Emily's Ghost (13 page)

"People do hear voices
--"

"Stop right there! Don't
you dare call me a paranoid schizophrenic!"

"I haven't called you
anything. But documented apparitions tend to describe vague, mostly
featureless, almost transparent forms that don't last long. Whereas
you know this man down to his brass buttons. You mimic his accent;
you claim to have seen his face flush, for God's sake. Think about
it, Emily: a flush is a rush of blood under the skin. How can a
dead man flush, Emily?"

"I don't know and I don't
care! He flushed! Repeatedly! How can you not believe me? Look,
look here! I'll show you!" She dragged him into her bedroom and
pulled her top drawer half open. A jumble of underwear exploded
brazenly from it; she didn't care. "See this drawer? See it? That's
where I sanded the name out!" she cried. "And then I waxed
it!"

"It looks like every other
drawer," he said cautiously.

"Of course!" she cried,
absurdly pleased by the compliment. And then she comprehended what
she'd done. "Oh." She bit her lower lip, amazed at her stupidity in
destroying the evidence. "Well, it was there. 'Fergus O'Malley.' In
a child's scrawl."

The senator slid the
drawer closed and said gently, "That doesn't prove it was a ghost
who scrawled the name."

"
What
? Do you think
I
--? What is
this?
I'm
the
skeptic. You're supposed to be the believer!"

They were both hovering
over the bureau, like opposing attorneys wrangling over a piece of
evidence. She began to have a sick feeling in her stomach. If Lee
Alden, Rhodes Scholar and spirit-connoisseur, didn't believe her,
maybe she didn't have a case.

She made a last-ditch
effort to force him to believe. "I saw him there, I tell you, in
the corner. And standing on my bed. And sitting on it. And in the
living room. And in the kitchen; he wanted a beer. My God, why
would I make him up?" she cried.

"Stress?"

"Stress, oh that's it!
When anything goes weird nowadays, blame stress! I haven't been
under any stress!"

"You lost your mother,
Emily; that's a stressful event," the senator suggested
quietly.

The arrow hit home. She'd
been wondering herself whether there was a connection. She sat on
the edge of her bed and said in a careful voice, "People lose their
mothers all the time. But they don't make up ghosts to take their
place."

"Besides," she added,
jumping back up, "Fergus O'Malley is
nothing
like my mother. He's
desperate to come back again and start over. He's full of ambition
and unfulfilled dreams and he wants beer, pizza, the works. He
wants it all. My mother just ... didn't."

She thought of her mother
as she lay dying. Her mother used to say so little, just now and
then a sigh, waiting to be done with it. No matter how hard Emily
had tried, she could not make her mother want to stay. And now she
was gone.

"I don't know," Emily
said, sighing heavily, "maybe you're right. Maybe Fergus has
something to do with my mother ... some kind of wish fulfillment
... I don't know ...." Her voice trailed off as she struggled with
the concept, her gaze drifting aimlessly around the bedroom,
watching automatically for signs of Fergus. He'd been so real.
Right down to the mole on his right temple.

"No!" she said, shaking
her head vehemently. "I did see him! I admit I thought I might have
been hallucinating, but I wasn't. He's here! Somewhere!" She
dropped down to her knees on the Virginia carpet and pulled up the
dust ruffle of her bed. "Fergus! Damn you, show yourself!" She
jumped back to her feet and threw open the trunk that held spare
blankets. "Come out!" She ran to the living room, stopped,
listened, ran into the kitchen area, opened the fridge, left the
door agape, checked the oven, left that door hanging, flew from one
cupboard to the next, opening each door in succession, whirled
around once, twice, and finally came to rest, drained by her own
hysteria.

She managed, somehow, to
come out of her daze and recognize the senator standing not six
feet from her. "Lee," she said in a desolate voice, "I'm losing
it." In a gesture of supplication, she held out her arms to
him.

And suddenly he was there
for her, enfolding her in his warmth and rock-solid embrace, making
up in every way for the phantom that was eluding her. "Shhh," he
whispered through her tears, rocking her gently against his chest
as he would a child. "Don't talk like that ... shhh, shhh." She
felt his hand weave through her hair and pull her close as he
murmured little words and half-phrases of reassurance. "Emily ...
Emily ... it will get better ... it will."

And somehow, she believed
him. She let herself feel for one exquisite moment that she was
safe from harm. Being in his arms, listening to his voice, was more
comforting than sleep, more soothing than a soft lullabye. She
needed so much to be able to let her guard down, and Lee Alden was
making that so easy. Gradually her breathing slowed and her tears
dried. She drew in an enormous breath, held it, and let it
out.

"Atta girl," he murmured
close to her ear. He continued to hold her.

She lifted her face, tight
with fear, to meet his gaze. "What should I do, Lee?"

A look of consternation,
almost of pain, passed over his face as he beheld hers. He stroked
her cheek with the back of his fingertips; began to say something;
stopped. After a moment he said, almost stiffly, "I'll stay on your
sofa tonight."

Though she hadn't dared to
hope for his protection, it was exactly what Emily needed to hear.
She'd been right in the first place: Lee Alden was the only man
alive she could trust to see this thing through with her. And yet
with the relief came guilt. The senator was a public figure, a man
of reputation. He was taking a considerable risk for her sake. She
should turn down his suggestion, but she wasn't feeling brave
enough.

"I shouldn't be doing this
to you," she admitted sorrowfully.

"No, dear heart ... you
should not."

His voice was rueful, and
yet there was something ambiguous in it that sent a ripple of heat
through her. She was in his arms, and his blue eyes were intense,
and the moment was no longer about comforting. Worse, Emily no
longer really wanted comforting. Suddenly it wasn't enough, wasn't
nearly enough. It seemed incredible to her that her mood could
change so abruptly, and yet here she was: cheeks on fire, heart
thundering in her breast, every nerve ending aroused.

The senator was cradling
her head in his hands and was lowering his mouth to hers. Her eyes
were partly closed and her mouth had parted for the kiss that was
to come -- when he stopped.

"Oh boy; out of bounds,"
he said in a husky voice, bringing himself back under control. He
took her by her shoulders and held her at arm's length. "Definitely
out of bounds." His breath came with an effort.

Confused and disappointed,
Emily swayed dizzily and murmured, "No, you're not."

But the senator smiled
bleakly and shook his head. "Oh, Emily ... believe me when I say,
this is not the time."

"Because there might be a
ghost in the house?" she asked, with a heartbroken attempt at
humor.

He hesitated. "Because
there might not be."

"Ah." The word,
bittersweet, hung in the air between them. But one word didn't seem
enough, so she added two more. "I see." She dropped her gaze from
his and concentrated instead on the third button of his shirt. It
was all too clear: Lee Alden did not make love to crazy
women.

"You're way too vulnerable
right now," he was saying. "And as irresistible as you may be, it
wouldn't be right, wouldn't be fair to you." He let go of her as if
she were too hot to hold.

Emily's chin came up. "You
talk as if you'd be stealing the kiss," she said, hurt and
offended. "It would have been freely given."

"It's been a long time
since I've been with a woman," he explained, sidestepping the pain
in her voice. "It wouldn't have ended with one kiss."

"You're so
sure!"

"I could be wrong," he
admitted with infuriating modesty. He went deliberately over to the
sofa and sat on one arm of it, widening the gap between them,
further offending her.

He was in complete control
of the situation. Emily had known confident men before, but Lee
Alden was in a class by himself. The worst part of it was, he had
every right to be. Who could resist him? Who of sound body or mind
would want to? Was it his fault that women kept throwing themselves
at him? That they ran to him for help all week long? Heck, it was
his job.

"You've been in this
situation before," she said dryly, trying not to sound
reproachful.

He grinned good-naturedly,
which was another one of those charming things about him she
couldn't stand: he had a sense of humor about himself.

"I've been in a lot of
situations, Emily, but not in this one. Not even close."

She was becoming angrier,
irrationally so, which she didn't mind a bit. Anger sometimes made
her fearless; if this was one of those times, she'd make it through
the ordeal without him. "I think you ought to go," she said coldly.
"I'll be fine."

"Do you have a spare
pillow?" he asked, ignoring her bravado.

Her eyelids lowered
dangerously. "You're not listening."

"Yes I am. You'd rather I
left. I'd rather I stayed. I did fly up from D.C.," he reminded
her. "You owe it to me to let me feel helpful. What are politicians
for, anyway?" He tried an engaging grin.

When she didn't respond,
his mood became more serious. "Look, Emily, something -- anything
at all -- could happen tonight. I've brought a briefcase filled
with work. I'll catch up on my reading, and if nothing happens,
I'll take the six o'clock back in the morning." He undid the knot
to his loosened tie and tossed it aside. "I spend half my nights on
my senate sofa anyhow."

Hands on her hips, Emily
glanced at the maroon silk tie draped over her sofa. It looked so
decisive.
Well. That's that. Whether I
want him or not.
She glanced at the tie
again.
I do want him here,
she admitted.
Just for
tonight.

The senator said, "My
briefcase is in my car; I'll be right back," and headed for the
door.

But she intercepted him
and held out her hand. "Give me your keys," she said gruffly. "I'll
get it for you." She couldn't offer him much in hospitality; the
least she could offer him was anonymity.

He understood her
perfectly and was grateful. "Thanks."

Emily skipped down the
stairs far more happy than she had a right to be. This was not the
answer, having a man she considered a handsome flake conclude that
she was an irresistible flake. She smiled at the thought and
shrugged cheerfully.
What the heck; it's a
start.
God, she must be punchy. She tried
to keep things in perspective. The senator was there on business,
and his business was the paranormal -- or, as those people liked to
call it, "human potential."

She noted with gratitude
that his BMW hadn't been stolen, opened the trunk, and took out his
briefcase. There was no overnight bag, which said good things for
the senator's integrity but left her feeling a little stab of
disappointment. Still, her mood on the whole was upbeat.
Twenty-four hours with not a trace of Fergus O'Malley; and a big,
strong senator to make sure he never came back. Things were
definitely looking up.

Emily stood aside on the
landing while a rowdy group of seven or eight college kids pushed
their way past her, laughing and hooting. She went in, then paused
at the foot of the stairs of the ornate Victorian hall, trying to
remember if she'd locked the trunk. Yes. She started up the
stairs.

Suddenly a shaft of cold
pierced her body. It was so cold, so unexpected, so fiercely
painful, that she staggered under the blow and grabbed the
balustrade to steady herself. The shaft of cold seemed to dissolve
into a mass inside of her, then expand and wrap itself around her,
constricting her chest, stealing her breath, numbing all thought.
She thought it must be her heart, but her heart knew
better.

Fergus
O'Malley
.

The moment passed as
quickly as it came. Emily waited for the adrenalin to subside, then
fled up the stairs. She found the senator at the front window,
staring out into the street. He turned, took one look, and said,
"Good God, Emily, you look as if you've seen--"

"I haven't seen a thing,
Senator," she said quickly.

"Baloney. What happened
out there?" He moved closer to her. Taking her by the shoulders
again, he tilted his head to meet her downcast look.

Tired of seeming the
hysteric, Emily lied outright. "I ran into the kids from the
first-floor condo. They were loud, they were drunk, they were rude.
That's all."