by Eve Langlais
I joined her on the bench, resting my elbows on my knees. I’d taken this case; I’d said I would make a difference. I promised. And I had no idea how to make good on it.
I sighed and tried to clear my head. I focused on the green grass, the calls of the birds, the clicking of knitting needles. Stilling, I let the beauty of the morning wash over me. I liked this time of day. It was quiet. Peaceful. So unlike my routine lately.
I had the chance to help a brave soldier, and the sweet–looking Maime. I couldn’t pass that up, even knowing what I did now, that it could be impossible.
The sun warmed my back as it burned off the morning dew.
I glanced next to me and saw that the spirit had disappeared. Here one moment, gone the next. I supposed it was that way for all of us.
An old woman approached from my left. Pink blush topped her high cheekbones and set off her heart–shaped face. She wore a flowered skirt with tennis shoes, along with a light jacket. Her gait hitched, her pace slow. I scooted over a little on my bench, to let her know I’d welcome company if she needed a break before continuing.
She smiled gratefully as she neared. “Thank you,” she said, taking the place the ghost had vacated. “My health’s not so good lately.” Her hands shook as she folded one over the other. “It’s usually just me this early.”
“I like it in the morning,” I told her. “It’s peaceful. I’ll have to remember that next time I come see my dad and my grandma.”
The wind blew at the scarf she’d tied over her hair. She brought a hand up, making sure it remained fastened. “I come here for my husband.”
That had to be hard. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Me, too,” she said quietly. “My life would have been very different if he’d survived the war.”
I had no doubt.
We sat in silence for a moment, facing the graves.
“He was everything to me,” she said simply. “I never wanted anybody else.”
“That’s neat,” I told her. It didn’t lessen the loss, but it had to be comforting to enjoy that kind of certainty.
She gave a small smile. “It was hard. Especially back then. I raised our child alone.” She shook her head. “He never knew his dad. He doesn’t see the need to come back, just drops me off here on his way for coffee. But I like it here. It makes me feel close.” She drew her hands to her body, as if unburdening herself had exposed her somehow. In my opinion, it was a good thing, to be able to talk about the important things in life. “Anyhow”–she pushed up off the bench–”I’d best be on my way.”
“Good talking to you,” I said, honestly glad that she’d felt she could, if only for a little while.
I watched as she made her way toward the field of tombstones, and wished I knew how to comfort her. She passed row one, rows two and three, and began a slow advance down row four.
It was a long shot, yet it still made my stomach tingle.
I stood, not eager to hamper her privacy at such a time. Yet she stopped very, very close to where I’d been. It could be wishful thinking, or it could be more. I scarcely dared hope as I quickly, quietly made my way toward her.
Head bowed, she placed a bottle cap on the grave of Private Jonathan Cleveland.
She knew him. Perhaps she’d been married to a friend of his. Or even…
I approached slowly as she stood, head bowed, before the grave. I waited until she finished her prayer. “Excuse me,” I began, reaching into my bag. My fingers closed around the ring box. “I don’t want to bother you. But do you recognize this?” I opened the box. Inside nestled the pearl ring.
She gasped and brought a hand to her mouth. “How did you get that?”
I’d shocked her. Either I was a terrible person, or I’d just done a very good thing. “I’m looking for Mary Bee Saks,” I said, throat tight. “Maime.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she touched a finger to the pearl, much in the way Johnny had. “This belonged to his mother.”
Johnny told me the same thing.
At the risk of sounding completely ridiculous, I forced the words out. “Are you…Maime?” She did look similar to the girl in the yearbook photo, that lightness about her, that heart–shaped face.
She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Oh my word. I felt the stinging behind my eyes. “Take it,” I said, placing the box in her hand. “It’s yours.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. “Thank you,” she whispered, touching it as if she couldn’t quite believe it were real. “I don’t care how you got it.”
I couldn’t tell her. Not really. “I was asked to return it to you,” I said. “Johnny would want you to have it.”
She slid it onto her finger, a giggle bursting from her that turned into a hiccup. “I told him I’d wear it forever.” It fit her perfectly. She fisted her hand. “My mother took it and said I couldn’t have it back. I haven’t seen it since that day.” She held up her hand, watching in awe as it sparkled. “My sister must have kept it after Mom passed. Neither one of them ever spoke to me again.” Her face fell as she remembered the pain of it. “Sissy passed last month. I had to see it in the paper.”
“That’s awful.” I couldn’t believe they’d be so harsh.
Her gaze darted back to his grave. “What I said before…about us being married. We intended to marry. We knew we would. Then he was called up earlier than we thought.” She wrung her hands. “He wasn’t gone a month before I learned I was expecting. It those days…well, it just wasn’t like it is now. My mother knew we hadn’t married yet. She threw me out when I told her. I went to my uncle’s in Memphis and changed my name to Cleveland. We told everyone I was his widow. I was, you know.”
“I know,” I said. Without a doubt.
She squeezed her eyes tight as another tear slipped free. “They told me he didn’t care. Or he wouldn’t have done that to me.”
“He cares.” More than she’d ever know. Unless…
How could I begin to explain? She might not believe me. But her hope, her eternal happiness, may be at stake.
I had to try. My voice caught. “I have a friend–” That wouldn’t do. I braced myself and came out with it. “I can communicate with spirits.” Damn it, damn it, damn it. “Johnny asked me to find you, to give you the ring. He loves you with all his heart.”
I wished I could take it back. At the same time, I yearned for something more concrete to say to her, some kind of irrefutable evidence to prove I wasn’t blowing smoke. I supposed this is where psychics got labeled as frauds.
But she hung on my every word. Thank goodness. So I added, “He says you’re his one true love.” She deserved to know.
She simply nodded, swallowing hard. “He’s mine as well.”
Chapter Six
“I thought you wanted a table,” Melody said, as I flopped back onto the new–for–me purple couch in my parlor.
I leaned my head back. “This feels so much better,” I said, running my hands over the velvet.
As soon as we’d removed Maime’s ring from display and returned it to her, the disturbances in the collectibles case stopped. I only hoped that meant Maime had begun believing again, and that Private Cleveland had found her. I’d stopped by the next day and the day after that, but he hadn’t returned to the bar.
I’d try again tonight.
In the meantime, Julie had given me a choice of any item from the store and I’d said “couch” before I could change my mind.
I didn’t regret it. Even if my sister thought I was a bit squirrely.
I could read here. Sleep here. I never needed to stand up again.
“Verity,” Frankie called from the back door. “You need to see this.”
“In a minute,” I responded. Or perhaps never.
He shimmered into view next to me. “You have guests.”
I didn’t think he meant the physical kind.
“Okay,” I said. It was the only thing that could have moved me. “Come on,” I ad
ded to my sister as I lurched off the heavenly purple velvet.
“Just you,” Frankie said. “You’ll want to do this right.”
I followed him through the kitchen and out to the back porch. Then I stopped cold. Just past the apple tree, Johnny and Maime Cleveland stood by my lake. He shimmered in black and white. She appeared as the girl I’d seen in the yearbook photo.
Maime had passed. And she looked positively radiant.
She wore a simple blue dress, with her dark hair curled around her face. Pretty as a postcard. Her image appeared in transparent color, as newly deceased spirits did.
I couldn’t help smiling as I approached.
“I hope we’re not intruding,” she said, clutching her hands to her chest, her ring sparkling with an ethereal brilliance.
The fact that she had it now meant she’d likely died wearing it. I was thankful all over again that I’d had the chance to return it to her, that she’d get to keep it with her forever.
“I was wondering what happened to you two,” I said, stopping in front of them. Johnny had his arm wrapped around her waist and grinned as though he’d won at life.
He had.
“It’s hard for her to appear,” he said, as the smiling Maime flickered. “She hasn’t been here long.”
I should have looked for her in the obits instead of him in the shop.
She gave him a shy, excited kiss on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said to me.
“It was my pleasure,” I told her. It truly was.
I watched as she faded away. He gave me a wink and then followed.
“Still think you should stop looking for ghosts?” Frankie asked.
I’d forgotten he was behind me. “I don’t know,” I told him. “It was one time.”
“That made a big difference,” he pointed out.
Yes, it had.
“Think about it,” he suggested, in a tone that made it clear this was far from over. He drifted toward the porch. “Now come on. Melody is heating up the lasagna she made for you.”
I headed back to the house with him. “You know she didn’t really…”
“Yeah, yeah. But sometimes you gotta play along,” he shrugged, “be open to things.”
“Right.” I said, knowing he wasn’t just talking about the yummy smell of garlic and oregano coming from my kitchen.
I caught the eye of the ghost at my side. I had been given a gift, an opportunity. And Frankie was right. It would be a crime to waste it.
About the Author
Angie Fox is the author of the Accidental Demon Slayer series, featuring a reluctant demon slayer and her grandmother’s gang of biker witches. The first book, The Accidental Demon Slayer, is free right now on all e–reader platforms. Learn more about sales and free books by signing up for Angie Fox’s New release updates.
*A Ghostly Gift is part of the Southern Ghost Hunter Mysteries, which debut on January 21, 2015.
A Ghostly Gift © Copyright 2014 Angie Fox
Love Singer
A short story by Mimi Strong
A struggling musician discovers she’s a witch who can cast spells with her songs. Or at least that’s what the sexy professor trying to seduce her says.
Chapter One
Growing up, nobody told me I was a song witch, but they did say my singing was magical. My great–grandmother told me the “gift” had skipped several generations before resurfacing in me. I thought the “gift” she spoke of meant my ability to turn insults into compliments and make any situation more hilarious.
She promised to tell me more on my eighteenth birthday, but she didn’t live long enough. What she did do, bless her heart, was leave me Piglet, her Volkswagen van, freshly painted a custom shade of hot pink. She paired that gift with enough money so I could travel for a year after high school, playing my music around the country.
Life is your school, her letter read.
After a year of traveling, I got another letter from her lawyer.
Now school is your school, the new letter read, in my great–grandmother’s beautiful handwriting. You’ve experienced life on the road, and now it’s time to develop your fundamentals. It won’t be easy, but this is the best school in the country for someone with your talent.
She signed the letter with her usual lipstick smudge of a kiss. Once I dried away my tears, I packed up the van and headed west, to the music school, where I was already enrolled. Her letter had arrived late, so I arrived on campus two days late for the semester, but fifteen minutes early for that day’s first class.
The van was in dire need of a tune–up, and making blat–blat noises as I pulled into the school’s parking lot. People turned and stared at the hot–pink Volkswagen, but not for long, because it was far from the most unusual vehicle there. The parking lot was full of art cars, decked out in jewels and doll heads, plus not one, but three hearses.
Unfortunately, the parking lot was truly full. With no spot for me to park near the school, I would be late for my first class. I was steering toward the exit when I noticed one of the hearses leaving. Obeying the painted direction lines on the pavement, I circled around for the spot.
Before I could pull in, some jerk in a convertible raced in from the opposite direction and stole my spot. I rolled down my window and said sweetly, “Excuse me, but I was parking there.”
He stepped out of the convertible and took off his sunglasses. I got a pang of envy. Not only was he wealthy, by the look of the car, but he was also very attractive, with glossy black hair and ocean–blue eyes.
“Sorry, but I don’t want to be late for class,” he said with fake sincerity.
“Don’t say you’re sorry if you’re not. That’s my spot, and you know it. Back your jalopy up before I step out of this van and make you.”
Yes, it should be noted here that when I first met Arturo, whose name I would find out shortly, I really did call his pricey convertible a jalopy, and I did threaten him with physical violence. You should also know that I’m a girl, and a petite one at that, so it was one of those empty threats one makes after being on the road for fifteen hours straight, surviving on a gas–station–supplied diet of caffeinated liquids and barbecue meat sticks.
Arturo, however, didn’t yet know about my hilarious sense of humor, and took me at my word. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and raised his fists like a boxer.
“Come get some,” he said. “I’ll let you have two shots at me before I make a move.”
He was grinning, but I wasn’t laughing.
The guy was lucky I didn’t yet know I was a witch, or I might have lobbed a day–ruining, pants–soiling spell at him.
Time was ticking by, so I slammed the gas pedal and attempted to whip the van around him, letting my tires squeal with my contempt.
The Volkswagen had its own style, though. Her name was Piglet, and true to her name, she guzzled greedily at the fuel as she slowly circumvented Arturo, making an undignified blat–blat karputta–putta–blorp–blorp noise. Piglet’s engine was loud, but not loud enough to drown out the rich jerk’s laughter.
Chapter Two
I parked five blocks from the school and sprinted all the way to the building where I had my first class. I was already two days late for the semester, and another ten minutes wouldn’t have killed me, but I’d driven all night, and it was the principle of the thing.
Or maybe it was my stubbornness.
Like my soon–to–be–discovered magical powers, stubbornness was another trait I inherited from my great–grandmother.
So, I got to the classroom, breathing heavily, and scanned the room for a free chair. There were a few available at the back, but the one I wanted was in the front row. I’m not really a front–row student, but this chair was irresistible, because it had been staked out by Mr. Rich Jerk.
With his back to the classroom door, he sat on the edge of the desk, talking casually to another person. A stack of music books and sheet music sat next to his butt cheek on the desk. It was clearly the d
esk he planned to sit at when class began.
My competitive streak kicked in. This is the same personality trait that made my seven brothers and sisters draw straws to determine who had to be my partner for games of charades. The funny thing is, for the longest time, I thought the person with the short straw was the winner, and got to be my partner. The day I found out the truth, life became a little less sweet.
Stealing Mr. Rich Jerk’s chair would be sweet, though.
I slid into place just as the bell rang.
He got to his feet, turned around, fixed his dreamy, ocean–blue eyes on me, and said, “I believe that’s someone else’s spot.”
I shrugged. “Someone else’s spot?” I pushed the chair back and patted my thighs. “Sorry, but I didn’t want to be late, so I took the first empty chair I saw. There’s always room right here on my lap, big boy.”
He smirked, then looked up at someone standing behind me, and said, “You heard the lady. Take your seat. Class is about to begin.”
He went to the board at the front of the room and began writing his name: Professor Arturo J–
I didn’t catch his last name, because a shaggy–haired young man in a plaid shirt took his rightful seat in his chair. On top of me. Like I was nothing more than one of those wood–beaded seat covers retirees install on the bucket seats of their motorhomes.
A normal girl wouldn’t find herself in such a situation, but if she did, she would probably excuse herself and take another seat at the back of the room.
Not me.
I decided to sit through the entire class that way. I even managed to wedge my notebook between my face and the seat–owner’s back to take notes.
The class was about composition, which is the fancy music–school term for the part of songwriting that isn’t the words. And it was a great class. I would never have admitted it to Arturo’s face, of course, but he was a magnificent instructor.
