“I’ve got an idea,” said Christian. “Hold tight, everybody.” He got to his feet and ran toward the road. A distraught Dwayne and his fellow stoners hurried close behind, evidently off to claim rights on the sardine can that was once the Big Doobie.
With a small chuckle, Neil sat down next to Claudia and placed his arm around her, and Margot and Zoey joined Simon and summarily lowered their heads onto his shoulders. They all took a moment, resting for the first time in what seemed like forever as they gazed out at the horizon. The sea appeared calmer, the whitecaps not as threatening, despite the strong wind.
Emily sat still at Andrew’s side, their hands linked.
“I hate her,” she whispered bitterly. “I know I shouldn’t, I know I should try to feel some sympathy for her, but after what she did—to Nick and Nora, to me—and to you, I just can’t find any kindness in my heart for her. I hope she’s tortured wherever she is now. I hope she rots in—” Her words caught in her throat, and she paused and stared down at their joined hands, squeezing them harder. “Listen to me. I sound just like her, don’t I?”
Andrew studied her face, the bruises that blushed along her neck in a faint line of sickening purple, and the gash on her forehead. How she could try to find goodness in the most irredeemable gave him tremendous hope for their future together.
“It’s far easier to hate, sweet girl. Most of the time it takes too much courage to love, to believe. It’s easier to lock everything away where we can never be hurt. But you’re nothing like her, Emily. I can’t imagine anyone as good as you being able to understand what lived in her at all.”
“And you do?”
“Yes, more than I’m proud of, I’m afraid. She lived with the loss of love for so long it poisoned her. What was left of her after torturing Vandin and experiencing his death, who knows? But her bitterness consumed the last shreds of her. She hated Nick, and she loved him just as strongly—all she wanted was that love returned…” He faltered for words because he’d known that same emptiness…the same longing for a piece of his soul that would complete him. After stumbling and searching in the darkness for so long, how could he not understand the same anguish that had consumed this ghost?
At the very last moment before he fell, a presence greater than anything he had ever known reached out and engulfed him. Was it God? Redemption? He had no idea, but it had broken his heart with its grace—he could only imagine how it had devastated her. He tried to explain, “I think that she could have been saved—at the end. When she felt what lived…beyond this life, it could have saved her. But she was too far gone. When I saw Nora’s ashes I knew that it would destroy her if I touched them. So I took a risk and remembered what Nick had said, to seize life. And I did.”
Everyone was staring at him now, riveted by the story. He went on to explain all that The Lady in Red had told him about her husband and her hatred of Nora, and how he discovered she could not touch her ashes. Facing Emily again, his voice was calm but resolute. “I can’t forgive her, though. Perhaps that tells you what kind of man I am, but I couldn’t let her hurt you ever again.”
He feared he had said too much, for Emily leaned against him and buried her face in his shoulder; he shushed her and breathed in a deep lungful of the sea air, so grateful to be alive, so grateful to hold her.
“Why do you think she couldn’t touch the ashes?” asked Margot.
“I don’t know.”
Margot looked away from him to Neil for his response, ever the scientist in need of explanations. “Andrew was right,” he said quietly. “She was horrified of them—they represented everything she despised. When she was inside of me, I had only glimpses of consciousness, like I was locked in a black room with mere flashes of clarity. But after Andrew threw Nora’s ashes at me, I felt her pain—it was torture for her to be near them. They fueled her hatred and bitterness, and her hatred and bitterness consumed her at the end.”
They all stared at the satchel that lay on the ground, innocuous in the sharp midday sun.
Emily’s fingers brushed against the remains. “Nora loved Nick so much. A love like that just doesn’t disappear. It can’t. I know these are only her ashes, but there’s something of her still there.”
Margot smiled at Emily. “I believe you.”
“Got it!” They heard Christian cry and turned to see him jogging across the grass bearing a small shovel. Dwayne and the stoners caught up next to him with despondent and crestfallen looks paining their faces. “Found it in the back of the Big Doobie,” Christian told the crowd. “Which, um, is now being dragged away for scrap, unfortunately.” The stoners turned their heads to the highway and whimpered at the sight. “We better act quick, though,” Christian informed Andrew, “’cause the stretcher is coming for you any second, man. I think they heard your mom from all the way out here.”
Andrew took the shovel. “You really want to play lead guitar, don’t you, mate? Simon, would you care to do the honors?”
Simon stared at both Andrew and the shovel, and for a brief moment Andrew thought he might walk away, that all of this had forced him to a breaking point. Simon looked between Andrew and Emily and made up his mind. He took hold of the shovel and began to dig a hole. When it was done, he was the one who opened the tin and the bag and each of them in turn took a handful of ashes and laid them to rest in the rich earth. The crowd was silent and respectful; whatever wishes were offered were whispered too quietly for other ears to hear. Finally, it came to Emily and Andrew. She took a handful of Nora’s ashes; tears trailed silently down her face and fell into the fine gravel where they disappeared like rain.
“I hope you find him, Nora. I hope you have a forever with him.” Her voice broke, and the ashes cascaded from her fingers like diamonds.
There was only one handful left from Nick’s tin. Andrew took them and placed them down in the earth upon Nora’s. He tried to find the words, words that would thank Nick for showing him just how damn precious it all was.
“You lucky bastard,” he finally offered up. “You’ll never have to say goodbye.”
Emily replaced the earth in the hole herself and patted it down with her hands until she was satisfied. The whole group gathered to help Andrew to his feet. With his arm slung over Emily’s shoulders, they left the lovers to have their moment beneath the cawing gulls and the brilliant sun.
They returned home. The weeks flew by, and before they knew it the day had arrived when they would be leaving San Francisco—Emily to her writer’s symposium in Squaw Valley, Andrew to Boston, 2,562 miles apart.
Boston—the first leg of their summer tour. The first official Lost Boys summer tour with their official manager, Neil St. John. Almost overnight their music appeared to be everywhere, which both thrilled and disconcerted them. Neil had engaged a new publicist, which resulted in incredible press. He would be joining them in Boston with Claudia. Apparently the tour would be a family affair, though Neil had the good sense not to subject himself or Claudia to the bus he had chartered for the band.
After Boston, several sold-out venues awaited them in New York City where Emily would join them. Neil had taken the luxury of allowing them to stay there a fortnight, saying they had earned a vacation that didn’t involve bodily injury or demonic possession. If they were going to live on the road this summer, they were going to enjoy it.
So it was with mixed emotions that Andrew waited for Emily at the bar in the Huntington Hotel downtown. She had requested this locale, which didn’t surprise him—it was old and odd and gorgeous. Dark paneled and intimate, it was the one place where he hadn’t been aware of people’s eyes on him lately, probably because by walking in the brass-handled doors, he had lowered the median age of the people around him to sixty. The music bore testament to this, as Sinatra was going all Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.
He ordered them two martinis. After they arrived, he took several minutes to study the rim of the glass before he toasted quietly.
“To you, Nick, wherever you a
re.”
There had been no trace of Nick and Nora since they had returned from Mendocino. Even though Emily took great pains to hide it, he knew she was disappointed. Somehow she thought that the ghosts would make one more appearance, to interrupt dinner or appear at the piano in the attic in the quiet moments when Emily and he lay nestled on the couch, her laptop glowing in the darkness on the floor while his guitar lay discarded nearby after a grueling workout of his arm.
She would repeat her firm belief that Nick and Nora were happy, and weren’t they glad to finally have some peace and quiet, or as much peace and quiet cohabitating with Simon, Margot, Zoey, and Christian would allow. Their living quarters had turned into some sort of two-storied commune centering around who would make breakfast and which pantry contained the wine.
Still, he could see her stare out the windows to the roof garden with a distant look on her face, or catch her holding open her closet door longer than necessary, hoping to hear a whisper.
Whispers did rustle the air around him as she entered the bar looking like Ingrid Bergman ready to catch her plane; all that was missing were the letters of transit and a pair of gloves. He stood and waved, rocked by her and the thought that he had only hours left to hold her. She beamed and sailed across the room and kissed him, bringing the fresh warm air in from the street with her.
“You got started without me.”
“Not much. I gave you my olives, by the way. Here let me take that…it’s blocking your face and makes kissing you a nightmare.” She swept off her hat with a chuckle, handing it over. He motioned to the waiter for two more, and they sat down, full of the nervous energy of partings and beginnings.
“Isn’t this the best?” she said, sipping her martini, her eyes sweeping across the walnut paneling and old chandeliers. “I bet they came here, you know.”
“I bet they did.” They toasted, but Emily looked everywhere except at him.
“Zoey is tearing apart the house—be thankful you’re here. I’m not sure how much storage you have in the bus, but you might have to rent another one for the art supplies alone. Oh, and Dwayne and his friends stopped by. They wanted to thank Neil for the new van. That was incredibly sweet of him, but I think they miss their old one. It’s just the not the same without the blue shag carpeting.” She prattled on and on, still not meeting his eyes. “And Margot, she’s going to try to make the shows in New York. She claims she’ll be there for work. Simon tried to look duly unimpressed.”
“Good for him. So you’re driving up to the symposium at noon tomorrow, yes? And you get there at four?”
“And I’ll wear my seatbelt and obey the speed limit.”
Why was everything so awkward? Perhaps because they’d had barely a minute alone these past weeks. The time they did have had been hampered by his stitches and sling—which he had shed that morning in a fit of manic glee. And now with only a night left, unfettered and deeply in love, he craved two things: time and privacy—one of which he could never control, the other he had every desire to obtain.
With that thought in mind, he reached into the pocket of his jacket to retrieve the room key when the waiter approached their table bearing a bottle of champagne and two elaborate flutes.
Emily looked on in delight as he popped the cork. “Andrew, it’s perfect. You shouldn’t have done this.”
“I didn’t.”
“Compliments of a friend,” the waiter informed them dryly, which immediately piqued their curiosity. “Instructions were left at the bar with this note addressed to you, Mr. Hayes.” He handed him an expensive looking envelope.
Andrew nodded and quickly opened it.
A simple but elegant card lay inside, rimmed in gold and engraved with the monogram N.C. Emily leaned over, enrapt, and they read together. The first paragraph was penned in a fast scrawl.
Kid, I always knew you had it in you. Damn proud of you. Hope not to see you soon, but we may visit when in town.
It was signed simply: Nick
Underneath that in a distinctly feminine flourish was one word. Emily whispered it out loud:
Live.
It was followed by a beautiful N. And a post script:
The flutes are yours, use them—often.
Emily grinned through her tears, reading the card over and over and scanning the room for any signs of the famous couple.
“Andrew, oh Andrew, they found each other…they’re together.”
They finished the whole bottle, chatting madly now, all hands and smiles and laughter. It was the way they had always been with each other and the way they would always be. It wasn’t until he laid the hotel key down on the table that her words ceased and her eyes met his.
Without a sound they walked hand and hand to the elevator.
“For the next twelve hours you’re not allowed to leave our bed, do you understand? You’re mine. My concubine, my slave, my mistress…my wife.”
His body pressed the length of hers against the silk wallpaper as he kissed her hungrily, waiting for the wrought iron doors of the elevator to part. The bell chimed, and he pulled her inside, slamming the button to their floor, his mouth never leaving hers. He had wondered if the madness that he felt for her, that blind need to claim her, would subside now that life lay out ahead of them. Now that they had found peace. He had never been more wrong.
Thankfully, the doors opened to a vacant hallway. Only a few feet more. He fumbled with the key, his hands fisting in her hair, her breaths answering his, when he heard the clearing of a throat from the far end of the hall. It was a tiny, scared, but distinctly male cough.
They swung their heads to the side to see who it was—Emily gasped. There, glowing near a potted palm, hovered a short, wiry looking apparition. He wore a derby, coattails, and baggy pants and rocked back and forth on his spats in distress.
“Are you Andrew and Emily Chamberlain?”
“Pardon?” Andrew answered in disbelief.
“Herschel, Herschel’s the name,” the ghost replied hastily in a thick Brooklyn accent, his hands wringing together. “You two are famous, don’t ya know. Everyone’s going on about how you helped Nick and Nora with their little problem, and I was wondering…well, you said you might be heading to New York City soon, and I’ve got this issue with some ah…former business associates there.” His words tumbled over each other as his voice rose to a high neurotic pitch.
“Issue?” Andrew repeated before he realized what he was doing. It was enough to let loose the flood gates.
“They think I took something that’s theirs, and they, well, they want it back! I didn’t take it, I swear. But they won’t listen to me—they’re gonna sic their ghouls after me! You have to help.”
“But…you’re already dead, what’s the worst they can do?” Andrew regretted the words the moment they left his lips.
Herschel emitted a great tortured wail. “I didn’t do it! I didn’t take it.” He wrung his coattails in anguish. “You’ve gotta help me!”
Andrew threw open their hotel room door and grasped Emily by the hand. He’d had enough of ghosts in need to last for several lifetimes.
Emily, however, didn’t budge.
“Sweet girl?”
She looked at him with those eyes, those large, trouble-brewing eyes.
“But we’ll be in New York soon, Andrew.”
He scooped her up in his arms and slammed the door shut with his foot. With a determined stride he carried her past the fireplace and into the bedroom. It was lit only by the city lights, casting her surprised face in shadows. He tossed her down on the bed.
“We’ll have two weeks. We could help.” She wasn’t going to let this lie, he could tell.
He didn’t say a word—he merely stared at her.
“You look like her, you know,” he finally said, kneeling in front of her so that her back was trapped against the carved mahogany headboard.
“Like who?”
“Nora. Here, at the tip of your chin.” His lips kissed there. “And
here, at the curl of your smile.” His lips kissed there too, as his hands rose to undo her buttons and feel the warmth of her skin.
“So is that a yes? Please, Andrew, we really should help him.”
She gasped suddenly as he pushed her down onto her back, her wrists pinioned and her body helpless. Then laughter filled the darkness until his mouth trailed softly down her neck and reached her breast, a breath away from her heart.
They said no more on the subject that night, although hopes and dreams and fantasies were cried and shared between them.
When the morning sun drifted over their naked bodies, and the sound of housekeeping and breakfast trolleys laden with aromas of fresh beginnings lumbered down the hall, it was then, and only then, that he whispered the answer in her ear.
THE END
Acknowledgments
The Omnific Publishing Team including Elizabeth Harper, CJ Creel, Kimberly Myers and Micha Stone, for their patience, enthusiasm and talent.Lucy O’Dwyer, for her Gaelic know-how and photographic skills. Laura Springer, for her guidance with San Francisco real estate. Steven Kacsmar, for his music expertise. Dave Conroy for his deft hand at swearing. The Muselets who supported this story from the beginning. Mom and Dad, for raising me with love and a love of their era. Peter for doing the heavy lifting, and Matthew and Hannah for sharing their mother’s lap with a computer. Finally, to Natalie whose friendship, encouragement and tireless editing skills made this story possible. Thank you all!
...
Certain locations mentioned in this book are real,
others imaginary, and still others are a combination of the two.
About the Author
A writer and recovering CPA, Sarah M. Glover lives in San Francisco in an old house with a brood of people—some taller, some shorter, all of whom she adores. As a child, she often hid under the blankets with a dog-eared copy of The Norton Anthology of English Literature, obsessing over the men in the sepia squares.
Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story Page 55
