Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (21 page)

The gray shroud remained silent, a distant fog horn sounding mournful and lost. She felt the need to cry with it, so lost in her emotions. She backhanded away a tear. “Oh, damn it to hell.”

The wind blew coldly in reply, and she shuddered. She took a few steps forward, trying to find a place to collapse, when she realized she was standing on the edge of a small lake and there ahead of her loomed a series of tall, stately columns.

The Portals of the Past crept out of the mist. A grand and ghostly structure, a portico without a house, it was a survivor of the great earthquake and fire. Now surrounded in cattails and tall grass, it had been moved to the park for remembrance. She stared at it, swept up in its mystery—a symbol of perseverance, regardless of tragedy. The wind blew bitterly, and she wrapped her arms around herself.

“So beautiful,” she said. “So lonely.”

At her words, her skin tingled like ice. The spirits of long ago that haunted this grove seemed to whisper into the gray air.
All you have is now. Now. And then soon, no more.

She swallowed down a nameless ache in her throat. “But I’m afraid.”

Of what.

“Of pain, of rejection, of losing him.”

Never.

The word hissed through the rushes of the lake.
Never
.

“Then what should I do?”

In answer, the skin on her arms broke out in goose bumps and a shiver ran down her spine. Standing amidst the columns was a frighteningly beautiful woman, a striking woman. Her short red hair curled about her porcelain face. Her dark eyebrows arched in question. She was clothed in a stylish gray suit and pumps, and she glimmered as she walked. Yet she wore the shadows of death in the hollows of her cheekbones and the cautiousness of her eyes.

“Nora?” Emily whispered.

“That would be Noreen, my dear. But Nora will do.”

Shaking from head to toe, she ventured, “Thank…thank you for the dress, it was yours, wasn’t it?”

The ghost nodded and smiled, though her image rippled a bit when she did so. “Was it a success?”

“Well, not exactly. I mean, didn’t you see?”

“I can’t go up there.” Her sultry voice shook a bit, but she raised her chin and persevered. “It’s all part of the rules, you see. Dreadful business. Nicholas has his rooms, I have mine. And never the twain shall meet. Makes for awful dinner parties. I had to entertain Dashiell and Lillian all by myself last month.”

Emily collapsed onto a stone stoop, her knees weak. “You, ah, there are others of you?”

“Of course! It’s San Francisco after all. People are simply dying to come here. Sorry, not the most tasteful of puns.” She smiled for the first time.

Emily’s mind exploded with questions. She grabbed at the first one. “How can you be here? I thought you’d be stuck in the house? Isn’t that what happens with, I mean…beings such as yourself?”

“Ghosts, Emily, always use the proper word, no matter how uncomfortable. You’re a writer for goodness sakes. I can be here because I was here in the past. Nicholas and I often came to this spot to picnic. Thank goodness this city is littered with historical remnants. It’d severely cramp my social season otherwise.”

“Wait, you, did you say Nicholas?” No it couldn’t be. “My God, you’re, you’re really real? I thought they were just characters in a book.”

“That’s what Dashiell would like you to think. He tended to base his characters on his friends, including us, as if that would fool anyone who knew anything. I was always a bit insulted, though. Nicholas worked for his money, and I rarely, if ever, drank, but after that book was published everyone thought we lived with martini glasses plastered to our hands. And don’t even get me started about dogs. People never called us Nick and Nora until after that dreadful book, not to mention the movie. Nicholas just laughed the whole thing off. He adored calling me Nora just to get a rise out of me.”

“But why can’t—why aren’t you two together?”

“That, my dear, is the million dollar question. One we almost found the answer to, but unfortunately Nicholas decided to drive that car of his too fast and here we are.”

“I’m so sorry, it must be awful. Being separated, I mean.” Emily wasn’t sure how the whole being dead thing fared, but she felt it best not to delve into it at present.

“Awful? Well, I wouldn’t be that melodramatic, but yes, I miss the man terribly. I became quite fond of him, you know. No one can foxtrot like Mr. Chamberlain.”

“Chamberlain? Nicholas and Noreen Chamberlain?”

“Much better than Charles.”

“When did you, um, die?”

“July 1st, 1935. Our Death Day. This year I suppose I’ll have my party at the Columbarium where my ashes are housed. It’s easier for the older guests, and there’s plenty of room for dancing. Of course, Nicholas will have to have his at the Flood Mansion, as always.” She sighed; a part of her seemed to disappear with it.

“Do you know why you can’t be together?”

“We have no clue where his body is. That seems to be part of the problem. I think we need to be laid to rest together. Once we’re laid in the earth, well, then I’m hoping—” She broke off and tried not to look at Emily.

Suddenly Emily was struck with an idea. “I—I could help—look through some records, there’s the Internet now, you can find just about anything on it…A body might be a slight problem—but I could try. If nothing else, I need to repay you for the loan of the dress.”

Nora paused and stared at Emily, her eyes narrowed, silver in the fog. She took a step toward her and then paused. “I believe you need to help yourself before you can help me.”

“I don’t understand.”

She hesitated again, as though she were being kept from saying any more. “We’ll talk again soon. Now go home. It’s where you belong.”

“But Nora, I can’t—I just can’t…”

“Did you take no prisoners like I told you to?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did he kiss you?”

“Well yes, but—”

“
Yesbuts
live in the woods, Emily. And you live in a house, not the woods, and so does that brilliant young man. Life is to be lived, not to be avoided.” Her tone altered, it became more urgent, troubled even; her gaze traveled out across the lake, her eyes darkening in concern. She spoke quickly now, her attention focused on some unseen threat. “Live, Emily, live while you can. I have to go. Time is running out. If you can help me, you need to find him. Quickly. Time…is…running…out.”

Like her words, she dissolved into the fog. Nothing but the silent columns remained.

A black tremor swept through Emily at the warning. She had just spoken with the ghost of Nora Chamberlain, the real-life woman, not some imaginary character from a book, and she seemed in trouble, some untold trouble. No, no, it couldn’t be. She must have been hallucinating. Lord, how long did the effects of absinthe last? Yet Nora’s ominous words echoed in the stillness of the lake.
Time is running out. Find him
.

Without another breath, she jumped to her feet.
Find him, find him, find him
echoed with each footfall as she began to run. Find Andrew. She had to find Andrew. By the time she reached the end of her street, her lungs burned in her chest from the force with which she had pushed her body. She was drenched in sweat, her hair wild. She took two more strides to reach the chain link gate near the playground, and she hung onto that for dear life.

Gulping in mouthfuls of air, she stared at the sidewalk. What would she do or say to him when she walked through the front door? How would she even start? Eventually, her breathing returned to normal, and she knew she couldn’t postpone the inevitable anymore. Better now than never. They’d think she was a lunatic soon enough. That’s when she noticed the figure on the swings.

He rocked back and forth with his head bowed low while his sneakers scuffed the sand beneath him like a little boy, or as if he was in deep thought. He wore running shorts and a thick zippered jacket, dark-brown hair windblown from what looked like a long run in the foggy morning air. His hands twisted the chains of the swing this way and that, clinking echoes through the empty playground.

Andrew.

Emily’s heart lodged in her throat. What should she do?
Find him. Find him
. Yet she caught herself. Which him? Nick or Andrew?

With a deep breath, she made a decision and swung open the gate. Hearing the scrape of metal, his head rose and Emily halted. She could see the pulse in his neck—he had been running as well. He watched her approach. She took a few more steps and stopped, unable to go on. Then silently, without taking his eyes from hers, he held out his hand, fingers splayed open. She stared at it—his lovely long fingers—a musician’s hand. The meaning was clear:
come to me
.

She stretched open her palm and met him, pressing her hand to his. He closed his eyes. The lines of their palms, so much the same, joined together. He kept his fingers open, though, his hand shaking slightly, from his run, no doubt. His eyes finally lifted. She took the swing next to him, never once removing her hand.

“How many fingers?” he asked, their hands still pressed together. The odd question made her take notice.

“Ten,” she said.

“Funny, I only see five.” He curled his slender fingers between hers. His hand was cool, inviting. “Ah, now there are ten. How’s your head?”

She grimaced slightly and pulled her jacket around her with her free hand.

“About last night,” he began. “I did something and…you need to tell me…I’m asking you…shall I stop?”

His words rambled through her mind before they slowly dawned on her. She nodded, pressing her lips together, not breathing. “That depends.”

“On?”

“On you.”

“I would like very much not to stop.”

He pulled her swing closer. His breath warmed her face, and his lips brushed over hers, tentatively, but with a sureness that made her head spin.

“Emily.”

She felt him seize her, hoisting her up into his lap and enclosing her shoulders in his arms. She shivered in response, and he opened his jacket wider, letting her slip in and drop her head onto his shoulder.

“Shall I stop?” He began to swing. His hands held her close as if she would fly away. She could feel his sweaty skin under her—feel his fingers firm against the naked skin of her shoulder blades. “Shall I stop?”

They were pitching so high now, the swing unable to go any higher. His lips pressed deeper into her skin. “Shall I stop?” he whispered.

She couldn’t tell him no.

It was only when they heard the patter of small feet and the laughter of toddlers that they pulled apart.

Andrew swept Emily off the swing and carried her in his arms to the top of the slide where he pulled her into a plastic tree house. She was laughing so hard as he tried to squeeze his lanky body into a space meant for people half his height.

“Come here,” he smiled mischievously. She scuttled over but bashed her head. “Ow.” She fell forward and landed on him, her legs straddling his lap.

“That’s better,” he whispered, and his mouth found hers. He kissed her, and she tried to pull away to gasp a breath.

“No,” he commanded, his lips trailing down her neck to her shoulder. “You’re salty,” he whispered against her collarbone.

“I’m sorry, I was running.”

“No, I enjoy it. I haven’t eaten breakfast. My date, you see, didn’t show up.”

She tried to respond, but his hands were slipping their way up the bare skin of her sides. She fell into him madly without knowing what she was doing, and when she threw her head back it smashed against the plastic walls.

“Owwww!” His hand was immediately there, and she felt his chest vibrate with laughter.

“Serves you right. I even made you a pot of tea. My sole contribution, but it took me all morning to boil the water.”

“With sugar and cream?”

He nodded. “Seriously, where were you?”

“I went for a run. I thought that maybe you might have had too much absinthe last night, and I, well, I didn’t know how you felt about things…”