Ghost in the Pages

by Angela M Hudson

  “Yeah.” Ali smiled at her father’s memory. “But this is depressing,” she said gleefully, turning to take the cake out of the oven when the timer went off. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Agreed.” Sam sat at the stool by the counter.

  “So why aren't you coming tomorrow?” Ali asked, laying the cake trays on the cooling rack.

  Sam shrugged, the very human gesture making him seem like less of a mystery.

  “You should come. Even if it’s just to see what monstrosity your oven cooked up.”

  Sam laughed. “So what is it?”

  “The cake?” Ali guessed, judging by the nod he gave the tins. “It’s a giant pumpkin.”

  “But it’s not pumpkin flavored?” Sam asked, screwing his nose up at it.

  “Vanilla,” she announced proudly. “And cinnamon.”

  Sam sniffed the air, nodding in satisfaction.

  “So, what d’you think? Are you gonna make an appearance at the party?” Ali rarely used the “flash”—the same cheeky-yet-adorable smile that got her out of so much trouble with her father—but she felt it was time to use it on Sam. He looked like he could use a night of fun.

  “I . . .” he started awkwardly, most certainly about to decline.

  “Aw, come on. I need someone to show my cute new boots off to.” As she said it, Ali got a rushing flood of dread. Was she convincing him to come to a party her date would be at—the same date that took the back exit to avoid this very man?

  “Well, when you put it that way,” Sam said with a rather sweet laugh, “I guess I could make an appearance.”

  “Good then.” Ali nodded, but she was going to have to tell Grant this was all her fault. She hoped he would still come, but if not, at least she could spend the evening researching her new character.

  ***

  If anyone were to ask Grant what he thought of Ali in her denim skirt and red cowgirl boots, he would have spewed a remark about hoping there were no “panties” under that skirt. Ask the same question of Sam, and he wouldn't answer, rendered speechless by the fear of this sudden attraction to a stranger.

  Ali didn’t notice the way Sam looked at her when she sprung up on his doorstep like an excited child and announced she was there to pick up the cake, and she didn’t notice the way he held the door for her as she passed through, leaving just enough room that her body would brush his as she went. A switch had been flicked in Sam and he was no longer holding up the walls that had been in place just yesterday. Still not ready to be friends, he was at least ready to admit that this girl had gotten under his skin in some way—that she made him feel oddly human again.

  As she reached the kitchen, Ali drew her phone from her back pocket to check the text message from Grant: Still coming, babe. Running late. Stay clear of the creep until I get there to protect you.

  Babe? she thought, cringing. She’d have to ask him not to call her that.

  Shaking her head and smiling, Ali put the phone away and glanced back at Sam, who had an odd look on his face.

  “What’s up?” she asked, hoping he hadn't seen that message and also wondering if she should mention Grant’s plans to attend the party.

  “I feel stupid,” he said, back so straight one could climb it, his mouth scrambled into a sheepish kind of grin. It wasn’t until Ali’s eyes went down past Sam’s that she noticed his outfit. The plaid shirts she was used to—it was pretty much all Sam wore—but the way he’d tucked it in and with the heavy buckle on his belt and the worn old boots, he looked adorably western. Ali couldn't believe he’d gone to the trouble of dressing up—and that she hadn’t noticed yet—which was then followed by a worrying feeling in her tummy. Did she influence the decision to dress up, and if so, was this a date? She had, after all, invited him.

  “It’s ridiculous,” he said, turning on his heel to walk away.

  “No.” Ali grabbed his arm, noting the way he smelled as she came closer—like outdoors and faded cologne. Sam knew exactly how to apply the scent of a man without making it overpowering, or all that obvious that he’d made an effort. “I was just surprised is all,” she confessed, still scrambling for words.

  “Surprised?” He softened a little and stopped pulling against her hands to get away.

  “Yeah.” Ali laughed. “That look suits you—”

  Sam groaned, leaving the room.

  “No, it really does.” Ali followed him to make sure he didn't run upstairs and change. “I didn't realize it until now,” she lied—because she had realized— “but you’re actually kinda cute.”

  “I’m kinda cute?” he asked, spread arms motioning down his body as though that was preposterous.

  “Yeah.” She grinned, folding her arms and considering his outfit. “But you know what would make that outfit even better?”

  “If you say a hat, I’m going to kick you out right now.”

  Ali’s grin grew, her eyes glistening in the firelight. Sam groaned again, but in the drop of his shoulders and the sigh that followed, Ali knew he’d wear one. He stalked away, muttering something about her owing him, and came back a moment later with a sturdy cream hat. He dropped it on his head comfortably, like it might've spent half its life there once, and spread his arms as if to say, “Better?”

  Ali gave a little squeal in the back of her throat. “If I say you look adorable, will you run and hide so no one sees you?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Then you look . . .” She pinched her lips and scanned the length of him, nodding. “Damn. Okay, well, the only other word I can think of is hot.”

  “Hot?”

  “Yeah. Loathe to admit it, but you’re a darn nice looking man when your face isn’t all screwed up and angry.” Ali turned and headed into the kitchen before her face could turn pink. It wasn't easy for her to admit that to him, but she felt like it might break down some of the walls between them. She planned to live in that old house next door for as long as Mrs. Denver would let her—planned out many more stories that were inspired solely by the old creaky floorboards and the doors swinging in a breeze that couldn't be felt—which meant she needed to befriend the caretaker. Besides, she’d decided he wasn't all that bad when you got under that hard exterior and she knew from what little she’d learned about him so far that they had a lot in common and might actually make great friends.

  A different Sam to the one she turned her back to came around the counter to help her lift the cake. He was smiling and made eye contact, even laughed and joked as they hauled the giant frosted pumpkin toward the front door.

  “Geez, what the hell did you put in this?” Sam asked, balancing the board on one hand while he opened the front door. “It’s heavy.”

  “It’s all the extra love,” she said sweetly, and Sam laughed. He didn't tell Ali this, but his mother used to say that her cooking tasted so great because she poured a lot of extra love in it, and if you fed it to the homeless, they wouldn't be hungry for a week.

  “Well, maybe put a little hate in it next time,” he suggested, giving a cute flash of a grin. It took her until they reached the trestle table to understand what had made his voice sound so sexy in that moment, but it was simply the absence of any bars. That was Sam raw. That was Sam with his guard down. That was nice Sam. Mrs. Beaty was right. There was such a thing as a nice Sam.

  They both dusted their hands off ceremoniously and stepped back from the work of art.

  “I can paint,” Sam said softly, leaning in a little, “but you make one hell of a cake, Miss Beaumont.”

  “Yeah,” she said, cocking her head. “I do, don’t I?”

  ~8~

  Sam the Cowboy Man

  The sweet smell of autumn foliage and wet clay wafted down on the hillside breeze, sweeping in past the houses and gathering in the cul-de-sac with friends. Ali felt like a part of this community already—a part of this street—and that was entirely thanks to the good nature and friendliness of these people. Ever since she arrived at the party, she was not lef
t once without a beer in her hand or a plate of barbecue, and was even guided by Di to have a lengthy but fun conversation with every single person that lived here, and some that were just visiting. It was after nine when she finally realized that Grant hadn’t shown. The unread text on her phone informed her he would arrive soon—something about finishing up with a difficult client—but she was okay either way. This party was fun and she felt like Grant might spoil it for her a bit.

  When she’d finally spoken to every person at the party, Ali walked over to find Sam sitting on a picnic table with his cowboy hat beside him, a burger lodged between his big hands, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. She jumped up and sat beside him, maybe a little closer than her sober self would have dared. But tipsy Ali was in control now, and tipsy Ali didn't care if her proximity put him off his dinner.

  “Having fun?” Sam teased, the glint in his eye suggesting he’d witnessed her last line dance.

  “I’m a little off balance,” she admitted, tipping until her shoulder touched his arm. “What do they put in that punch?”

  “It wasn't the punch that got you,” he said. “It was the beer. The fifth beer, I’m guessing.”

  “Hey, are you saying I can’t hold my liquor? And since when did you start counting my drinks?”

  Sam just laughed, taking a big bite of his burger. Ali watched a string of cheese melt away from the bun and drip toward his jeans, so she picked it off and ate it, smiling up at the look Sam gave her.

  “What?” she said, shrugging. “Do you have a problem with sharing?”

  “Not at all.” He offered her a bite. “Go for it.”

  Without a pause to salivate or think about it, Ali took a pathetic bite of his burger. No matter how wide she opened her mouth, it was just too small to fit around a man-sized bun.

  Sam laughed, wondering if it would be inappropriate to joke about that and then smiled to himself because it had been a long time since he’d thought to make a sexual innuendo.

  “That’s some damn good burger,” Ali said, mouth full.

  “I know.” He nodded, using a larger motion than necessary to do so. “I made it.”

  “You’re a good cook then?”

  “I cook a little,” he confessed, both of them casting their eyes to the dance floor. The silence between them after was odd. Any warmth Ali brought with her when she sat beside Sam had lilted away on the new breeze. She was busy thinking about her future, and Sam was lost in the past—both minds sent in those directions because of cooking. Sarah had loved Sam’s cooking, and he rarely admitted to people that he loved being in the kitchen—felt closer to his late wife there—while Ali thought about her sister’s cooking and how she’d be enjoying a lot more of it if things didn’t go well for her soon.

  “Something wrong?” Sam braved.

  “I love it here, Sam.”

  “And?” His brow furrowed in confusion, a half smile waiting in the winds as if a punch line might follow.

  “And I don't ever want to leave.”

  Sam lowered his forearms so his burger sat between his knees. “Do you have to?”

  Ali’s head moved in a no.

  “Then why so glum?”

  “If my next book doesn't sell, and do really well, I’ll have to move back home and live with my sister.”

  “Running out of money?” He took another bite of his burger.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then write a good book,” he advised through a series of chomps, as casually as if he was talking about sweeping a front step to impress the in-laws.

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Sure it is.”

  Ali laughed. “No, it’s really not. I’ve failed before and—”

  “And you’re afraid you’ll have another Missing Souls crisis.”

  Ali’s head whipped up, eyes wide, feeling suddenly sober. “How do you—”

  “I own a book store,” he said with a passive gesture, taking another bite. “I looked you up.”

  “Oh god.” She hung her head in her hands, her whole face burning with shame.

  “It wasn't that bad. I don’t know what everyone’s on about.”

  “It was terrible.”

  “It wasn't terrible. It just didn't connect, that’s all. Your publisher was throwing it at the wrong audience. If you can get the rights back you might try marketing it to teens—”

  “They own the rights,” she said, sighing. “And besides, I just want to move on from it.”

  Sam nodded, relating completely. He put his burger down then and rubbed the grease off on his palms, trying to carry the conversation on so she wouldn't leave. But the band on stage upped the tempo and Ali sprung to her feet.

  “I love this song. Come dance with me!”

  Sam drew his hand back from hers and shook his head. “I don’t dance, Ali.”

  “Aw, please?” she begged, bouncing up and down.

  The cowboy boots and that red plaid shirt were too much for Sam. Ali looked sweet and a little bit sexy, but as much as he wanted to dance with her, he had a reputation to uphold. “I can’t.”

  “Not even if I give you my best puppy eyes?” She offered a wide, cheesy grin.

  “Well, show me your best puppy eyes and we’ll see,” he challenged.

  Ali twisted her mouth up and poked her tongue out of one corner, crossing her eyes.

  Sam laughed loudly, rocking back a bit and then composing himself when he noticed some people nearby watching. He wanted to retreat to the safety of his cave and away from prying eyes, but Ali had looked so ridiculously cute when she did that, he had to give in to her efforts.

  “That wasn't a puppy face,” he grumbled, hopping down off the table slowly so the song would wear out by the time they got onto the dance floor.

  “But it worked,” Ali announced proudly, hooking her arm in his.

  As they reached the wooden panels of the makeshift dance floor, a familiar black car pulled up in Ali’s driveway. Neither of them noticed, though, because when the base player spotted his old friend Sam walking along with a girl, the upbeat song switched suddenly to a slow one. The other dancers heckled and booed the change in tempo for a moment before going along with it. Sam groaned and internalized his dread, taking the short little cowgirl into his arms and drawing her politely close.

  Ali felt safe in Sam’s arms and as she pressed her face to his chest, she felt him exhale in a way that made her wonder what he was thinking. Maybe he wanted her to stand back a little, but the beer in her stomach was somehow making her head spin and she couldn’t hold herself upright.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” Sam confessed. “So I apologize in advance if I step on your toes.”

  “It’s more likely to be me that steps on you.” Ali turned her face upward to look at him, feeling short in his arms, her head only just meeting the base of his stubbly chin. She liked the way he smelled up this close and wondered if the thickness in her throat was inebriation or if maybe she should be asking Sam out on a date, but reflecting on his past, thought better of it. She was drunk, that was all. She still didn't know the truth about what happened to his wife, and yes he might be innocent, but he might easily be guilty too. Fact was, a girl died. In that house. And the police report did say the circumstances were suspicious.

  Ali pressed her hands firmly against his back to feel what kind of a man he was; to see if maybe she could grasp something in his warmth and translate it to understand him better as a person. But she was pretty sure only the alcohol was capable of such a skill, and quickly arched her palms so he wouldn't think she was feeling him up, even if a part of her did want to slide her hands onto his bottom and see if it was as firm as it looked in those jeans.

  “Hey, Sam?” she asked, her voice soft in the gentle calm of the evening.

  “Mm?”

  “How come you were so rude to me that first night we met?”

  Sam’s chest expanded but didn't retract, and no words left his mouth.

/>   “It just doesn't . . . I mean,” Ali said, sorting her thoughts aloud. “You seem like a pretty nice guy and it—”

  “You startled me,” he said, looking at her once for a moment and smiling before looking over her shoulder. “You walked up to me in that red coat with your hair blowing around your face, and I thought you were . . .” He swallowed hard before admitting this. “I thought you were a ghost.”

  “A ghost?”

  “Come on, Ali. You must have heard the story by now—about my . . .” He removed his hand from hers to nervously rub his nose and then placed it back again, gripping her more firmly than before. “It’s a small town. People talk.”

  Ali took a deep breath and let it out slowly, unsure what to say.

  “I see her,” he said, his throat thick as he struggled to admit it. “People talk, you know—I hear kids talk about the ghost of Sarah Harvey and they brush it off like a fun story. But I swear I see her sometimes.” He shut his eyes tightly as he swore. “But never like that that. Never tangible. It’s always a brush or a shape out of the corner of my eye, and when you walked up to me . . . you . . .” He met her eyes and smiled widely at a memory. “She loved the rain. And you just looked so much like her in the dark and the rain that I got a scare. And I get angry when I get a scare.”

  Ali laughed. “Me too. My sister always jumps out at me and, without fail, every time, my knee-jerk reaction is to punch her.”

  Sam laughed too. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I was jerk to you after that.”

  “It’s okay. And for what it’s worth, I—” Ali stopped when someone tapped her shoulder.

  “Hey babe,” trilled a familiar voice from behind. “Mind if I cut in, Mad Harvey?”

  Sam stopped and took an immediate step back, his eyes cold and hard, aimed like daggers at the man behind them.

  Ali put her back to Sam quickly, as if to form a wall between the two men. “Hey, Grant.”

  “Hey.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek, keeping his eyes on Sam the entire time. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Late?” Sam said, looking at Ali for confirmation.