Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (19 page)

“Zoey prepared her famous New Jersey…I’m not even sure how you pronounce it, actually, but go easy on that, okay? Wait, what is that?” She pointed to an odd loaf of what looked like Irish soda bread.

“It’s Spotted Dick,” Simon shouted proudly as he made his way from the bar. Margot choked on her drink. “You can call it Spotted Dog, but why bother?”

This was more than enough to grab the room’s attention, and soon they were all standing before the table.

“Well, at least it doesn’t look like an actual dick, but this…” Simon gestured down to what resembled a flaming red hot bratwurst. “Who pray tell brought ‘Red Snappers’?”

“That would be me,” said Margot with a black-widow smile. “Maine’s finest. You should try them.” With that, she speared one on a toothpick and shoved it right into Simon’s mouth. To his credit, he chewed thoughtfully, swallowed hard, and after his tongue was done floating over his teeth said, “Yeah, just as I guessed. Tastes like a fucking hot dog.”

Margot actually smirked at that and popped one in her mouth with a flourish.

“Would you care to see the roof?” Andrew asked.

“There’s more?”

Before Emily knew it, he had led her to the dance floor. An old record wobbled on the gramophone, Billie Holiday lamenting lost love. Without thinking, he took her hand and twirled her around.

“Where did you learn to dance?” she asked his shoes, her lashes brushing her cheeks. He tilted up her chin with his finger. Her eyes met his.

“That’s better. Don’t pay attention to my feet. Pay attention to me.”

She laughed.

“So, where did I learn to dance? Hmmm. I suppose from my Uncle Daniel. He lived in New York City, and I used to spend most of my summers with him when we weren’t in Barcelona. He thought all education could be boiled down to knowing how to hold your fork, how to play the horses, and how to f…”

“Yes?” Emily persisted. “Knowing how to…?”

He smiled and dipped her. She whooped a bit, startled when he raised her back into his arms. “Dance,” he lied.

They twisted, still in each other’s arms, to peer at the other side of the garden. Christian was holding up some serving piece to Zoey, explaining the minting process by the sounds of it. Simon and Margot were back in the conservatory, both sipping champagne while continuing to eye the assortment of food lining the table.

“I bet he’s wondering if she poisoned anything,” Andrew said.

“No. She’s dressed for hand-to-hand combat.”

“This should be fabulous, then.”

While the group gathered to sit down for dinner, music blared loudly in the background, as though someone had suddenly jacked up the volume of the gramophone. A familiar sound like a keyboard accompanied it, and a warbling voice sang out about needing someone to carry him home and bury his body in San Francisco.

Conversation stopped dead. Dead, in Andrew’s opinion, being the operative word. He cleared his throat. “Hoagy Carmichael,” he offered brightly. Then he glared behind him into the darkness. “Nick,” he hissed under his breath, “cut it out.”

The music softened.

“We found the gramophone in the house,” explained Christian. “In a closet under the stairs.”

“You mean a cupboard under the stairs,” corrected Margot, passing the bread basket to Simon. “Isn’t
Harry Potter
required reading where you people come from?”

Simon’s fork hit his plate.

“So, are you all at university like Emily?” Andrew asked, trying not to laugh.

“I graduated a few years ago from art school,” Zoey explained. “So to keep my art alive, I tile people’s bathrooms.”

“Bathrooms?” said Emily. “She’s done kitchens in Pacific Heights, patios in Marin, and the lobby of a law firm down in South of Market.”

“It’s a lot more glamorous than it sounds,” Zoey was quick to point out. She launched into a hilarious rant about the eccentricities of several of her wealthier clients and spent the remainder of the meal regaling them with tales of one, in particular, who wanted the master bath of her house re-designed specifically for her sixteen ancient, evil, asthmatic cats.

“I’d love to see that house,” said Christian, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Never been to San Francisco before this.”

“What? Never? Have any of you?”

The men shook their heads. Zoey gasped in mock horror and immediately decided that the three women would give them a tour of the city, if not the following day, then soon. Christian looked thrilled at the announcement, Emily surprised, Simon bored, and Margot annoyed.

Trying to lift Margot’s mood, Andrew remembered his manners and asked her what she did for a living.

“Margot is our resident rocket scientist,” Emily announced, having cleared most of the plates and returned with dessert. “She studies space dust.”

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that,” Andrew murmured to her under his breath with a nod to the table.

Margot took a long sip of her champagne. “Rocket scientist, no. I teach vacuous headed freshman elementary physics. My research is in primitive meteorites like Emily says.”

“Like chunks of old stars?” asked Christian.

Margot placed down her champagne and smiled. An eager student in her midst. “Presolar stardust to be more specific, and yes, bits of stars that we analyze in the lab, but not exactly in the way you’re thinking. It comes from the debris of red giants and supernova explosions and—”

Simon coughed so hard that Zoey was forced to pound him on the back.

“You’re not the same M. M. Larson who co-authored that report in
Universe
two months ago, are you?”

“Yes,” Margot answered in a voice Andrew doubted many had ever heard her use. It preened. “I was quite proud of that.”

“Well, love, I hate to tell you, but I think you got it all wrong.”

Oh bloody hell
, Andrew thought.

“Really.”

“How about them Giants?” cried Christian, equally troubled by the look on Margot’s face.

“And what in your rock star, ass waving, lip pouting C.V. qualifies you to say so?”

“Well, you know that Randall tried to defend that same stand in last year’s edition of
Cosmos
only to have to retract it because the work Plisko had done in Russia wasn’t available at the time, since it was still undisclosed due to the some military security restrictions. Tell me you knew about Plisko? Everyone knows about Plisko, come on.”

Margot seemed to be percolating in anger. “Plisko is irrelevant—”

“Dick, anyone?” Zoey chirped. “I mean Spotted Dog.”

“Andrew, you throw such interesting parties,” Emily whispered near his ear. “I take it Simon majored in physics?”

“Can I top off anyone’s drinks?” Christian asked on his way to the bar. Five hands shot up into the air.

“So Andrew,” asked Margot in a tone that told him she was done with Simon, but not yet done drawing blood, “you’re from London, then. I didn’t see anything from your home on the table.”

“I brought the paella by way of Barcelona, but Chelsea is home, yes.”

“And your parents, what do they do?”

“My father was a barrister, he’s deceased. My mum is a barrister as well, though she no longer practices. She tends to nurture hopeless causes now, mainly charities and schools.”

“And us, of course,” Simon added.

“So, no musical talent. I find that odd—usually there’s some genetic influence in there somewhere.”

“Oh, my father was classically trained. As am I.”

“Really? What instrument?”

Andrew felt the rigors of cross examination but retained his smile and brevity. He did not enjoy speaking of his family. He had not dealt well with his father’s death; he had been touring when it happened, and the finality of it hit him harder than he was willing to realize. But the grief he knew he should feel never came. Only the sense of being cheated remained and guilt for all the things left unsaid. “Violin,” he answered.

“Good golly, Miss Molly,” Christian hooted from behind the bar. He hefted up a case up from below. “Lookie here kiddies, lookie what I found!”

“I shudder to guess,” Andrew muttered, though thankful for the interruption.

Christian pulled a large green bottle from the case. “Absinthe. Can you believe it? Wait, this shit’s from Paris. Oh sweet Lord, look what’s in the bottom.”

Curiosity piqued, the group drifted to his side as he took out a wide assortment of absinthe glasses and spoons. Andrew had seen it in action at his Uncle Daniel’s. Not a pretty sight.

Christian metered out the spirit into six glasses and went to pass them out.

“Wait. We need some sugar cubes,” Andrew said evenly, not sure he wanted this bunch partaking in this particular brew. “And water.”

Zoey returned from the table with a few cubes clasped in her hands as well as a carafe.

“I learned to do this on the Food Network.” She smiled up at him as she placed the silver slatted spoons over the glasses and topped each one with a cube of sugar. “Okay, pour, right?” she asked. Andrew nodded.

As Zoey drizzled the water over the cubes, the green liquid transformed into a ghostly white.

“Isn’t this supposed to induce psychotic delusions?” asked Margot with a not-so-mild hint of apprehension in her voice.

“Myth,” Emily said in quiet fascination. “Learned it junior year. The most commonly reported experience is a ‘clear-headed’ feeling of inebriation—a form of ‘lucid drunkenness.’ Although, Oscar Wilde said something like he felt as if he had tulips growing on his legs.”

“Wicked,” said Christian.

Andrew cocked an eyebrow at Emily, and she nodded. He smiled and took her hand. “To the Green Fairy,” he whispered close to her ear, causing her to shudder and squeeze his hand back in excitement.

“To The Lost Boys for finding all these wonders,” toasted Zoey.

They raised their glasses and tentatively drank as one. The anise burned Andrew’s throat like licorice fire; he tried not to cough. The girls had equal responses, from fanning their mouths to hisses. But he knew from experience that the more they sipped, the smoother the absinthe would go down.

They sipped, and sure enough the absinthe flowed, and the Green Fairy led them over to the wicker sofas and curled up beside them. There they laughed and talked for hours about where they grew up, their parents, their families. Andrew learned that Emily’s mother and father were both doctors—one of mathematics, the other of psychology—both retired and both adamant that Emily teach. They did not support her writing, viewing it as frivolous, something to pursue in her spare time once she found real work. Their financial support seemed as tenuous as the emotional, something Andrew both could and could not relate to. He took another slug of absinthe. And another. He laced his hand within Emily’s, and soon everything became warm and lost in candlelight.

Sometime later Christian disappeared, and “In the Mood” blared from the roof. They all strolled out to the dance floor, pleasantly buzzed. A second bottle of absinthe had mysteriously appeared and swung from Zoey’s hand. Andrew felt pretty sure Tommy Dorsey would roll over in his big band-loving grave if he saw Zoey and Christian’s interpretation of swing. Simon held on to his drink at the edge of the dance floor, but Margot had retreated and sat on the edge of a planter watching, her foot twisting almost imperceptibly to the music.

“Can Simon dance?” Emily asked with a little hiccup, her shoulder brushing Andrew’s.

“Like nobody alive.”

“Then why isn’t he?”

“Fear of failure.”

Finally Christian, gasping for air, announced, “Enough!” and trotted over to the gramophone, pulled out an album, and smiled. He gently placed down the needle. The haunting swells of violins misted through the air. Eyes burning, he found Zoey. “Come here,” he whispered, and rather than wait, walked toward her, enclosing her in his arms. They rocked in the blissful contentment of two stowaways.

“Dance with me,” Emily commanded Andrew. She swayed slightly, the air heady about them. Her eyes reflected the stars, each and every one. He reached out his hand.

“Are you ready?” he whispered. She nodded.

He took Emily Thomas in his arms. Truly took her in his arms. He was holding the woman of his heart against his own, in a room furnished by a dead man, while a table of Spotted Dick, jambalaya, and red hot dogs lay half-eaten nearby. It was bloody perfect.

“Stardust” continued with its music of years gone by. Her nose, straight and small, twitched against a fluttering of curls. He could not look away from a face this beautiful—the force was too strong. She must have felt it too, and her body nestled closer.

Closing his eyes, he sang to her. This old song, these old words, as if he had sung them to her before, as if he had held her gorgeous and radiant, their bodies moving in a tempo lovers had known for all eternity. The haunting melody echoed along the garden wall, and he was with her “once again.”

“Andrew,” she breathed into his neck as though she were unsure. His hand found her face and lifted it. His breath caught as he saw tears glisten in her eyes, reflecting the candlelight. There was an invitation in her gaze; he knew it.