© 2013 Franklin Kendrick
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Franklin Kendrick.
Cover image by Tatyana Chaiko / iStockPhoto
First eBook edition: October, 2013
For my mother,
who bought me the typewriter.
Author’s Note
Tadin first appeared to me. He’s haunted my imagination for an entire year. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him sitting in his apartment above Shelley’s art gallery, enjoying a good paperback and listening to the sounds of the Old Port.
He’s shown me a part of the great city of Portland that I never knew existed. I was always fascinated with the old, brick buildings that line the Maine waterfront in the city where I work. I pass by them every day and imagine who lives and works in them. What do they do? What are their dreams? Do they have families? Now, thanks to Tadin and Shelley, I have a better idea of what goes on in those mysterious apartments above the quaint little shops.
If you are reading this book, I’d like to thank you. It’s always been my dream to write novels. Ever since I could hold a pencil in first grade I was writing stories to entertain my classmates and family. This book is my first full-length novel, and it’s taken more creative energy than I knew existed within my mind and heart. Some nights I was up scribbling down revelations that couldn’t wait to be documented. Other times I was driving home from work in the evening and had to pull over to jot down a note on the back of my hand so that I wouldn’t forget it by the time I pulled in the driveway. Writing is not just something that happens at my desk. It’s constantly happening in my mind no matter where I am.
I hope that your time with Tadin and Shelley is a blast. These two people will always hold a dear spot in my heart.
Franklin Kendrick
October 2012 - October 2013
Contents:
Dedication
Author's Note
Overview
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Two
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Connect
Special Thanks
Pronunciation Guide
Author Biography
Copyright Information
Macyntire & Hough
Do life and love continue after death?
Tadin Hough is a ghost who desires a quiet afterlife.
That plan is out the window when he opens an art gallery with Shelley Macyntire, his living, breathing roommate. Things become even more complicated when romance blossoms between them.
But, just when he tries to make a relationship work, a demonic soul collector sets Tadin in his sights. His peaceful days with Shelley are numbered.
Can he protect Shelley and everything he loves from being dragged into the bowels of Hell?
Part One
Chapter One:
Tuesday - 9:30pm
Shelley Macyntire nearly sliced off two of her fingers. She expected the carving to be easy, but sweat dripped down her forehead and her hand ached as she chipped away the last pieces of rosewood. The stiffness in her arm would most likely last for a few days, but it was worth it in the end. This sign was the final touch on her first art gallery. All that was left was the green and gold paint on the lettering. She could hardly wait to see what the sign looked like outside, swaying in the ocean breeze.
It only took you five video tutorials and three trips to the art store to get this right, she thought. It was her determination to have as much of the gallery be hand-made as possible — even if it cost her a finger or two. At least the wood carving was done. The fun part was playing with paint.
She was just laying out her acrylic tubes when her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, perched on a nearby display case.
Normally she wouldn’t be distracted in the middle of an art project, but the number was her father’s, so she flipped the phone open.
“Hello,” she said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. A comfy armchair beckoned to her at the front of the studio space and she plopped down in it.
“Shel?” came her father’s worn voice from the other end. “It’s Dad.”
“I know it’s you,” she said. “Your name shows up when you call, remember?”
“Oh, that’s right,” he said. “Sorry. You know I don’t keep up with this whole technology thing.”
She tucked a tangle of her dark brown hair behind her ear.
“I know you still have that horrible rotary phone,” she said.
“How do you know that?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice now. She could almost see his head half-cocked to the side, one eye squinting.
“I can tell. That’s the only phone I know that crackles that badly when you touch the cord.”
A large burst of static eclipsed her father’s response, confirming her suspicions. “It hasn’t died yet. I think I’ll keep it a while longer.”
She chuckled. “Of course. You never throw anything away. What about the new phone I got you for your birthday?”
“It’s still in its box. In the closet.”
She shook her head, smiling. That was her father.
“Alright, stop distracting me,” he said, sounding as if he were trying not to laugh. “I’m calling for a reason. I want to know how your preparations are coming along?”
“For the gallery?” she looked around, barely able to see the actual walls through all furniture, easels, and boxes of books scattered everywhere. “It’s…coming.”
“Shel,” her father said, a serious tone in his voice now.
“What?”
“You’re opening on Friday.”
“Yes? So?”
“So, are you going to be ready in time?”
She got to her feet and walked over to one of the glass counters.
“I think so.”
“Just think? What about your partner — what's his name, Adam?”
“Tadin,” she corrected.
“Yeah, the foreign guy.”
“He’s not foreign, Daddy,” she chuckled. “He’s from Maine. His parents were just hippies.”
“You don't have to explain that to me, with a name like that. What is he doing right now? Please tell me he's helping you set things up?”
Again, she glanced around the empty space. She didn't answer.
“Shelly.”
“What? He’s just...a little busy.”
“Too busy to help out his future business partner? That doesn’t sound very promising to me.”
She rolled her eyes and brushed a few slivers of wood from the countertop.
“He’s helping out in other ways,” she said. “That’s all. He’s going to be a good partner. I promise.”
“Well, he’ll have to prove it to me. If he does that, well, then he’ll be on my good side. My daughter is a hard worker. You’ll be successful if you keep on making the best artwork I’ve ever seen. Those tourists will go crazy for that stuff.”
“I wish you could tell Mom that,” she said, trying not to sound too angsty. She ignored three phone calls from her mother just that afternoon. It was hard work ignoring Linda Vlock. Even if Shelley gave it her all, Linda always found some way to knit pick. The only question was how long before it happened.
“Don’t worry about your mother,” her father said. “She’ll see. You don’t have to prove anything to her. The only person you have to prove anything to is yourself.”
“Thanks, Dad.” He always made her feel better. “Are you going to make it to the gala on Thursday?”
“I’d love to, honey. You know I would. But, I can’t drive after dark. That damn stroke really took a lot more out of me than I expected.”
He tried to laugh, but Shelley knew it was eating away at him — not being able to go places the way he used to.
“That’s fine, Dad. I’ll pick you up sometime soon when things quiet down and we’ll grab lunch or something.”
“I’d like that,” he replied. “Don’t let me hold you up any later. You’ve got a lot of work before the opening. I’ll come see it one of these weekends when I have time off.”
“Alright. I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you too, sweetheart. And if this Tadin guy doesn’t pull his own weight, you tell him he’ll have me to answer to!”
She laughed.
“Okay, I will. Goodnight, Daddy.”
“Bye, sweetheart.”
She set the phone back down on the counter and swept up the rest of her mess. Now that it was finally quiet, she could paint the lettering on the sign. But, before she got going, someone spoke up behind her.
“Was that your father on the phone?”
She turned and saw Tadin Hough seated on the stairs that led up to the apartment. He had a book in his hands and although she could see his features perfectly, there was just a hint of the book’s contour beneath the milky illusion of his hand.
“It was,” she answered, squeezing some gold paint onto her pallet. She licked the tip of her paint brush, curling the soft bristles into a point, and dipped them into the gold. “He asked if you were pulling your weight.”
“Again?” Tadin rolled his eyes. “He asks that every time he calls.”
“Well, what do you expect?” she glanced over at him between brush strokes. “Can you blame him for wanting to do his fatherly duty?”
“No,” Tadin got to his feet. “Let me ask — does he have a shotgun?” He grinned. He came down the rest of the stairs, running his hand through his slicked-back hair, and walked over to one of the comfy chairs where he lounged with his book.
“Sorry. No shotgun. He was never a very good hunter.”
“Oh good,” Tadin turned a page, then set the book down on his lap, finger holding his place. “Not that it would do him any good, seeing as I’m dead already.”
“Of course,” Shelley rolled her eyes. “That joke was only funny the first ten times I heard it.”
“I know. Sorry,” he went back to reading. “I have to come up with some other ones. How’s that sign coming?”
Shelley finished with the gold and moved on to the dark green, trying carefully to keep her hair out of the dabs of paint. That probably wasn’t going to last for long before she gave up.
“I think it’s coming along nicely. What do you think?”
“Just a minute,” he said. “I’m almost finished this paragraph...”
She sighed and crossed her arms beneath her chest. Even though the majority of the artistic design was her job, it was like pulling teeth to get Tadin to give her his opinion.
“Okay, done!” he folded the book over his lap and sat up. “Just to be sure, you’re asking me, the one with the least amount of artistic ability, for an opinion?”
She threw her arms up in exasperation, and only then did he get to his feet and come over to where she stood. She knew he was playing coy on purpose. Normally it amused her, but tonight she wanted a serious opinion.
“I’m not joking,” she said. “This is the first thing that people are going to see.”
“Easy,” he said, and smiled to ward off her irritation. “I’m just playing with you. I’ll be serious now.”
He leaned forward to examine her work. She took the opportunity to admire the details that only she would notice. The colors reminded her of shopping in the Old Port as a child, and now that she was taking charge of her own business design, she jumped at the chance to use them. Part of Portland, the historic section of the city sat against the Maine waterfront where fishermen and oil tankers traveled in and out of Casco Bay. Beyond that industrial backbone were the artists who populated the ancient brick buildings, stretching all the way up the hill and into the college district. Shelley spent her entire college career here, and she knew many of the cobblestone streets like the back of her hand. She hoped that her gallery became a popular tourist attraction, and maybe even found a local following of book and art lovers.
“Macyntire & Hough?” Tadin brought a hand up to his chin. “You went with that curly symbol? I thought you were going to just use the word.”
“I thought the ampersand was prettier. You don’t think so?”
He sniffed, a slight smirk on his face. “You make it sound like we’re married or something.”
She went to slap him, but he stepped away, his hands raised up to his face. Shelley had to laugh at herself for trying something as simple as touching him. It was practically impossible because of Tadin’s condition.
He was a ghost.
“Kidding! I’m just kidding!” he said and, once she backed off, he studied the sign again. “You really think this is going to work? This whole gallery thing?”
“It has to work,” she wrung her hands together. “I didn’t work my way through college to keep my job at a coffee shop. You should have seen Denise’s face when I told her why I was quitting. She thought I was nuts. But, look at this,” she pointed at the sign. “Would I have carved this thing if I didn’t believe in the gallery?”
“I suppose not,” said Tadin. “I was sure we’d be heading to the emergency room for a laceration by now. Still, I gotta say, it looks crisp. I didn’t know you were such a talented wood carver?”
This time she knew he was serious. His face was dead calm and he didn’t look at her as he spoke. He always looked at the floor when he spoke the truth. It was bizarre because it was the opposite of what she’d been taught at university. It was also one of the things that drew her to him in the beginning.
“I guess you learn something new every day,” she said with a smile.
“Indeed. And I learned that you’re also a very messy painter.”
She saw the green paint dripping from a lock of her hair and laughed. It felt good, canceling out all the unease she’d been harboring for the past month. As excited as she was for the grand opening of the gallery, there was still that hint of trepidation hiding in the pit of her stomach.
Macyntire & Hough was her baby. Well, really, it was their baby. She never would have started the enterprise had it not been for Tadin. He was reluctant at first for her to use his name on the sign, but in the end she bullied him into it. She understood his trepidation, of course. After being dead for almost four decades, he probably never expected to start a new enterprise. But, it felt right to include him in her first entrepreneurial venture. It helped her to feel like she w
asn’t totally alone.
The gallery was her first stab at a business in her post-university life. It was a long time coming, after years of studying to achieve her Bachelor’s in art; studying, and many, many failed lattes. She wasn’t fit for a job where food was involved. She knew that much. Selling books and her own artwork was a lifelong dream.
She sighed. “I just hope it does well. You know?”
“Of course it’s going to do well.” He glanced over at her. “It’s looking good already. It just needs a little more organization. You’ve done a good job so far.”
“You mean we did,” she corrected.
“Well, I helped — intellectually, but — this is really your dream. I just helped you take the idea on paper and make it tangible.”
“That’s a big word for someone who claims they aren’t an artist,” she admired the sign. “Just think, if I hadn’t stumbled across this apartment, none of this would be happening.”
“That’s called destiny,” Tadin said. “I may be a dead man, but I haven’t been dead too long to know that life is full of it.”
“Yes?” she grinned at him. “What do you think our destiny is?”
He thought for a moment, then reached down for the sign. Shelley felt the air around her go cold as Tadin drew on the heat and energy of the room in order to interact with the physical sign. The effect didn’t last forever, but when Tadin drew on a source of energy, like a cell phone, appliance, or heat, he could appear to have a physical body again and move objects around. He took the sign into his hands, and Shelley wondered how long he would have before his energy was zapped. Surely it was enough to carry the sign out to the sidewalk. She welcomed the help.
“Our destiny,” he said, leading her to the front entrance, “is to sell as many of your beautiful drawings as we possibly can! And just a few books, you know. Maybe a tiny amount of books.”
Macyntire & Hough (A Paranormal Romance) (The Macyntire & Hough Saga) Page 1
