untethered. The abrupt halt flung me forward along with Megan’s tote bag.

  “Ouch.” Fortunately, in my invisible state I am not subject to injury although I’d come up hard against the dashboard. I grabbed the bag from the floor, returned it to the seat, squeezed in next to it.

  Megan stared at her striped tote, apparently rising of its own accord to nestle beside the console. Her dark curls windblown, her smoky gray eyes strained, Megan had the look of a stricken creature. “Jimmy, it’s bad enough when it’s you, but it’s weird if you sound like a woman. You say I should go with Blaine, then you say I shouldn’t. And keep your hands off my tote.”

  “Oh heavens.” I’d blown my cover. Metaphorically speaking. “Megan, I’m not Jimmy.”

  “She sure isn’t.” The tenor from the backseat sounded bemused. “Who the hell are you?”

  I was chiding. “Hell is not to be lightly invoked.” However, this wasn’t the moment for an exposition on Heavenly attitudes. “Suffice to say—”

  Megan turned the motor off, stared at the empty passenger seat, flung a harried glance at the equally untenanted backseat. “I . . . have . . . lost . . . my . . . mind.” The halting words signaled defeat. She lifted a trembling hand to her cheek. “Jimmy’s dead. I keep hearing him. Weird things happen, the music in my iPhone, my favorite chocolate on my pillow—”

  I spoke to the backseat. “Jimmy, that is truly sweet.”

  “Hey, thanks. She loves Dove chocolate bars. I figured the corner drugstore wouldn’t mind if I filched a few. I drank their mud for coffee and paid a buck and a half a cup. And last night I swept out the storeroom, saved somebody a job this morning. But who the hell are you and where are you?”

  “I’m Bailey Ruth Raeburn and I’m here for Megan.”

  Megan scrunched farther down in the seat, gazed in the direction of my voice. “I’ll go home, call a doctor. Or go to the emergency room. What will I say? I’m hearing voices and will you please—”