by P. J. Conn
He waited until after Mitch had served his beer to send an idle glance toward the booths along the wall behind him. Two were occupied, and the woman he'd really come to see sat alone in the last booth. Tonight she was dressed in a startling red suit, with a matching veiled hat. He tried not to smile too wide, but he couldn't deny he was thrilled to see her.
Mitch followed Hal's glance, rested his arms on the bar and leaned close to whisper, "She's in here once a week, orders one martini and leaves as alone as she came. I figure she lost someone in the war and has a drink to remember him."
She certainly wasn't dressed like a grieving widow that night, but Hal nodded as though he agreed with Mitch's assessment. "No one ever talks to her?" he asked.
Mitch straightened up. "Lots of men have approached her, and while I can't hear what she says, it's enough to send them running. Try it if you're feeling brave."
Hal took the comment as a dare, left his glass on the bar and walked to her booth with the same easy confidence he displayed in his office. "May I join you?"
She looked up at him through her hat's lacy veil, and her bright red lipstick made her smile doubly warm. "I'm on my way out, and the booth's all yours."
Her voice was pitched low, like a movie siren uttering a provocative line, and unable to think of a clever response in time to inspire her to stay, Hal stood back as she brushed by him. He noted how gracefully she moved on her red high heels and swallowed hard rather than drool. Elated that he'd spoken to her rather than being defeated by her casual dismissal, he returned to his stool and picked up his beer.
"Well?" Mitch asked.
Hal shrugged. "She was polite, and merely said she was on her way out."
"Maybe you should come in earlier next week," Mitch offered with a sly wink.
Hal took a long swallow of his beer rather than respond, but he was sorely tempted to do just that. He never left the office early, but he might make an exception just once. The challenge would be to find the charm to inspire the pretty lady to stay.
Chapter 2
On Sunday afternoon, Hal quickly grew bored with reading the Los Angeles Times and tossed the crossword puzzle aside. "Why don't we go to the movies?" he suggested.
Faye looked up from the new dress she was hemming by hand. "I suppose we could go, if you want to."
Hal couldn't recall a single time she'd offered what he'd welcome as a much needed break in their stifling routine. He picked up the paper to check movie times. There was a nice theatre within walking distance, and they could make the matinee if they hurried.
"The Ghost and Mrs. Muir sounds good." He'd already made up his mind and went to the closet for their coats.
Faye set the dress aside, smoothed out her grey wool skirt and orange sweater. "Do I need to change my clothes?" she asked.
"No, you look beautiful as always," he assured her. He helped her put on with her brown tweed coat and thought it was one of her best purchases. It had probably been on sale rather than her first choice. With curly brown hair and hazel eyes, she was such a pretty girl, and he leaned down to give her a quick kiss. He took her hand as they walked to the theatre.
"Can we buy popcorn?" she asked.
"Of course," he agreed and bought two red and white striped boxes. They found seats on the aisle near the center of the theatre where he preferred to sit. They had just gotten comfortable when the newsreel began. He was so relieved to be out of the house he paid scant attention until the cartoon. Bugs Bunny was silly at best, but he laughed with the rest of the audience. There was a good crowd for a wintery afternoon.
In the feature film, Rex Harrison starred as Captain Gregg, and Gene Tierney as Mrs. Muir, a widow who'd bought the supposedly haunted Gull Cottage. Natalie Wood played her little daughter. Hal found himself intrigued by the prospect of a love affair involving a lonely young woman and a handsome ghost, but the pair weren't truly together until the end of the film when Mrs. Muir died and Captain Gregg appeared to take her hand. When the lights came on after the credits, he was surprised to find Faye in tears.
"Didn't you like the story?" he asked.
She wiped her eyes on her lacy handkerchief. "I loved it, but it was just so sad."
"Not if you think of them as being together in the hereafter," he responded. He brushed away the last crumbs of popcorn from his lap and helped her snuggle into her coat. They held hands as they walked home. "Next time I'll find a comedy if you'd like that better."
"But I loved The Ghost and Mrs. Muir even if it was sad. It seemed like a story that could really have happened."
"You believe in ghosts?" Hal asked, clearly skeptical of their existence.
"There are places that are truly haunted, I read about them all the time," she countered.
"It must be difficult to prove," he answered.
"Not to the people who've actually seen ghosts. They're often so terrified by the experience they never forget it."
He loved it when she showed some spirit. "Should we go looking for some on our vacation? There must be a haunted hotel somewhere in California, maybe up in the Gold Rush country."
"I didn't say I wanted to see one!" she exclaimed. "Now let's hurry, I'm getting cold, and I need to put the chicken in the oven."
Hal hurried his step. She continually overcooked the chicken, but that night he'd check on it a dozen times if he had to and make certain it was roasted to perfection rather than incinerated. He laughed in spite of himself.
"What's so funny?" she asked.
"Nothing really," he assured her, but he succeeded in helping her produce a delectable chicken that evening and was grateful all through the meal.
* * *
Faye went to the library on Monday and came home with an armful of books written by authors who claimed to be experts on ghosts. Hal liked to read nonfiction accounts of the war, or novels set during the strife, while Faye went for much lighter fare. He didn't tease her about the books, but he dismissed them as entertaining fabrications rather than the truth.
They were seated in the living room Tuesday night reading when Faye looked up. "I'm reading about the Tower of London which is positively filled with ghosts. It's said people often see a headless Anne Boleyn."
Her eyes were lit with excitement, but Hal couldn't help himself. "If the ghost has no head, how do they know she's Anne Boleyn?" he asked.
Faye bit her lip. "That's a good question, maybe by her clothes?"
"Yes, probably," Hal agreed. He returned to his book grateful she'd found an interest other than sewing unattractive clothes. She described another ghost in the Tower, and he nodded and smiled, but he wished she'd see through the silly accounts rather than gush over the foggy apparitions.
He took her out to dinner to celebrate Valentine's Day, and gave her a gold bangle bracelet with a heart charm along with flowers and candy. She surprised him with a pair of pajamas she had sewn herself, and he pretended to be pleased. He was grateful they were made from pale blue cotton rather than a hideous print that would have disturbed his dreams.
He tried them on and found they were a size too large, but that was a small complaint. He picked her up in an enthusiastic hug. "Thank you. These are the most comfortable pajamas I've ever worn."
"Oh good, I'll make you another pair," she responded happily.
He gave her a loving squeeze rather than reply, but as long as he didn't have to wear her creations out of the house, he'd consider himself lucky.
* * *
The following Thursday night, the beautiful woman Hal had come to see had again worn black. He hadn't had to leave the office early, merely to leave when everyone else did rather than remain late to plan for Friday. He went straight to her booth.
"Do you believe in ghosts?" he asked.
She smiled as she glanced up at him. "Of course. There are several people I intend to haunt."
She nodded slightly, and he took it as an invitation to take the seat opposite hers. He slid into the booth. "So you believe it's possible?" he i
nquired.
"I intend to make it so," she responded, her voice deliciously low and intimate.
He watched her sip her martini and lick her bright red lips. It was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen, and the bar suddenly grew uncomfortably warm. "What do you have planned, footsteps, opening and closing doors, rattling chains?"
"Too ordinary," she dismissed with a wave of a gloved hand. "I'm thinking of glowing lights, chilling mists, and familiar songs when no radio is playing."
"You're making me shiver just talking about it."
She regarded him with an indulgent smile and then checked her watch. "Time to go. Don't ever follow me," she cautioned.
"Why not?" he asked. But she left without responding. He reached for her glass, tasted her martini and made a face.
Mitch came over to fetch the glass and clean the table. "Too much for you?" he asked.
"Are you referring to the martini, or the woman?" Hal asked.
Mitch responded with his rich rolling laugh. "Both."
Hal followed him to the bar and ordered a beer but it tasted like water after the breath-taking sip of gin. It prompted him to compare the woman in black to Faye, and he was instantly ashamed of himself for doing so.
When he got home, he found Faye had added mushrooms to her meatloaf to give it a strange chewy texture. He wondered about getting a dog that would sit under the table and eat the scraps he could sneak him. He doubted he could walk the dog often enough to keep him from growing obese though and discounted the idea. He drank water with his meals, and Faye didn't comment when he got up to refill his glass.
"How was your day?" he asked as he returned to the table.
"Pretty ordinary. Mrs. Espinoza, Carmen, from next door, came over to ask me to help her change a ceiling light bulb. She's afraid to stand on a stool when she's all alone."
"So you climbed up on the stool?" he asked.
"Yes, it doesn't take a minute to remove the fixture and switch the bulbs. It isn't like working on high tension wires." She giggled at the thought.
"No, I suppose not, but I hope you were careful."
"Well, I didn't want to wait for you to come home. You've better things to do with your evenings than change light bulbs for Carmen."
"She's a nice lady, and I wouldn't mind," he responded. Searching for something more to say, he settled on the library books. "How is your ghost study going?"
She had eaten the last bite of her meatloaf and hesitated with a green bean on her fork. "I found the most fascinating place, the Winchester House. Have you heard of it?"
"No, tell me about it." He added another dash of salt to his mashed potatoes.
"It's in San Jose, so maybe we could visit it someday. Sarah Winchester built it after she'd lost her only child and her husband. She turned to a medium in hopes of contacting them and learned there was a curse on the family because of all the people who had been killed with Winchester rifles. The medium told her to move west and create a house for the spirits. Sarah came to California in 1883 and started building; she even included a séance room."
"Did the spirits move in?" he schooled his features rather than laugh out loud.
"Yes, they did. It's a fabulous Victorian house, and the ghosts told Sarah to keep building. It has 160 rooms, and thirteen bathrooms. She liked the number thirteen. There are six kitchens, forty staircases, many of them going up the ceiling, forty-seven fireplaces, two thousand doors, some open on blank walls, and ten thousand windows. Construction continued until Sarah died in 1938. I guess money was never a problem for her."
"Apparently not, but the house would be something to see," he agreed. "So the place has ghosts?"
"People have heard organ music when no one is playing, voices, cold spots, sometimes wavering lights and people no more substantial than fog. Weird goings on, but visitors swear it's true."
"I'm sure they do."
Faye shrugged. "I don't care if you don't believe it, I do."
"I didn't say I didn't believe it, Faye. I'd just like to see a ghost for myself is all."
She got up to carry her plate into the kitchen. "They can't be ordered like dishes on a menu."
"Certainly not," he called to her. He finished his water and carried his plate and glass into the kitchen and set them on the counter beside hers.
"You didn't have to help clear the table," she scolded softly.
"I wanted to," he replied. She made a playful wave to send him out of her kitchen, and he went into the living room and picked up his book about the naval battles in the Pacific. He'd found it particularly interesting, but his mind wandered to the beautiful woman in the bar each time he turned a page.
They often listened to radio programs in the evening. Faye loved the Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet, while he preferred the mystery shows. He loved Inner Sanctum with its spooky creaking door opening, and the Adventures of Philip Marlowe. It seemed everyone was having an adventure, except him.
* * *
On Sunday, Hal took Faye to see The Bachelor and the Bobby Soxer. She loved Cary Grant, and thought the comedy also starring Myrna Loy, Rudy Vallee and Shirley Temple thoroughly entertaining. She nearly skipped along beside him as they walked home.
"I loved that movie, could we go again?" she asked.
"If you want to, but didn't you find it difficult to believe Shirley Temple could be Myrna Loy's little sister?" Hal asked.
"It's a movie, Hal, and the actresses are just playing parts. Comedies are supposed to be funny, and you shouldn't analyze them as closely as you do your insurance contracts."
He conceded the point. "You're right of course. Teenage girls do get crushes on older men, so that Shirley was so fond of Cary made sense."
"Any woman would fall in love with Cary Grant," Faye added with a wistful sigh.
"Certainly," he agreed. "He's far more charming than Rudy Vallee, so Myrna Loy couldn't resist him either." They had continued their conversation about Cary Grant movies over dinner, and he congratulated himself for again saving the chicken from absolute doom in the oven. Altogether, it was a pleasant day, even if it lacked the delicious excitement he'd felt talking with the veiled woman in the Golden Bear. After making love with Faye that night, he laced his hands behind his head, stared up at the ceiling and wondered if his mystery woman would tell him her name.
* * *
In the office on Thursday, Hal was presented with so many challenges he couldn't clear his desk and leave at his regular time, let alone early. He watched the clock and cursed under his breath. Finally deciding he couldn't contain all the damage one of the new salesmen had made in a single day, he grabbed his overcoat and hat and left. On the Red Car home, he debated whether or not to stop at the bar when he was certain the woman he'd longed to see all week would already have come and gone.
With the faint hope she might possibly have waited for him, he went in almost afraid to look at the last booth, but it was empty. Once in the door, he couldn't turn around and leave, so he slid into his usual seat at the bar and ordered a beer.
Mitch served him and leaned close to whisper. "Didn't see her today. Maybe she's found somewhere else she likes better."
Hal shrugged rather than groan at that miserable possibility, but he was afraid he'd scared her away. He heard someone down the bar mention the Black Dahlia and thought any woman who'd been so horribly murdered would surely return as a ghost, if there were such a thing.
* * *
When he got home, he apologized for being late. "I'm sorry. One of the new salesmen failed to calculate the payments accurately on several policies he'd written. He was so proud of the new clients he'd signed, but I insisted he contact them and explain the errors, which were entirely his, not California West's. Quite naturally, they weren't pleased and wanted to speak to me as his supervisor." He seldom discussed business with Faye, and was relieved when she showed minimal interest now.
"I'm sorry you had such an awful day. I added black olives to the meatloaf, and took it out of the ov
en so it wouldn't be ruined when you were late."
"I am sorry," he repeated.
"It wasn't your fault." She reached up to kiss his cheek and served his least favorite of her dinners.
The olives did add a bit of flavor even if they didn't entirely counteract the rubbery mushrooms. She always prepared plenty of brown gravy, which thank goodness came out of a can, and he added an extra spoonful tonight.
"I found another ghost," she revealed with a delighted smile. "In 1932, an actress, Peg Entwistle, who'd made only one movie, Thirteen Women, which sounds like bad luck right there, jumped to her death from the H in the Hollywoodland sign."
"Really? Was she making a statement about Hollywood?" he asked.
"That's reasonable to assume. Maybe she had a lot of talent and didn't get the breaks she'd hoped for. Poor thing. People say they see her and sometimes smell her gardenia perfume. The Hollywoodland sign is close enough for us to visit."
"Let's wait until the summer when it will be a lot warmer out than it is tonight."
Disappointed, she sat back in her chair. "I should have thought of that. Peg's ghost wouldn't like the cold weather any better than we do."
"Probably not." The papers were filled with conjecture about the Black Dahlia murder, but they'd never discussed it. Faye was all sunlight, and while she might be enchanted by ghost stories, she'd be horrified by a real murder. Murder wasn't a polite topic for dinner conversation anyway.
Chapter 3
Hal stood at his desk shuffling his work for the day when his secretary came to the door. "Do you have a minute to see Mr. Babcock?" she asked.
He grimaced slightly. "Sure. Tell him to come on in." Brian entered, looked even more sheepish than he had last Friday. "You needn't apologize again, Brian. Let's just start the week fresh. I'm confident you won't repeat the same mistakes," Hal assured him.
"I sure hope not, but I've thought all weekend that maybe I'm just not cut out to sell insurance."
