Christmas Spirit

by Amy Garvey

  And from what Sam had described, something was definitely going bump in the Prescott house.

  She’d spent a frustrating hour on the Internet, trying to pick through amateur sites and complete nonsense until she found a few decent, basic descriptions of paranormal activity. Cold spots were a big red flag, but that had only happened once according to what Charlie had told Sam—whatever was going on in that house usually gave off heat.

  In Lillian’s mind, heat like that meant only one thing if it wasn’t literal, and if there had been an enormous fire in the Prescott house, even way back, she would have heard about it.

  Of course, it was a little surprising that she had never heard any of the Prescotts mention a ghost in the first place. She’d been living next door to the house since she was born, but the New England propensity for keeping skeletons, figurative or otherwise, firmly in the closet was more than familiar. It wasn’t a trait she shared, but then she didn’t come from ten generations of Bings. In fact, she was pretty sure that Bing had been her grandfather’s alias when he’d left the Alps under a cloud for—stealing a cowbell? Decades later, she had no clear idea. Anyway, he’d had a hardscrabble life in upstate Vermont and some of his grown children had headed to the comparatively balmy climate of Massachusetts.

  But the Prescotts—now, they went way back. And as far as what was happening with Charlie, either someone had unlocked the wrong door or the Prescotts were damn good at keeping secrets.

  By six o’clock, she was pacing, irritable with frustrated curiosity, and stepping on Gloria every few feet she took. “That’s it,” she said, glaring down at the dog, which turned big, injured eyes up at her. “Time to go.”

  “I’m heading home,” she told Jamie, tossing over the keys, and ignored her employee’s sigh of relief.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about something supernatural in that house with Charlie. Whatever this was, it didn’t sound like the harmless chains-rattling, tourist-pleasing kind of spook New Englanders loved. There was no way to know if whatever spirit had taken root in the house was actually dangerous, of course, but Sam’s description of that growl didn’t sound pleasant.

  He was a writer, though, and he spun a good yarn. She hated that she was so easily drawn in, but it didn’t really have as much to do with the possibility of a specter as it did with the fact that strange things were happening next door to her own house.

  Even that wasn’t entirely true, of course, she thought as she walked the few short blocks home, Gloria trotting beside her as usual, leashless and perfectly behaved, nails clicking on the sidewalk in the chilly winter evening. There were plenty of stories about ghosts just a stone’s throw from here, right on the island, and they had never caused her more than a moment of passing curiosity.

  But this ghost—what if it was a Prescott? The family didn’t seem to deserve as many unhappy endings as she’d heard mentioned in whispers over the years.

  She didn’t usually dwell on what growing up next door to the Prescotts had meant to her—still meant, even now. Because that meant thinking about everything she was too afraid to fight for, once upon a time, when she was still too young to believe in things she couldn’t see right in front of her face, concrete, or in black and white.

  It was backwards and she knew it. Children were supposed to be the ones to believe in faeries, in Santa, in magic, and the power of wishes, but she was never that innocent, wide-eyed kind of little girl, something her mother had never failed to point out in exasperation. That kind of faith had come later—too late in her case, although knowing it didn’t do her much good now.

  When she rounded the corner onto Cottage Street, though, the idea of going home to the empty, echoing rooms of her own too-big house was too depressing to bear. There was more than one reason she was glad that Charlie had moved in, and one of the biggest was that she had become a friend to Lillian—despite the difference in their age and experience—in a way that Charlie’s Aunt May never had.

  Charlie’s house wasn’t any noisier than her own most of the time, but it seemed warmer with Charlie in it. And Charlie was always good for conversation and company, at least so far.

  Besides, Lillian mused as she headed up the front walk to the Prescott house, Gloria following right behind her, she wanted to hear this ghost story from her.

  And she wasn’t above admitting that she really wanted to get a few details about Charlie’s evening with Sam Landry. Hell, at her age she needed someone young and energetic to keep her amused with the occasional morning-after story or she was going to dry up completely.

  Curious and shameless. Story of my life, she thought as she knocked at the front door.

  No one answered, and the front hall and parlor were still dark. She walked the length of the porch, peering in the windows, and okay, she was a little ashamed of that, but not ashamed enough to keep her from going around the back. Especially when she spotted the faint glow of a light on in the kitchen, a pale yellow suggestion visible in the dining room.

  Gloria pranced in front of her, stubby tail wagging, as she mounted the back porch steps. The dog jerked to a stop when Lillian did, because the back door window had no curtain, and she was fairly sure Charlie might have to rethink that in the near future.

  Charlie was wearing Sam’s shirt and apparently nothing else. Her bare legs were wrapped around Sam’s waist as she sat on the counter, Sam in just his jeans as he stood between her legs, kissing her breathless, her head cradled in one of his big hands.

  Lillian blushed for the first time in ages, blinking as she watched. Holy cow. It looked like they were going for the gold, right there on the kitchen counter. As if they were actually going to do it right there, both of them panting and flushed and completely unaware of anything that wasn’t each other.

  She wasn’t that shameless, that was for sure. Cheeks burning, she turned and shooed Gloria along ahead of her, then nearly fell over her own feet in her hurry to get down the steps. Charlie might not have been prepared for a man like Sam, but she certainly seemed to be handling him with aplomb for the moment, Lillian thought with a return of her grin. The fallout could wait. And the ghost, or at least Lillian’s curiosity about it, could definitely wait.

  She had only gotten as far as the flagstone path to the driveway when she heard a brittle metallic crash, and then a scream. Charlie.

  The echo of her own shriek still hovered in the room when the back door banged open. Lillian, Charlie thought absently, and gaped at her.

  She was beginning to wonder if she was really awake. Lillian barging in unannounced was weird enough without the added fright of that cold blast of air and growling and the pushing that had backed Sam up against the opposite counter, rubbing the back of his hip where he had slammed into the butcher block.

  “Lillian?” he said, voice stupidly thick, and Charlie slid down and crossed over to him while Lillian gathered Gloria in her arms, fingers stroking over the silky ginger ears as if the dog were the one that needed comfort.

  “What the hell happened?” she demanded, taking a step closer. “I heard Charlie scream.”

  At least she was ignoring their relative lack of clothing, Charlie thought. That was something to be grateful for. Not that she really expected any different. Lillian was pretty hard to shock.

  Sam just scrubbed a hand over his face and winced when Charlie prodded at his hip, insinuating her fingers into the loose waistband of his jeans. “Same thing that happened before,” he said between gritted teeth. “That cold rush of air, and then I got shoved.”

  Lillian set Gloria down and came closer, her gaze focused on Sam’s chest. Which was, Charlie realized with a fresh stab of horror, adorned with a red handprint. It was fading already, but its outline was still clear.

  Charlie swallowed and went to the refrigerator, opening the freezer in search of a bag of frozen peas. This was crazy. The idea of a ghost was crazy enough, but a ghost that could leave a mark?

  She turned Sam away from the counter and held the b
ag to his hipbone. He winced, and turned dark blue eyes to her before attempting a ragged smile.

  It was nothing like the smile she’d seen right before they’d fallen asleep, curled into each other, sweaty and sated, bodies like wet rags.

  She swallowed hard, fighting the blush that threatened. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel him inside her, a heavy, perfect fullness. She’d dreamed about it while they slept, in fact, Sam inside her, Sam above her, the swollen, salty tip of his erection on her lips, and his mouth on her breasts, as if it was all happening again, or still.

  They’d slept for nearly four hours, and the weirdest thing for Charlie was waking up with Sam’s body curled protectively around her and feeling as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The room was shrouded in the dark gray shadows of late afternoon, but the bed and Sam’s body were sleep-warm and soft around her, and even though it had been almost two years since she’d slept with a man, she was as comfortable waking up against his naked body as if they’d been together forever.

  Lillian was inspecting the handprint on Sam’s bare chest, and for once he was the one who was blushing, Charlie realized. That was sort of gratifying. She pulled his shirt down lower over her bare thighs, suddenly all too aware that it was the only thing she had on. God, Lillian was going to think she was a complete tramp. Then again, she didn’t seem completely immune to the glorious sight of Sam’s pecs and abs.

  Maybe it was a good thing the ghost protested when it did, Charlie realized as she watched Sam wave away Lillian’s concern. They’d come down hungry and half-dressed, and there was that strange non-weirdness again, as if she’d walked around half naked in front of Sam for years. As if sharing bits of cheese and an apple was something they were used to doing, as if letting Sam lick the tart juice off her fingers was the most natural thing in the world.

  In her limited romantic experience, Guy #1 and Guy #2 never would have done that—it seemed hussyish to think of their names with Sam around, so she didn’t. She’d dated Guy #3 for nine months and had never walked around naked in front of him, much less let him feed her from his hand and lick up and down the length of her body when she was only half-awake and drunk on the sensation, and that was a little overwhelming to think about.

  Heck, she’d dated Guy #4 for over a year and it had never even occurred to her to feed him from her hand.

  That’s when the kissing had started again, of course. With the food and the mouths and the tongues. As if they hadn’t just had the most incredible sex she’d ever experienced just a few hours ago. One more minute and Sam would have been inside her, right there on the kitchen counter.

  She vaguely wondered if either one of them would have noticed the ghost at that point, much less Lillian.

  It was ridiculous to be thinking about this at all, when the topic at hand should have been why this spirit or whatever it was had taken such a vehement dislike to Sam. And why it had pushed him away from her in the attic and in the kitchen, but not when she and Sam had been in her bed, completely naked and having the kind of sex that made her leave a bite mark on his shoulder, which she had just noticed. Oops.

  Lillian smacked her arm just hard enough to get her attention, and she jolted.

  “Focus,” Lillian said, and pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. “Sam told me about all of this today, so you don’t have to worry that I think you’re crazy. But I will admit that I never heard anything about a ghost in this house before, and that’s a little weird, don’t you think?”

  Sam crossed his arms over his chest, but whatever self-consciousness he felt didn’t stop him from questioning her. “Charlie told me you’ve lived next door all your life. Is that right?”

  It was hard to pay attention when all Charlie could focus on was the way the muscles in Sam’s back rippled when he tightened his arms. She tugged her shirt down farther over her legs and said faintly, “If you’ll just excuse me for a second, I have to, um ...”

  “Yes, this could be a conversation that requires clothes,” Lillian said not unkindly, despite the little smirk playing at one corner of her mouth.

  “And food,” Sam said suddenly, standing up. “Is there some place to order Chinese? I’m pizza’ed out this week already.”

  Grateful for the distraction, Charlie pulled takeout menus from the drawer next to the stove and handed them over. “Hong Kong Pearl is wonderful. I’d like chicken lo mein and pork dumplings. Oh, and two egg rolls.” She thought for a minute. “And shrimp toast.”

  “Hungry, are you?” Lillian said, earrings winking in the glow of the lamp hanging over the table.

  “Yes,” Charlie said primly and fled upstairs with Sam’s rumble of laughter echoing behind her.

  This wasn’t exactly what Sam had envisioned when he woke up wrapped around Charlie, he thought as he went upstairs and took his shirt back after calling in the Chinese food. Charlie was in the bathroom, and she’d left his shirt folded neatly on the thrashed bed, which struck him as sort of adorable.

  No, what they’d started in the kitchen was much more like what he’d had in mind. Until the goddamned ghost had shown up and put a stop to it, anyway.

  He shuddered a little, thinking about it. His arms full of Charlie and his tongue buried in her mouth, that cold blast of air had hit like a cartoon anvil, knocking the wind out of him even before the thing had shoved him five feet and slammed him into the counter.

  That was the strangest part. That palm, as real and as solid as his own, or at least it felt that way when it connected with his bare chest, icy and relentless. Ghosts were supposed to be transparent, gauzy and insubstantial. Not shoving you around like a randy guy in a bar picking a fight over some girl.

  Although Charlie was not, and never would be, just some girl to him.

  He was halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rang, and Charlie came running down behind him.

  “God, that was quick,” she said, cheeks still pink and warm, her wallet in her hand.

  “Must be a slow night in Edgartown for everyone who doesn’t have a paranormal visitor.” Sam grinned at her and looped an arm around her shoulder as he opened the door.

  “That’ll be $27.65,” a kid with bored eyes and a nose like a ski slope said, holding up a heavy brown bag.

  Sam pushed Charlie’s hands aside and pulled his own wallet from his back pocket. “I’ve got this,” he said softly, and kissed her forehead. “You can make me breakfast in the morning because I’m staying, no arguments.”

  Judging by the pleased smile that had filled out her mouth, she hadn’t even been planning to try.

  “Wow, that smells good,” Lillian said. She’d already set out plates and silverware, and looked over her shoulder to ask, “Where are the napkins, honey?”

  “Cabinet beside the fridge,” Charlie said and took carton after carton from the bag. There was a big greasy smear on the bottom, and Sam ripped a paper towel from the roll on the counter and set it down on the table under the bag. He was absurdly pleased when she turned a grateful smile on him.

  They spread out the food and sat down, and Sam speared up a piece of beef before he launched into his theories.

  “So ghosts usually are all about unfinished business,” he said, and paused to take a bite. “That’s the prevailing wisdom anyway, and it makes sense.”

  “Do you think the season has something to do with its bad mood?” Lillian asked thoughtfully. “Maybe the emanation just hates shopping.”

  “Or maybe the ghost always wanted to make her own Christmas cards but never got around to it and sent out storebought ones instead. Do you mean that kind of unfinished business?” Charlie asked Sam wryly.

  “No. Guilt never happens to the right people. Now if it was someone who snowed their friends and family with preprinted Christmas letters that arrived postage due, then definitely, the ghost should feel guilty.” He laughed.

  Lillian finished up a mouthful of fried rice. “What makes you think it’s a her?” she said to Charlie.

&
nbsp; Sam shrugged. “Because women obsess over Christmas in a way that men don’t.”

  “I thought it was a her,” Charlie said softly. She was examining the egg roll in her fingers as if it held the answers. “I still do, sort of. Except the thing that pushed Sam doesn’t seem like a woman, does it? Maybe we need to get a ghost count.”

  Sam held up two fingers. “I would say more than one and less than three.”

  Charlie nodded. “Sounds reasonable.”

  “If there is anything reasonable about this.” Sam sat up straighter. “Anyway, one of them is male. I don’t know a lot of women who can push that hard.” He held up a hand when Lillian started to protest. “Gloria Steinem notwithstanding.”

  She rolled her eyes, and reached down to offer Gloria a bit of her sesame chicken. The dog scarfed it up happily and panted for more, thin tail banging against Sam’s calf.

  “Yes, well, whatever gender our ghost or ghosts are, they are agitated, that’s for sure,” Lillian said. “They don’t seem to be the nice, polite, drift-around kind at all.” She stared across the table at Charlie, brow creasing into a frown. She managed to look both maternal and fierce, and Sam swallowed a smile with his next bite of beef and broccoli. “I don’t like the idea of Charlie being here on her own with some pushy ghost who has anger management issues.”

  “She’s not going to be on her own,” Sam said before Charlie could get a word in, but he didn’t miss the doubt and concern on her face. “I’m not going to let anything happen to her. And anyway, whatever this thing is, it only seems to be pissed off at me.”

  “Sam.” Charlie’s tone was harsher than he expected, and even Lillian was startled, but her mouth was filled with fried rice. “Reality check.” Charlie pointed her chopstick at him. “You have the article to finish.” Behind her glasses, her eyes were wide, searching. “You haven’t told me your itinerary, but it’s not like you’re going to be hanging around Martha’s Vineyard for months.”