Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story

by Glover, Sarah M.

  “And you saw…you saw Nick,” she said, when she meant, You saw her.

  “Yes.”

  “And later, when you were—hurt. Do you think that was his voice that was speaking to you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The air in the room had cooled. She could tell he regretted mentioning S.J. His face had lost its ease, and his fingers had slowly begun to drum the sides of her thigh, piquing her concern. Yet after everything Andrew and she had gone through in the last twenty-four hours, she felt incredibly petty for reacting in such a way.

  “Why do you suppose they keep talking about time running out? Nick has, and Nora too. Even at the séance, Dashiell said that everything is repeating itself. And a curse, he said The Lady in Red would understand the curse. It’s got to be the curse that has kept them apart, right?”

  “I refuse to believe in curses.”

  “Even if it involves me being killed?”

  “Especially then.”

  And she could say no more, because he wouldn’t let her; his lips ended all argument.

  The door was open to the downstairs apartment, and Emily shouted a hello and promptly heard Zoey and Christian’s welcome from back in the kitchen. Andrew had left her bed reluctantly a little while ago with a promise to meet her for breakfast there shortly.

  They had outdone themselves. There were trays of muffins, sugar dusted scones, steaming platters of scrambled eggs and bacon, heaping bowls of strawberries, and one huge pot of coffee. Zoey had a mug filled and handed it to her with her trademark grin. Margot held up her own mug in greeting and sat clean and pressed at the edge of the table, intent on reading the morning paper. Andrew was nowhere to be found.

  Christian was wrestling with the espresso machine, but having a rough go of it. He gave her a wonderfully woeful smile, then wiped his brow. “Please tell me he went to the hospital,” she whispered to him as Zoey took over with the espresso duties.

  “That hand is my livelihood, you better believe he’s going there. He’s getting dressed now, but I’m making the idiot walk home after they patch him up. What the hell was he thinking?”

  “How much did you get?”

  “Enough. Neil, of all people. I’d have let him hit me, instead. We’re going to be thrown out on the fucking streets.”

  With glasses askance and hair sticking up in all directions, Simon shuffled into the kitchen wearing a decrepit bathrobe and humming, “Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are. Up above the world so high, like—” He stopped short upon seeing the crowd gathered there. Margot studied him over the edge of her paper.

  “What can I get you for breakfast?” Simon murmured as he took a seat by her elbow.

  “I’ve already had mine, thank you.” She quietly turned a page.

  “So where’s the prodigal son?” Simon asked flatly, scanning the kitchen. “Did he finally come home and make nice-nice?”

  Christian choked on his coffee. Simon’s confusion lasted for only a moment.

  “Hope you weren’t too rough on him. He’s a pansy-assed boy. Did he insist on reading you poetry beforehand?”

  Just then Andrew rounded the corner. He was dressed in an old flannel shirt and jeans, his unshaven face with its various cuts, scrapes, and bruises made him look thoroughly disreputable. He had even wrapped an Ace bandage around his hand.

  Simon’s face bloomed in shock at the sight of him. “Jesus Christ, Emily! What the bloody hell did you do to him?”

  Andrew’s eyes flashed at Simon. His eyebrow arched in unspoken threat.

  “So, what the hell happened to you? Did you get attacked by a bunch of horny fangirls?”

  “No.”

  “Fanboys?”

  “Christ, Simon. No. And by the way, just for curiosity’s sake, how does one study the stars during a thunderstorm?”

  Simon swirled around his fork in the air and chewed. “It’s not easy. So what did you guys do while we were gathering important scientific data?” he asked, glancing toward Margot while spearing another piece of cantaloupe.

  “Andrew punched Neil in the face,” Christian deadpanned.

  “He what?”

  “Is my personal life going to become common knowledge now? Because if so, I’ll just call Entertainment Weekly after breakfast and save you all the trouble.”

  “So Neil really is—um—like your baby daddy? Oh blimey. And you really punched him?”

  “Yes and yes. Enough said?”

  “Mate, we’ve stayed in God knows how many shit-hole hotels and not once would you let us trash the premises. And now that we’ve actually got ourselves a house, you have to go and pistol-whip the landlord. You sure we’re not going to come home and find our stuff turfed on the curb?”

  Andrew rubbed the back of his neck and moaned at the ceiling.

  “You can move in with us,” said Zoey without hesitation, as if the thought of Christian playing his guitar on the street for spare change was too much to bear.

  “I’m sorry,” said Simon quietly to him. “I’m just having a laugh, you know that. That has to suck with your mum and everything.”

  “Yeah.” He hesitated as though he wanted to say more, but clearly looked too uncomfortable to answer, so he turned to Christian instead. “What have you been up to?”

  “I found a code in Emily’s ring.”

  “What?”

  Zoey immediately explained the details to them. The candle, the soot, the numbers.

  “But we haven’t found out what the numbers could mean,” she concluded. “Emily’s looked up everything we could think of, addresses, phone numbers, even longitude and latitude.”

  “How many numbers is it again?” asked Andrew. His expression had stilled and become increasingly focused.

  “Eight. Seven-five-five-one-zero-seven-nine-one.”

  He paced to the counter and looked around, seeming to scan the length of it. “It was here before. Where’s the box? Nora’s keepsake box?”

  Andrew met Emily’s stare, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly as she felt her mouth fall open, and she nearly dropped her mug.

  “Why didn’t I remember?” Emily said.

  “You had other things on your mind,” Andrew replied softly. “Where did you last leave it?”

  “In—in our dining room, I think.”

  They all went pouring out through the doorway and up the stairs into the girls’ flat. It was on the fireplace mantle—the vine covered box—right next to Nora.

  Emily took it down and placed it on the table, turning the numbers on the lock until they lined up. With a loud click, the latch sprung open. Slowly opening the lid, she felt the press of everyone huddling next to her. Six heads peered breathlessly inside.

  On top lay a stack of letters bundled in red ribbon. Emily took them out, noticing that they looked old but well cared for. Two velvet pouches lay beneath them. Shaking one open, a ring fell into her palm. It was a man’s ring, heavy and cool. She held it up; the platinum band reflected the sunlight. It bore the same vine pattern that decorated the box and Nora’s ring.

  “Is there anything inscribed on the inside?” asked Christian.

  Emily squinted, able to decipher the words there etched in a flowing script. She read them aloud. “To Nick, for every lifetime.” Her voice caught.

  She handed the band to Andrew who took it silently.

  “The other pouch,” said Zoey. “Open it.”

  Andrew looked at Emily and picked it up. He palmed it as though it held something heavy. A key slipped out. A single ornate key, decorated with the same vine design.

  “Whoa. What do you suppose it’s for?” asked Christian.

  Andrew found her eyes. “Whatever it’s for, I think we need to read these letters.”

  Zoey and Margot sat nestled on either side of Emily on the big overstuffed wicker couch in the attic, letters spread out all over their laps. The men sat on the floor. Andrew’s hospital trip appeared temporarily postponed.

  Whereas the l
etters Andrew had found in the trunk had been sent from Nora to Nick, these letters had been sent from Nick to Nora. They covered a period of time much further into their relationship. They read each one aloud to one another too excited to hold the words inside. They spent hours reading. The letters had been urbane and witty. It was impossible not to be charmed by the man, even in memory.

  Three letters remained. Andrew began to read them. Emily’s fingers curled around the arm of the couch, hanging on his every syllable.

  March 25, 1935

  Nora,

  The case is dragging on a hell of a lot longer than planned, but I should be back soon. Chicago is fine, but the neon sign in the window has got to go.

  I’ve been thinking quite a lot about what you want while sitting here in this flea trap of a hotel room.

  We’ve been through this. I know you want to meet my mother, but I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter to me if she never meets you. I don’t want you to be exposed to that level of insanity.

  Family is not always family. I’d toss out the bunch of them, especially her. Eccentric isn’t the word, Nora—deranged and obsessed is closer to the fact.

  Honey, I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m a sucker that way. Please reconsider. We can do this without anyone’s blessing. In fact, I’d rather be cursed.

  Yours,

  Nick

  April 29, 1935

  Nora,

  You really can be a wicked pain when you want to be. You won’t take my calls, you won’t answer my letters, and you won’t let me send you a martini at The Huntington Club.

  If it really means that much to you, so be it. I’m warning you. You won’t like her, and she definitely won’t like you. Don’t take it personally. You can charm the devil, lady, but you can’t charm a lunatic.

  But if you insist. I’m going to marry you one way or the other.

  Yours now and always,

  Nick

  June 25, 1935

  Noreen, my love,

  I’m truly sorry you had to go through that. I’d like to say I warned you, but that would come up short.

  My mother has become fanatical about the supernatural. Ever since she moved into that boarding house in Noyo, she has become obsessed with this lady and all her dire predictions. But that doesn’t excuse the vitriol she hurled at you. Wishing you dead. I could have belted her. You shouldn’t have stopped me.

  Nora, who are you going to believe? A crackpot old woman who hears voices in her head, or me, the man that loves you?

  I’m leaving for the coast on Friday as we had planned. I promised you a cottage by the sea. It’s the only thing decent from my family, and it’s yours—ours—if you want it.

  You promised me a honeymoon. You’ve never broken a promise. It’s what I love most about you.

  Nick

  Tears smarted in her eyes as Andrew finished. June 25th. The letter was dated June 25th. Nick would be dead in six days’ time. And Nora.

  Emily wanted to yell at the letter. No! No, turn back, don’t drive up there to that cottage; stay in San Francisco. Stay in this house. But they didn’t. They drove up there despite all the strange and sinister warnings from his addled mother. Closing her eyes, she could picture them, hands intertwined, Nora chatting away as Nick offered some droll insight. And it would all happen in the blink of an eye. The crash, the fall, the ending of so many dreams.

  “This lady Nick mentions, the one his mother was obsessed with,” Margot said, taking the page from Andrew’s hands, “who do you think she was?”

  “Maybe she was a medium?” Zoey whispered.

  Margot had taken her laptop and entered in the words: Noyo, California, supernatural. “Shit,” she muttered, clicking ahead.

  “What? What?” Emily demanded and poked her face toward the screen.

  The words were framed in the Noyo Chamber of Commerce website. Margot read them aloud.

  “Sitting above Noyo Harbor since the 1860s lies the haunted Noyo Inn, a bed and breakfast that was once a boarding house. Several ghosts are reported to haunt the site. For years, one such spirit, nicknamed The Lady in White, could be heard in the surrounding forests issuing warnings to travelers and locals alike. Nothing is known of her past, but the Pomo Indians believe she has haunted the grounds long before any white settlers claimed the land. Another ghost, the more infamous ‘lady’ of the pair, is believed to be the specter of an old woman who lived in nearby Mendocino, and whose son was killed not far from the site. Mercurial in the extreme, she is alleged to be a violent poltergeist, driving lodgers from their rooms and harrying the staff on multiple occasions. Some reports claim she was responsible for the unsolved disappearance of a young couple that visited the site in the late 1960s. Because of her enraged aura, a violent crimson as opposed to the grayish white of most apparitions, locals refer to her as The Lady in Red.”

  “We found her,” whispered Margot.

  “Mrs. Chamberlain, I presume. And here I thought she was called that because her clothes or hair were red,” said Christian, amazed.

  “The lunatic herself.” Andrew’s eyes found Emily’s.

  “Who wants me dead,” Emily whispered to herself.

  “But why would Nick’s mom want Emily to die?” asked Zoey. “What’s Emily got to do with any of this?”

  “She’s a Thomas,” Christian said. “Just like Nora.”

  “But there have to be thousands of Thomases in the world. What’s so special about Emily?” said Simon.

  “Have your parents called you back?” asked Zoey.

  Emily shook her head.

  “So what? Nick’s mother hates all Thomases because his son wanted to marry one? Seems pretty daft to me. I mean, wouldn’t she have a fairly long hit list?” said Simon sarcastically.

  “Yeah. I don’t know,” Emily replied. “Maybe Nora and I are connected somehow? It might be why I’m the only one who can hear her, and why she talks to me and no one else.”

  “Come to think of it, Paulie, you’re the only one who Nick talks to,” pondered Simon, taking a look at a very quiet Andrew.

  “But what about this part,” said Margot, taking up Nick’s letters in her hands again as she read. “Ever since she moved into that boarding house in Noyo, she has become obsessed with this lady and all her dire predictions. But that doesn’t excuse the vitriol she hurled at you. Wishing you dead. And then in this part of the webpage: Issuing warnings to travelers and locals alike. Nothing is known of her past and Pomo Indians believe she has haunted the grounds long before any white settlers claimed the land.”

  “So this Lady in White must have told Nick’s mother some awful prediction. So awful it made her want Nora dead.”

  “A curse,” said Zoey tonelessly. “Dashiell mentioned a curse.”

  They all stared at one another, not knowing the answers and shaken by the revelations. Nick’s mother wanted Nora dead. And she died. Nick’s mother wanted Emily dead. And if they didn’t figure out why, she might very well end up the same.

  “You think that maybe the key in the box might be to this cottage Nick mentioned? Now that would be cool,” said Christian, clearly intrigued.

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out. Road trip,” announced Zoey, and she jumped to her feet as though ready to begin packing at that moment.

  Emily looked to Andrew, but he didn’t say a word. He was too absorbed in twirling Nick’s ring between his fingers.

  “I’m sorry, did I wake you?” Andrew said gently. He was sitting on the floor strumming his guitar.

  Emily rubbed her eyes open, having fallen asleep on the wicker couch while re-reading the letters. Everyone else was gone, probably downstairs, she thought; the sun had set outside, and twilight was falling. She must have been out for hours.

  Andrew had a butterfly bandage over his eye and a support dressing strapping his hand.

  “You went to the doctor? Thank God. Are you all right? What did they say?”

  “Two stitches, bruised ribs, nothing brok
en, but they warned me if I did anything foolish again with my hand, I could kiss my career goodbye. Although I may have already done that, so it’s a moot point, isn’t it?”

  He played some more, pursing his lip at what must have been the strain in his hand. Then he stopped and placed his fingers over the strings. Curled over his guitar, he held it to his chest until it was silent.

  “While I was gone, I was thinking—I think we should stop this search—right now. Just walk away from all this. It’s not safe. Since the day I made you take this on you’ve put yourself in jeopardy. It’s my fault. First Vandin, now this. The last thing I want is for you to run off on some wild chase up the coast to some rural little town. It’s hard enough to keep you in one piece here.”

  He began to play again, not wanting to meet her eyes.

  “Keep me in one piece? Why do you need to keep me in one piece? I can do that perfectly fine on my own. What do you suppose will happen when you leave to go on tour? I can’t walk away—I’ve seen Nora, spoken with her, and you’ve spoken with Nick. Either we’re all suffering from grand delusions, or what they told us and everything we’ve learned is the truth.”

  They had to find Nick’s mother, this Lady in Red, who held the answers they needed and the only hope in reuniting Nick and Nora. And somehow Andrew and she were tied up in this in ways they could not imagine. Emily wrapped her arms around her knees, her skirt and sweater suddenly inadequate for the chill that had blanketed the room.

  “I can’t back out now, and would you even want to? You can’t tell me you don’t feel responsible for Nick. They’ll never be together unless we help.”

  He began playing again, his fingering becoming more intricate; he was taking his frustration out on the guitar and not her. He couldn’t play like he wanted to, and it was galling him. “Let someone else help. It’s not safe. Death threats and dire predictions—what more do you need? Wanker professors threatening you? Oh, I forgot, you’ve already got that one covered.” The strumming became more discordant.