Ghost in the Pages

by Angela M Hudson

  As Ali passed a small shop front with an open door, the musky lure of incense hooked her nose and dragged her inside. Crystals and candles and pretty fairies that dangled from the ceiling seemed to guide her to the counter where a large sign announced that a private reading was in session and the attendant would be along momentarily. Since Ali wasn’t into all that mumbo jumbo, her feet almost led her right back out of the store again. Until she spotted the earthy stones in a cabinet nearby. Each unpolished raw stone had a card beneath it that described the benefit of the rock to the human condition, and after reading for a while Ali couldn't help but wonder if the blue topaz might even be beneficial to her stagnate writing. But this whole place gave her the heebie-jeebies, like she was being watched by things unseen. She left, in need of coffee. Strong coffee.

  “Excuse me,” she said sweetly to the first stranger that passed. He stopped instantly with a smile on his face, and halted the child attached to his hand.

  “How can I help?” he offered, and Ali got the sense that he was a local. A friendly local.

  “Can you tell me where I can get good coffee around here?”

  “Sure.” His arm came up and a finger aimed to the corner of the street, just up from where Ali had met the rude delivery man last night. “Sam’s Place. Tourists love it because the window runs clear of the hotel and you can see the whole hillside from there.”

  Ali smiled. “Sounds perfect. Thank you.”

  “Any time.” The man tipped an imaginary hat and took his son’s hand again, strolling away.

  Feeling encouraged, Ali sucked in a deep breath of the fresh autumn air and hugged her red coat closer as she wandered slowly toward the coffee shop.

  A bell jingled to announce her entry and a few people looked up for a moment, only to smile and go back to their conversations. The counter sat to her left and though there was no one out to serve yet, she could see a short, round old lady with gray curls out back, busying herself with a steaming pot. It wasn't until Ali scanned the packed lower floor for a table and then looked to the second level that she noticed the library. It wasn’t a large space, but then it wasn’t small, either; the back wall and both the sides wrapped with mahogany shelves and stacked with brand new books—breaking only for the large fireplace just near the service counter. The word “library” left her mind for the description on a sign set above the circle of armchairs in the corner: Sam’s Book Store and Cafe. Reading is free but the coffee pays my rent.

  Ali smiled. She liked this place already—it had a kind of energy about it that made her want to sit all day in the armchair and devour books. Although she wasn't too sure how she’d feel about buying a book here, considering they might technically be used.

  She wandered up the polished wooden steps and took a slow lap around the room, wondering if this was a table service cafe or an order-at-the-counter. Since no one else was in the bookstore section of the shop, Ali took up residence on the plush chair facing the fire and smiled at the old lady when she came out from the kitchen.

  “What can I get you, luv?” she asked in a fading British accent.

  Leaving her red coat on the chair to claim it, even though it was unlikely too many people would take her spot, Ali came down the steps to the front of the counter, not wanting to yell her order over the shiny silver coffee machine.

  “Um . . .” She pretended to peruse the chalkboard menu for a moment, even though she knew what she wanted. “Just a coffee, thanks.”

  “No food?”

  “Just coffee is fine,” she insisted sweetly, a little resentful of having her order questioned. She paid and then stood back, allowing room for the next customer, even though there were none.

  “New in town?”

  Ali almost asked, ‘Who, me?’ but it was obvious the old lady meant her. “Um. Yes. Just this morning.”

  “Have you been up the hills yet?” She filled a floral coffee mug and placed it on the counter.

  “Not yet. I have a tour booked for tomorrow.”

  “Is that with Brian?”

  Ali couldn't recall the guide’s name. “It’s a railway tour.”

  “Ah, yes.” The old lady nodded, wiping her hands down her crisp white apron. “Gill.”

  “Gill?”

  “Darling old man. A bit cheeky but the tourists seem to love that about him.”

  Ali nodded, not sure what else to say.

  “How long you stayin’?”

  As Ali scrambled for a tangible answer, she noticed a shiny name tag on the woman’s breast and thought it odd that no first name was given, only “Mrs. Beaty.”

  “I . . . uh. I have an open ticket,” she finally said.

  That received an odd look from Mrs. Beaty, a kind of knowing look that made Ali feel like her entire past and all the humiliation that brought her here were playing on a screen above her head.

  “Well, the town will be better for it,” she said with a kind glint in her eye. “You take a seat there, luv, and if you need anything else, just holler. I’m old but not deaf.”

  Ali smiled, wrapping her hands around her coffee as Mrs. Beaty went out back again. There was very little not to like about this town, Ali decided as she sat down, casting her eyes to the view outside the window. It was pure luck that the hotel’s facade across the road ended short of the street corner, turning there and taking up almost half the stretch toward the hills but not distorting the view. A whimsical puff of smoke traveled along the hillside in the distance, left there by a steam train as it weaved through the thick, ancient forest, unseen by those below. If she didn't know better, Ali might have thought she was in Canada for a moment.

  The warmth of the crackling fire invited her eyes back to the room and up to the bookcase, and when she spotted a copy of her latest and most awful book, Ali quickly hopped up to hide it from sight in the darkest corner of the bookstore. She then grabbed a random paperback so as not to look conspicuous, and sat back by the fire for the rest of the afternoon, not really reading the words on the page but not really getting lost in thought either.

  ~2~

  Cheap Wine and a Tasty Date

  Gill announced Towne Station as the next stop. The other tourists in the dining cart cheered when he asked if anyone would like to go again, and though the idea made Ali smile, she wasn't sure she could bear another three hour round-trip watching happy couples holding hands. It wasn't that she was jealous or even disgusted by the sweet displays of affection. It wasn't even that she was lonely and missing the benefits of having a boyfriend. She wasn't sure exactly what bothered her about being the only person alone on this tour, but knew it had something to do with her muse—the ethereal little man on her shoulder that usually pointed out the story in the simplest of things. Maybe it was trying to tell her something. Maybe love wasn’t the thing missing from her life right now, but the idea of love. The kind of love that only a written relationship could offer. Perhaps she needed to read a good book, or maybe write a love story for her eyes only.

  Ali whipped out her phone and penned a thought into her notes: old town feel, she wrote, adding, and love. I think I just need to make this a love story.

  Of course, she’d known this from the start, before she wrote her first novel, Fragile, but she never listened to that voice because so many others screamed at her about faster plots and action scenes. She shut those voices out now and put her phone away, resting her head on the window to enjoy the last of the winding tour through the trees, imagining in her heart the kind of love story she might write. The kind of love story she might like to live if she was actively looking for love. Sadly, the muse hadn't stayed long enough to deliver any faces or names of the characters, and as the train pulled in at the station, Ali started to wonder if she was ever going to hear from the muse again. Maybe he had a heart attack when he read the review in The Times, how they ripped her Missing Souls Series apart with a cold few paragraphs about the sad trend of authors misplacing said muse under the proverbial rug of a wildly successful debut
novel. Ali shuddered to think of it, and still hadn’t worked up the nerve to read her local book club review which, oddly, mattered to her more.

  Finally free of the train and the happy couples, the smell of fresh bread and pickles guided Ali all the way from the station at the back of town toward the gazebo at the dead center, where a crowd gathered and picnic baskets could be seen scattered around the square between more happy couples on checkered blankets. She stopped on the grassy verge, her lunch stomach empty since she couldn't manage anything more than a coffee in the rocky train dining car, and stood on her toes to get a look at the speaker.

  A sum was shouted out from the crowd and whatever had been bid upon was then sold to Janelle Spencer for twenty dollars. A skinny man with a picnic basket met with a girl in the crowd, both of them walking away hand in hand.

  “Excuse me,” Ali said to the nearest person, whose bright-green dress had been plucked right out of the fifties.

  “Yes?” The lady turned and when she took in the sweet out-of-towner before her, smiled, her round face and short red curls reminding Ali of a chubby Lucille Ball. “What can I do for you, petal?”

  Because of the familiar and friendly face, Ali felt like she’d known this woman forever, so she didn't mind the pet name. “What’s this all about?”

  “It’s a fundraiser,” she explained. “We’re raising money to paint the old firehouse.”

  “Oh.” Ali nodded, still not really sure how a picnic basket could do that.

  “It’s lunch,” the lady added.

  “Huh?”

  “Lunch.” She made a motion with her hands like she was spooning casserole from her flat palm. “Each eligible bachelor in town makes a basket and the single girls can bid on it.”

  “Ah, right.” Ali looked hungrily at the picnic baskets, hoping one had cake.

  “You get the basket, of course,” Lucille Ball added, “and the handsome young man to accompany you while you both eat.”

  Ali’s stomach rumbled.

  “Sounds like you should place a bid, petal.”

  “Oh, I don't know. I’m only in town for a little while and—”

  “It’s open to tourists too. In fact, I know some of the local boys would just adore a pretty little thing like you.” She winked. “You might make somebody’s day.”

  If there was one thing her father taught her before he died, it was that no matter how bad your day or your week or year was, it should never stop you from improving someone else's. Ali looked at the selection of baskets and then at the line of men. Some of them were high on her No Way list and yet some of them were actually high on the Hell Yes list. This unsuspecting little old town had quite a few very nice looking men. And Ali supposed an impromptu lunch with a handsome man might inspire something for her new story, so she decided to go for it.

  “Who would you suggest?” she whispered to her informant.

  “Well that depends. Are you more interested in good food or good conversation?”

  “Um . . . is it too much to ask for both?” She gave a gentle shrug and a sheepish smile.

  “In this town?” the woman remarked rhetorically, making Ali laugh. “Let me see . . .” Placing her hand on Ali’s arm for balance, Lucille Ball stood on her toes to stick her nose over the crowd. “Ah, yes, Here we go. Grant Pryce.” She nodded to the tall man with the beaming, almost cocky grin on his face. His dimples could be seen from all the way at the back of the crowd and Ali was certain his eyes were blue, set off brightly by the way his dark mane looked auburn in the fall light. She even thought he was very smartly dressed for a casual picnic lunch and decided she liked that about him. But his name, if spoken without laying eyes on him, made Ali think of this ultra-sleazy guy she met once at her publisher’s office. His name was Bryce Grant, so it wasn’t fair to associate the two really, not without giving this guy a fair chance.

  “Can’t speak much for the food,” Lucille Ball said, “but he’s a charming young man and he’s been single for just a tad too long, if you ask me—or any of the other townspeople, for that matter.”

  Before she had fully decided to bid, Ali’s hand was up and she called out “Forty dollars!” The crowd hushed and all the heads turned to see who had bid. Grant pressed his hand to his brow to get a look past the high sun and smiled when he saw the slender, dark-haired newcomer in the red coat.

  The auctioneer asked if anyone would like to outbid her and reminded them it was for a good cause, but Grant snatched the basket from his hands and announced “Sold!” as he came bounding down the steps and through the parting crowd.

  Ali laughed, stepping back a bit to allow the man’s overexcitement some room.

  “My hero,” Grant announced, leaning down to whisper it quietly. Ali’s breath hitched at the deep blue of the man’s eyes and she almost fluttered her own. “You rescued me from a very boring hour discussing Mrs. French’s floorboards.”

  Ali laughed. “Her floorboards?”

  “She bid on me last year and she’s been dropping hints all week about bidding on me again so we can discuss her renovation.” His smile seemed to make deeper dents in his cheeks as he stood tall and took a good look at his new lunch date. “I’m Grant.”

  “Um . . . Ali.” She offered her hand.

  Grant shook it and the firm grip of the warm hand told Ali so much about this man. He was confident and yet gentle and kind, and quite possibly worked with his hands. Ali guessed that he typed a lot, or was a surgeon.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Ali. Where shall we eat?”

  They both scanned the busy town square, searching for a vacant patch of grass, but as the bidding crowd thinned they also took up any picnic space that might be considered out of the way.

  “I have a better idea.” Grant hooked Ali’s arm through his and, with the basket in his other hand, led her onto the road, winking at Lucille Ball as they went.

  ***

  Grant shook out the picnic rug and as the wind caught the base and fluffed it out, Ali dropped the slightly heavy picnic basket down in the middle and took a seat beside it.

  “So where are you from?” Grant asked, kicking off his shiny shoes before he stood on the rug. Ali looked at his clean black socks and wondered if she should kick her knee-high boots off. But they weren't the kind of shoes a person typically kicked off, since long boots didn't really look all that cute sitting beside a picnic rug. Not to mention, her long pink socks that she tucked her jeans into would definitely stand out.

  “I’m . . . from the west,” she offered.

  “West, hey?” He turned his head as he bent to open the basket, giving her a cute wink. “Vague.”

  “Yeah, um . . .” Ali stammered with the hope of avoiding any explanation about her beloved city. If she mentioned LA, it usually followed a few questions about movie stars—which she never seemed to spot in her day-to-day—and left the naive questioner disappointed. Besides, she didn’t want to admit that she had moved out there to be closer to the publisher that dropped her. She’d dated before, but trying to hide your humiliating past on a date made the nerves feed the tension. “So, have you grown up here?” she asked.

  “Ah, so it’s to be complete evasion, is it?” Grant took out two wine glasses, poured them each a glass, and handed one to Ali. “I can roll with that.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” Entering this conversation, Ali had had no intention of sharing her latest literary failure with anyone that didn't already know—let alone a stranger—but under the colored trees and on this soft, cool grass, she almost felt like Grant could be a sounding board, even though she didn't know a thing about him. “I’m not really here on holiday,” she confessed.

  “I’m intrigued.” He gathered his hands together, leaning back on his elbow.

  “Nothing to be intrigued about,” Ali said. “I’m simply here to . . . lose myself. Wait, no, that’s a lie.” She sipped her wine for courage. “I’m here to find myself, I guess.” That sounded more like it. In the aftermath of poor
sales and heart-shredding reviews, Ali had had no trouble losing self. Losing everything she thought she was. Losing all her confidence and even a few patches of hair from the front of her head. In truth, Ali didn’t need to lose herself. What she needed now was to find herself—find out who she was when she wasn’t the bestselling author of Fragile—the romance novel her publisher had insisted she morph into a mystery thriller. The novel that inspired that same publisher to sign her on for a mystery series that had then failed miserably. Ali reminded herself that she hated mysteries. And thrillers. It wasn’t her fault in the least that the series was a flop. But she signed on. She wrote the damn book. She had to wear that badge of dishonor now for the rest of her days. And if she couldn’t get her sense of self back, along with her love of writing, then The Missing Souls Series would be her final legacy.

  She shuddered to think of it. “Actually,” she added, feeling the wine take over a little, “I’m here to write my . . . novel.”

  There was a moment of absolute silence, disturbed only by the chirp of the birds and the rustle of leaves.

  “Okay,” Grant said with a nod, sitting up in an awkward cross-legged position. “So you’re a new writer then?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “How shy you were about admitting that.”

  “Oh.” Ali cast her gaze downward to hide her embarrassment as she lied. “I . . . I guess. Yeah. I’m a . . . an aspiring novelist.” Aspiring to write something readable.

  “So what kind of novel?” His tone lilted upward on the end.

  “I haven't decided yet,” she said decisively. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Here on the grass with me, or here in this little old town?”

  “Um.” Her shoulders moved up passively. “Both, I guess.”

  “So . . .” His voice carried the end of the word. “Does that mean I’m your muse?”

  If only it were that easy, thought Ali. “Maybe.”

  Grant’s eyebrows flicked up in satisfaction and he reached into the basket to fetch more wine. “I’ll drink to that.”