Grimm's Last Fairy Tale

by Becky Lyn Rickman

  “Quite. I’m going to remain here in the shop and I’ll see you in the morning when you open up.”

  “I can go for that. So, I guess I’ll see you in the morning?”

  “As you wish. Just remember this: if you ever need me, anytime, day or night, just call me or pick up one of my books or call my name.”

  “I’ll remember. Thank you, Jacob. It means a lot to me to have you in my life. I think.”

  “Being in your life is something I have longed for. It is even sweeter than I could have imagined.”

  Jacob bowed with chivalrous affect and then he was gone from her sight.

  Maggie spent a few moments pondering her situation and trying desperately to decide whether she was grateful for this amazing phenomenon or whether she was grateful to finally, at long last, not have to deal with reality ever again.

  Chapter 9,

  in which Maggie follows a suggestion, becomes better acquainted with her specter and grows more comfortable with the idea

  of her possible insanity

  Maggie did just as she was prompted to by her new companion. She treated herself to a luxurious bath replete with bubbles, candles, some Bach on the little portable CD player and a cup of chamomile tea. Then she ate a salad while she looked up more information about Jacob on the internet, just as any tech-savvy woman today would. Afterward, she played with the cats for a bit, and then slipped under her down comforter for the night.

  She awoke after a full night of dreaming the dreams of angels. She was thankful that there had been no night terrors or other disturbances. She laid there for a bit, just trying to enjoy the here and now. At this moment, there was no calamity in her life. No one was calling her. She had nothing pressing to do. It would be a routine day, she told herself.

  Once she finally forced herself out of bed, she hurried through her morning routine anxious to get to the bookstore and see her new friend. She drove with the classic rock blaring on her car stereo and singing at the top of her lungs. She was a girl again. She thought how easy it is to forget one’s gender when you have little to no interaction with the opposite sex. You become a sort of neutral entity.

  This time, when she unlocked the shop door and flung it open, she did not call out for Hemingway, but rather, she cried out, “Jacob?”

  The only response she got was a peeved meow from the feline in residence.

  “You’re not Jacob, silly! Have you seen him?”

  Hemingway flipped her tail indifferently and moved toward her empty food dish.

  When she got to her desk, there was nothing to let her know he had been there. No poetic or literary tokens of his alleged affections. No appearances. Just the banal surroundings that she had grown accustomed to until recently. For someone who had been dead for so long, Jacob brought lightness into the world of dusty old books and to her dismal outlook. She couldn’t imagine where he could be keeping himself. In his few appearances to her, he seemed so anxious to be near her.

  As she threw herself into her daily tasks, her mind began to infect her with thoughts of imaginary friends and total delusions. As each hour passed without any word from Jacob, Maggie grew more and more disillusioned and doubtful.

  Still, she was able to concentrate and the business of the day kept her mind mostly occupied. Then she remembered his words from the evening before.

  With no one in the bookshop, she quietly tried once more, “Jacob?”

  No sooner had she gotten his name off her lips than he was there beside her.

  “I wondered where you were. I was beginning to doubt that you existed.”

  “I was just giving you a little space. Sometimes I worry that this revelation has been too much for you. I am so conflicted between my selfish desire to be with you and my desire to keep you happy and sane. I worry that maybe I won’t be able to accomplish both. I don’t want to let you down as you have been let down in the past.”

  “I appreciate that. I know that I’m more than a little gun shy. I know that you understand why, if you have truly witnessed my life as you say you have.”

  “I have the kid gloves on. I will proceed with the utmost caution. You are the most important thing in my life. I am not afraid to confess that you are my first true love; and, being such, I have not earned the same stripes that you have. I don’t have the same fear, apprehension and trepidation as you. I am open to whatever comes our way. That leaves you, my love. And knowing you the way I have learned to know and love you, I will not do anything to harm your sensibilities.”

  Maggie only responded with a nearly inaudible, “Thank you,” and turned back to her work.

  “What have I said wrong?”

  “It is nothing.”

  “I don’t believe that. You are shuddering.”

  “It’s just that . . . I’ve never been . . . or felt . . . it’s just all, you know, so . . . you really never had a true love before?”

  “Oh, Margaret, I was so rapt with my work, my studies, the cause of philology, things like that, that I never took the time to bother with what I perceived as so trivial. How foolish I was. I always thought there would be more time. Wilhelm had a lovely wife and children. I believe I must have used them as substitutes for my own. I know it sounds cliché, but only on my deathbed did I look back and question my choices.”

  “You and I have led quite different lives, Jacob. I have always doted on being a wife and mother and have begrudgingly worked to support myself during the in-betweens. You have focused on career, loving it, but were left with no family. The one thing we do have in common is our love of words and their origins and the desire to share them with mankind. You see, I have a little secret. I have always wanted to be a writer and along the way, I have started more books than I care to recount. But the need to survive and support myself has always gotten in the way. Now it’s too late. I’m old and tired.”

  “And full of great stories and characters. Look what you have to work with, my dear. Literature is full of authors who started much later in life. There are late bloomers in every field—people who went on to make enormous contributions to humanity. You, my darling, have made a terrible mistake in disclosing this to me. I will haunt you, quite literally, to fulfill your dream. I know you will be a wonderful storyteller with all the experience that you have to draw from.”

  Maggie couldn’t hold back the giggle. She loved having someone in her corner to prod her on, even if he wasn’t exactly among the living.

  He added, “Once you get your feet wet, I want you to write our story. It will have a happy ending. I promise you that.”

  Maggie beamed at the thought. She rarely had anything to excite her now that her kids were grown, but today, she was glowing and everyone who entered the bookshop that day could feel it.

  She and Jacob spent the day talking like two old friends. Though he had viewed most of her life, it thrilled him to listen to her recounting stories that he had missed. Maggie felt an intimacy with him that she had felt with few others and with none this quickly.

  Facing the end of the workday, she was feeling an impending loss. She had become far too independent to feel this way, but she was growing so accustomed to his company that she was beginning to feel empty with him not around.

  Without inhibition, she blurted out, “I wish you could come home with me.”

  “I can if you invite me.”

  Maggie lowered her head and blushed and with a slight giggle offered, “I know that I am growing way too fond of you. I think I will miss you tremendously when you are not with me.”

  “I can come anytime. We can read together. We can discuss things as we have today. You can even complain to me about things are bothering you and cry when you are sad. But at the end of the day, I must leave you.”

  “I understand. Would you like to come over this evening? We can read whatever you like.”

  “I would be honored to spend the evening with you. What time would you like for me to show up.”

  “How about 7:00 PM? But you
must be kind and not criticize my old house and the disorder it may or may not be in.”

  “I won’t see anything but you, I promise.”

  “So, will this be our first date?”

  Jacob smirked, touched his pointer finger to his nose signifying a secret that they were the only two in on, and then he disappeared.

  Chapter 10,

  in which Maggie is giddy over her pending romantic rendezvous and,

  with far too little trepidation,

  chooses to believe once more

  Maggie managed to get on with the remainder of the afternoon, but not without some giddiness.

  “Hemingway, guess what! I have a date, that’s what! Just keep it our little secret though. I can’t have folks figuring out that I’m dating a dead man, though a few of the men in my past might have passed as being dead.”

  Then a moment of panic set in. What does one do with a ghost on a date? He doesn’t eat, so impressing him with her cooking was out. She couldn’t cuddle with him in front of a good old black and white movie. There would be no goodnight kiss. He couldn’t hold her while they danced. How in the world could she entertain him? He had said conversing and reading, but would that be enough? It certainly never had been with anyone before.

  She closed up shop and headed toward home befuddled and frustrated. She was so far out of her league and there probably weren’t any support groups out there that dealt with this sort of mixed relationship.

  When she arrived home, she put on some comfortable clothes and set about picking up her bachelorette clutter. At least she could present him with a tidy home for them to sit and stare at each other in. When she slipped the t-shirt over her head, she saw the 5 large bookshelves in her room. What would he be interested in? She quickly surveyed the shelves and picked out a few that she thought would be fun to read together.

  She dusted with the energy of a 16-year old, though none of her 16 year-olds ever had much enthusiasm about such menial tasks. She did miss her children. But they had become what she set out to try to make them—adults. They were all self-reliant and independent adults. They had all turned out to have a great work ethic and deep regard for their families, so she couldn’t bemoan the fact that none of them was actually living with her now. Many of her friends had grown children, and sometimes even the families of those children, living with them.

  When 6:30 PM rolled around, Maggie surveyed her digs and smiled, then realized she hadn’t eaten anything. She grabbed a yogurt from the refrigerator and ate it slowly and appreciatively. Then she dressed in her prettiest frock and grabbed a few more of her favorite books and placed them thoughtfully on the coffee table. She lit a fire in the fireplace, as much for ambiance as warmth, and dimmed the lights a bit. Then she waited.

  Jacob arrived at exactly 7:00 PM. She counted on that. To arrive early would be presumptuous and rude. To arrive any later would have been inconsiderate. She had already figured things out about Jacob that she had not been able to figure out in any of her other relationships. She was appreciating what she was discovering about him.

  “Jacob, I’m so glad to see you. Welcome to my home.”

  He reached out his hand and she automatically reached out hers. Without thinking she grabbed his hand and cupped in her own. He gently raised it to his lips and kissed it. Startled, she withdrew hers from his with a jerk, and jumped back with a gasp.

  “Jacob, I felt you!”

  “I know.”

  “But, how can that be?”

  “I broke the rules. Forgive me. There are limited circumstances in which I am allowed to touch and this was not one of them.”

  “Well, what are they then? It was wonderful to feel you. You weren’t at all cold as I thought you would be. It felt so real, as if you were flesh and bones. Why was it breaking the rules? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s not important right now. All I can say is that I yielded to temptation and I was remiss in doing so. I have to remain in control of myself.”

  “Can you tell me the circumstances under which you are allowed to touch?”

  “Please, Margaret, in due time, and when you need to know, you will know. It really isn’t important right now.”

  Maggie was suddenly even more spooked than when she had seen Jacob for the first time. She stepped back with a quizzical look. Jacob longed to tell her everything, but doing so at that time would have irrevocably changed her life and their relationship.

  Jacob finally broke the painful silence between them.

  “Why don’t you show me around your place?”

  Maggie took his cue, though she was still filled with bewilderment and questions that she sensed he would not or could not answer. Instead of asking, she went into hostess mode, a posture she had perfected through years of entertaining the business acquaintances of her previous husbands.

  “Well, this is the foyer, and over to the left we have two of the biggest bedrooms I’ve ever seen. I love them, really. They are a testament to old architecture, although the closets are a bit lacking. When Maggie put her hand on the doorknob of her bedroom to open it, Jacob stopped her.

  “It would be inappropriate for me to see that room at this point.”

  He was almost stern in his admonition. Maggie was jolted to the realization that there was a century and a half between their lives and she knew she must be more thoughtful.

  “And here’s the afterthought bathroom—the house was originally built without one, of course, so they threw this little gem in later, partially under the stairs of all places. These are the stairs to the attic, which is finished, but I use it just for storage. Now we are in the formal dining room, which is anything but. I use it as my office and workroom. Now the kitchen—small but it works for me. That’s the rear door to my secret garden-style back yard. It’s too dark and filled with snow to really appreciate right now, but perhaps in the spring. Finally, we arrive in the living room. Go ahead and sit down and I’m going to let Mr. Darcy, Colonel Brandon and Mr. Bingley out of my bedroom. They are my cats.”

  “What a nice room. You have done a lovely job of decorating it, and the fireplace is perfect. This is just where I want to be right now and you are just the woman I want to be here with. I couldn’t ask for more.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be right back. I want them to meet you because I have always used them as sort of a litmus test for men. If my cats like you, you’re probably worthy of my attention.”

  Maggie stopped in her tracks and got a strange look on her face.

  “What is it, my darling?”

  “You’re a ghost. Will they even be able to see you?”

  “Cats are extremely intuitive. They have senses we can’t even imagine. Yes, they will definitely be able to sense my presence. They may actually get a little wild briefly. Hemingway did. He knew I was there before you did. Because of that, they may not really be a good litmus test.”

  “I know everything about you I need to know. You have nothing to fear.”

  As Maggie spoke these words, she shuddered with the realization that she had spoken them before, about nearly every man she had ever been with. Was she being foolish again? Would she ever learn to use discretion?

  “A franc for your thoughts,” Jacob inquired, seeing her troubled face.

  “I’m sorry. I was just thinking how many people I’ve put my total trust in long before I should have—long before I really knew them.”

  “I realize that. I know you’ve been put through the wringer. I hope you will be able to trust just one more time. I promise it will be the last time you will have to.”

  “And I’ve heard nearly those same words before.”

  Maggie felt herself growing resentful and out of control.

  “Margaret, would you like to call it an evening? I understand if you are not feeling up to this.”

  “No, Jacob, I’m sorry. I need to work through this, but I recognize it as my problem and not yours. Please, let’s sit and read something. Have you been reading during your
visits here? I’m sure authors are much more plentiful now than in your day. Have you read anything current or do you stick with the classics and your contemporaries?”

  “First of all, I do read. Second, I have read a few modern books, as you call them. The world is flooded with them. It astonishes me how much people pay for books. But if I am to be honest, and I won’t be less with you, I prefer the classics.”

  “Who are your favorites?”

  “Dickens, Shakespeare, the Bronte sisters, Hugo, and of course Austen. Do you remember the first thing I left you? It was a poem.”

  “How could I possibly forget? It was my favorite poem by my favorite poet.”

  “That is precisely why I left it. Because I knew it was your favorite. It has become mine as well. I don’t believe his last line is entirely accurate. I think death is a parenthesis. There is more to follow—not that I’m trying to de-romanticize it! I’m sorry for being analytical. It is a fault of mine. But the rest of the poem perfectly expresses what I feel when I watch you live.”

  “Wow, Jacob. That is about the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. I’m touched. I will try to believe it. What would you like to read tonight? Is there anything in particular you have in mind? I have many of the authors you mentioned.”

  “Why don’t we read some of the sonnets? Do you like Shakespeare?”

  “Dearly, and I have a very old copy of them. Let me fetch it. But, before I do, may I have an embrace?”

  “Nothing would please me more. But I must make this the last.”