Ever Near (Secret Affinity Book 1)

by Melissa MacVicar

  “Will you do my nails?” I ask, snapping myself back to the here and now.

  “Sure. How bad are they?”

  Ally takes my hand and begins examining the cuticles. I think again about telling her. If Charlie can sort of believe me, Ally surely could, right?

  “They do look crappy. From working at the coffee shop?”

  “Yeah. I guess. And Charlie wants to keep holding my hand so…” I roll my eyes for dramatic effect, play-bragging with Ally about my fantastic new boyfriend.

  “Oh my gosh, that is so adorable,” she gushes.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. Ally lets out a small yelp of surprise as I roll to my back and pull it out.

  Charlie: Hi

  “Is it Charlie?” Ally asks.

  I shoot up off the bed and pace toward the closet. I need to think about what his text means. Is he being cutesy? Playful? Isn’t it amazing how one little word can seem like it means so much?

  I respond: Hi. Two can play this game.

  Charlie: How’s it going?

  Me: good u?

  Charlie: okay… bored

  Me: going out?

  Charlie: no. u?

  “Let me see.” Ally follows me around the bedroom, trying to glimpse the screen. “What’s he saying?”

  “Stop.” I wave her off, grinning from ear to ear.

  Me: no. sleep remember?

  Charlie: yeah. see you tomorrow night?

  Me: yeah. k. ttys

  Charlie: k bye

  Me: bye

  “What does that mean. Sleep remember? Why did you say that?” Ally’s reading over my shoulder.

  “Nothing.” I close the texting window. “I just told him I like to sleep over here. And you have a comfy bed.” My face heats up like a flame. Ally squints at me, confusion and skepticism in her eyes. I need to distract her. “Let’s go raid your mother’s polish.” I smile, heading for the door.

  But Ally is nothing if not persistent. “Why can’t you sleep there?” She folds her arms over her ample chest and plants her feet, refusing to follow me.

  “What? I can.” My voice wavers because lying to my best friend sucks.

  “You know you wanna tell me.”

  “Maybe later. For now, my nails?” I hold them up and wiggle my fingers at her.

  She sighs. “Fine.”

  I can only hope she forgets. I’ve lost all my nerve to tell her because I don’t think I could bear it if she didn’t believe me. If she laughed and told me I was insane, that would be the worst betrayal I could imagine. Having a best friend like Ally means the world to me, and I don’t plan on ever doing anything to jeopardize that.

  Chapter 13

  The familiar paper and old wood scent of the Atheneum greets me as I pull open the oversized door. Inside, I walk to the left, past the circulation desk, and head up the curving staircase to the computer and reference area. I’m early, and I manage to snag a table between shelves of reference books, away from the computers. Martin will have to look for me, but we’ll be able to talk quietly without anyone listening.

  I pull out my summer reading, The Great Gatsby, to read for the fifteen minutes I have to wait. I read the same paragraph three times before I give up and start flipping pages. I once wrote a poem for class using two words from each of the first twenty pages of a book. Maybe I’ll try that. I’m scanning for cool words when Martin appears. He pretends he’s looking for a book on the shelf near my table. He’s dressed normally today—shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Must be his day off. Lucky him.

  He selects a book and sits across from me, nodding as if we don’t know each other. He opens the book and fixes his eyes on the pages. “So you’re a medium?” Martin murmurs.

  I glance around to make sure no one is nearby. “I guess.” I can’t stop staring at him. I have my head bowed over my book but my eyes on him. His reddish goatee is quite thick but the rest of his face is carefully shaved.

  “What do they look like? When you see them?”

  “They’re fully formed, usually. But they change and fade and do gross stuff.”

  “Gross stuff?”

  “Yeah. Like melt and peel and freak out. Like off-the-chain-bad temper tantrums.”

  “And they talk to you?”

  “Yeah. Who is she?”

  “I’ll tell you. But you have to do something for me first.”

  “What?”

  “Talk to a ghost.”

  A sick feeling bubbles in my stomach, like spaghetti sauce on the stove. I had no idea this was going to be some kind of Let’s Make a Deal scenario, and the last thing I want to do is go see a ghost with Martin. “What?”

  “I want you to talk to a ghost for me.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “A real ghost?”

  “Of course,” he says, as if my question is ridiculous and all his ghosts are real.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been to some of your places and never seen one.”

  “Not the place I’m talking about. This one isn’t on my site or in my book. Meet me at eight tonight in the town lot. I’ll show you a real ghost, and I’ll keep your secret.”

  I look up and meet his flat brown eyes full on, anger gurgling in my throat. How dare he? He’s not asking so much as ordering. I want to tell him no and that I certainly won’t meet him anywhere.

  Before I can pull my racing thoughts together, he pushes back his chair and stands up. He casually slides his book back into its place on the shelf and walks away without any further explanation. Does he just expect me to do exactly what he says? And was he seriously threatening to reveal my secret if I don’t help him? His deal sounded more like blackmail. Martin isn’t the happy-go-lucky guy I thought he was. In fact, he might actually be evil. My legs jiggle under the table, and I have to fight the urge to jump up and run out of the building. He might still be downstairs or outside, and I don’t want to see his ugly face again. So instead, I stare blankly at The Great Gatsby, trying to calm my boiling-spaghetti-sauce stomach. Why does it feel as though everything just got ten times worse? Martin doing an exposé about me on his website would be worse than terrible. What would people think? All of Nantucket would know. They’d label me a liar and a weirdo. Everyone would think I’d lost my mind. My mother would have me committed.

  Plus, he wants me to talk to a ghost. Who knows how bad that could be? Some of them are really horrible and nasty, like Strobe.

  Ten minutes later, I pack up my stuff and leave. Outside, the streets are buzzing with people, and as I walk to work, my thoughts scramble with more dire ideas. What if Martin’s a pervert? Maybe that’s why he wants me to meet him. Maybe there’s no ghost, and he’s going to try to get with me. I berate myself for contacting him in the first place. Did I really think talking to him was going to help? I guess I’ll find out tonight. I’ll be sure to bring a weapon in case I have to fend off more than just a freaky spirit.

  Chapter 14

  Mom thinks I’m going to the movies with Ally. I wish that was the truth, but instead, I weave my way down Main Street, through clusters of tourists wearing their finest polos and khakis, and head to the town lot. I reach Washington Street and pass the shuttle station and Force Five. The American Legion, a crumbling brick box, spooks me a bit. There’s a ghost in there I call Soulja Boy. I encountered him at my first high school dance. I shove him and his stinky, nasty uniform out of my mind and walk past quickly with long purposeful strides.

  When I get to the town lot, fear scurries in my chest like a small rodent. Hopefully, Martin really does just want me to see a ghost and not some underground torture chamber where he’ll be holding me hostage for the next week.

  The town lot is large and only partly paved. Martin didn’t say where exactly he’d be, and I don’t remember what kind of car he drives, so
I just start wandering down the main aisle. When I hear a car behind me, I hold my breath.

  The vehicle eases by without stopping. Not Martin. All kinds of thoughts are shooting through my brain. Maybe I can still abandon this plan before something heinous happens to me. I was feeling tough and strong before, but now that I’m here, in a dark parking lot waiting for a strange man who’s blackmailing me, I realize that I might have made a mistake. I should have told Charlie, or better yet, brought him along. But if I brought him and there was no ghost, what would have happened then? The existence of the paranormal would have been in serious doubt, not to mention he might have thought I was some kind of attention whore, faking bad dreams to get him to come to my room and hold me. I decide to send a text so at least someone knows where I am. I pull out my phone and try to think of what to say. How do I casually explain what’s happening in a text? Maybe everything will be fine. We’ll go, and there will be no ghost and no torture chamber, and Martin will tell me who Lacey is.

  An older SUV stops beside me. Martin’s behind the wheel. I open the passenger door.

  “Get in the back. And put the baseball hat on.” He stares straight ahead, his rude alter ego from the library in play. No jovial, grand gestures or costumes like on his tours or at Fair-Ever when he found me—he’s all business.

  I do as he says. I even put on the stupid hat. He doesn’t say another word, and we head out of town to the rotary and then out the Milestone Road toward Sconset, listening to some hideous soft rock station. It’s epically bad music, Celine Dion screeching on about love. I examine the back of Martin’s head. His neck is oddly fat. I would have thought a guy would have to be really fat to have a fat neck, but not Martin. Maybe that’s why he wears the hats.

  “Are you going to tell me where you’re taking me?” I ask.

  “Sconset,” he says, glancing in the rear view mirror.

  “Yeah, I can see that. Tell me about the ghost.” I clutch my key as if it’s a talisman to ward off Martin and whatever spirit might show up tonight.

  “No. I don’t want you to have any information.”

  I huff at him, trying to think of a way to shake him up, get him off balance so I can have the upper hand. I pretend to send a text on my phone, wishing the piney air freshener wasn’t so strong. “I just texted two of my friends where I am. They’ll know I was with you if something happens to me.”

  He flicks his eyes back and forth from the road to the mirror. “What are you talking about?”

  “If you mess with me, my mom will kill you. She’s from Southie.”

  “You think…? I just want you to see a ghost. I’m not going to… mess with you.” He acts as if the idea never even crossed his mind.

  Ha! I’m so sure. “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”

  “Well, I’m not. So stop texting. The only thing you need to worry about is talking to this ghost.”

  His shocked expression is too genuine to ignore. Relief seeps into my system that at least one of my fears isn’t true. Now I just need to worry about the ghost.

  “Which one is it?” I ask.

  “I have a lot of ghosts I never discuss on my site. People want to be anonymous. Like you. I should warn you, though. This one is rumored to be very angry. At least from what the homeowners have told me.”

  I slump back against the seat and take off the hat. “Okay. And then you’ll help me? With Lacey?”

  “You should leave the hat on. I don’t want anyone to see us together.”

  Seriously? He thinks the hat is going to help? I don’t put it back on. “You’re gonna tell me who she is, right?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Right?” I repeat, leaning forward to look at the side of his face.

  “Right,” he mumbles.

  “You have to promise. I hate talking to ghosts, especially very angry ones as you put it. And you don’t seem like you’re really that into helping me.”

  He smirks. “I’m not in high school. I’m not going to pinky swear with you.”

  “And what if your ghost doesn’t exist? What if we go and nothing happens?”

  “He does.”

  “And how would you know?”

  “I do. Now please be quiet.” He turns up the volume on Celine Dion in an obvious attempt to get me to shut up.

  In Sconset, we take a left onto the road to Sankaty Head Lighthouse. The bluff overlooking the Atlantic is to our right. Sconset is actually named Siasconset, but no one ever calls it that. The tiny village is where the really old money people come when they come to Nantucket. Sconset people are a little different from town people. They aren’t flashy, even though they probably have more billions than Oprah. They’re the kind of people who descended from railroad and steel barons and didn’t even get wiped out by the Great Depression. Their money has stood the test of time and will likely last forever.

  Martin turns into the driveway of a normal-looking colonial on the bluff side, about halfway to the lighthouse. Some of the houses here are Victorian, but this one is just plain-Jane Nantucket: gray shingles, gray trim. Even the name is boring: Bluff House. How original.

  When I scan the street and neighboring houses, I spot an old man walking a black lab, a family lighting sparklers on their front porch, and a group of middle-school kids on another. Someone is going to see us. Luckily, these are all summer people, but I still don’t like being here with Martin.

  He reaches for his door. “The owners aren’t here. I caretake it in the winter. I’ll go open the door, and then you come in.”

  While I appreciate that Martin wants our little rendezvous to be a secret, surely he knows that it’s summer. There are no secrets on Nantucket in the summer, just eyes everywhere. All forty-seven square miles of sand and rock teems with eyes. We might as well put our little visit in the “Foggy Sheet” in N Magazine. Geesh. But there’s no arguing with Mr. Know-it-All Blackmailer, so I do as he instructs and hustle inside on cue.

  The Bluff House décor is full-on beach house, white and navy with pops of red. Paintings of boats hang on whitewashed walls. Shells are propped up in every nook and cranny. Throw rugs lie on a purposely battered wood floor.

  “Where do they see him?” I ask, hugging myself. A chill has already descended on me, and I haven’t even found a ghost yet.

  “Upstairs hallway. And in the bedrooms.” Martin starts up the stairs.

  I follow him, even though I’m not feeling psyched about going into a bedroom with him. Despite his proclamation that he’s not going to mess with me, I know that men mess. In general, that’s what they do. I have no time to worry, though, because when I get to the top of the stairs, the ghost is waiting.

  “Why are you here?” he asks, inches from my face.

  The smell of dirt and mold hits me first. This ghost is huge, a hulking mass of a man with a dark beard, tan cap, and a blousy, white shirt billowing around him. He sneers, beady eyes narrowed. A rush of air buffets me, as if a windstorm just cropped up inside the house. All the doors off the hallway start slamming and flapping, and a picture flies off the wall. Martin ducks so the painting doesn’t take off his head.

  I back away down the hall, not sure where I think I’m going to go. “He… b-b-brought me. T-To t-t-talk to you.”

  When I’m able to tear my eyes away from the ghost for second, I see Martin has his iPhone out and pointed at me. He’s videotaping me. Son of a bitch.

  “Ah, the new maid. And a fine-looking one. My father chose well.” The ghost stays inches from my face, even though I continue to back up.

  I can’t seem to take a breath. Panic spreads in my chest, my heart thudding in my ears.

  “Where is he?” the ghost screams.

  My knees buckle, and I fall. I cover my face with my hands so I don’t have to see him, but his stench is overwhelmi
ng: decay and rot. The cold is gone, and the heat of his wrath has taken over. I can’t run. I can’t get up. Is Martin going to just keep taping? My strength is being sapped, pulled out of me. A weight presses down on my shoulders, two invisible hands forcing me to the floor. I can’t resist them. They overpower me. A blow hits my stomach as if I’ve been kicked, and everything goes black.

  Chapter 15

  “Jade!”

  I’m floating on the ocean, bobbing like a piece of driftwood in the surf. I’m a bottle with a secret message tucked inside. What would it say? If you could pull out the paper and read it? Something tugs on me, yanking at my arm and dragging me back toward the beach.

  “Wake up, Jade! Please!”

  I snap open my eyes. Martin Fitzgerald is attempting to lift me off the floor by pulling on my arms. I try to orient myself. Where am I? How did I get here? Events come flooding back in a rush—Bluff House, Martin, blackmail.

  When I realize I have control over my body again, I use the surge of energy to slap at Martin’s hands. “Don’t touch me!”

  He jumps back as though I’ve stung him. The doors have stopped slamming, and there’s no sign of the maniacal ghost, so I roll to all fours and begin crawling toward the stairs. I would stand up, but that might lead to falling down, based on the spinning in my head. I’m still trying to catch my breath when I get to the top of the stairs, so I turn over and scoot down them on my butt. Tears of anger and relief stream down my cheeks. I shudder with a few big sobs. That was the worst encounter ever. And Martin has the whole thing on tape.

  “Jade? Jade?” Martin’s stumbling down the stairs behind me.

  “Get away from me. I’ll walk.” My voice is softer than I want it to be. My tone doesn’t reveal the full force of my scorn for Martin Fitzgerald in this moment. He’s utterly despicable for subjecting me to that ghost and for having the gall to tape me without my permission.