Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (34 page)

“Zoey wouldn’t allow it,” Andrew said, the glass still at his lips.

“Probably.”

“Funny thing, though,” Andrew pondered aloud, “but did I or did I not notice two glasses of milk and some Oreos near the ice box last night? And if I recall, you don’t fancy them. More of a Famous Amos man.”

“Fig Newtons, actually.”

“Case closed.”

“You will explain all of this when I get you drunk someday,” Christian added.

“You are going to have to get me royally pissed to even have a prayer of getting any information. And then I will be forced to kill you. So what time and where is lunch?”

“Huh?”

“Lunch. I trust Simon got the details this time—remember when he said he’d meet us by the taxi stand in Manhattan?”

“Yeah, the one on the corner.” Christian shook his head and laughed. “It’s at two. Why don’t we all go together—or are you going to be lurking in the foyer for Emily till then?”

Andrew refilled his glass. “No, I believe Emily can take care of herself…frighteningly well, in fact.” He took a long swig to hide his smile. “Actually, I’d love to do some writing, and I need to run some errands, so text me the address and I’ll meet you over there, okay? Where are you taking Zoey tonight, by the way?”

“Hell if I know. That girl’s got high expectations.”

Andrew toasted him. “Here’s to high expectations, then.”

“Is there something about that pantry that I should know?” Christian pressed, clearly too intrigued to leave it alone.

“Trust me. It doesn’t contain Fig Newtons.”

Andrew placed his glass down and headed off to his room to grab the stack of letters, then shot upstairs to the conservatory. He was impatient to finish reading them and wanted the privacy. It was still far too early for Emily to be awake, and although he was looking forward to presenting them to her later, a piece of him wanted to read them on his own first.

Bright light greeted him when he opened the conservatory door; it streamed in through the glass ceiling and washed the room in blue. The worn wicker furniture and orchids were back in place after the party, and he noticed the keyboard still sat near the door to the roof. Good, he thought as he made his way to a couch, maybe when he was done he could get some writing finished as well. But no sooner had he taken another step than his head snapped back in the direction of the keyboard. Surprisingly, the bench before it was occupied.

There sat a dapper, mustached, and vaporous man who crooned a heart-felt rendition of “Hong Kong Blues.”

Fear was Andrew’s first reaction. His heart skipped a few beats as though he had been splashed with ice water. He had seen Nick before, but that was only for a split second before he disappeared from the bathtub. Now the ghost seemed in no mood to vanish any time soon.

“Funny, I’ve heard that somewhere before.” Andrew steeled himself and approached the suave apparition who had closed his eyes while he tinkled the ivories, shimmering away. Overcoming his fear, he gestured toward the bench. “Mind if I take a seat?”

Nick shook his head and continued to play. With a bit of trepidation, Andrew sat down next to him. He didn’t know what to expect sharing a piano bench with a dead man. He expected it to be cold, which it was, disconcerting, which it definitely was, but not oddly familiar, which it was as well, beyond a doubt. Maybe it was because, even as a ghost, Nick could still play a mean accompaniment.

Andrew took the counterpoint, and a small smile broke at the side of Nick’s mouth—or vapory what-have-you.

“That’s part of the plan, yes? We need to find you?”

Nick didn’t respond.

“You don’t happen to hang out on Haight Street at night, by the way? Very different wardrobe, though.” The chill Andrew felt made him recall the shopping cart man he had run into after he had stormed out of the club in his frantic search for Emily, but by the looks of things, Nick didn’t do homeless.

“So, how’d you like Grant’s tomb?” Nick asked, changing the key and the subject.

“What? Grant’s—oh, you mean the Columbarium?”

“Right in one.”

“Well…it definitely had its moments.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Andrew glanced over at him and back again feeling slightly unnerved. “A bit of clarification here. You, you…spirits converse with each other?”

“We may.”

“But you can’t speak to Nora because…”

“People have their theories.”

“Which are?”

“You’ll have to ask them.”

“Which them? Who do we need to ask?”

“You’re a smart kid, figure it out.”

Andrew huffed in frustration, tired of getting the spectral run around.

“You know that Nora’s downstairs now. We, well we—”

“Moved her to her summer home? She must be thrilled.”

“It doesn’t bother you? Her being here, so close?”

“Those ashes you brought into this place, that’s not the woman I love. Gravel’s not my type, I’m afraid.”

“Really?” Andrew’s tone was unconvinced. “What’s your type then?”

“Redheads with wicked jaws.”

Instantly, the image of Emily and her beautiful lips, kneeling in front of him, assaulted his memory. He nearly fell off the bench.

“You know, Andy my boy, in my day that kind of behavior either warranted a twenty on the nightstand or a diamond bracelet around the wrist.”

“How, how the hell did you—”

“You’re a spirit yourself, kid, in there somewhere. And I hate to tell you, but your aura is showing.”

Andrew glanced down at his body then back at Nick, fighting to keep his mind away from the memory of Emily’s nails as they dragged down his chest and how her tongue and the heat of her mouth felt…

“Please, this is my house, you know. You’re offending my girlish sensibilities, not to mention the young lady’s.”

“What do you mean?”

Nick stopped playing. He became very still and stared down at the keys through the mist of his hands.

“I mean, what are your intentions? Emily is very important—she’s an extremely special young woman.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” There was a lethal calmness in his tone.

“I…I think I know that better than anyone. And as far as my intentions, well they are, I mean I plan, I’ve been trying to keep—”

“What?” Nick snapped. “You’re going to string her along until you rush back to the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd? Seems pretty cheap, and I never pictured you as a cheap anything. Thought you came from better stock than that.”

“Listen, I don’t see how you can sit, um…hover there and lecture me about intentions. I love that woman. Got it? And whatever happens between us, well, it’s bloody well between us and no one else. And one more thing, I failed to see your last name next to Nora’s on that plaque. You were off living in sin, or whatever you called it back then, long before Emily and I were even born. That must have caused quite a scandal. I can’t imagine your family must have been too proud.”

Nick darkened; the room chilled. Andrew had hit a nerve, and a very sore nerve from the feel of it. “Family doesn’t always make things easier, do they? It’s best not to speak ill of dead ancestors, though. Much better to save that for the living, right?”

“I don’t think so—I’m quite fond of my family,” Andrew responded.

“So you say.”

“Were you always this much of a delight in real life? It’s amazing Nora gave you the time of day. Ah, but she hired you for a job, didn’t she? I found the letters, by the way. She was haunted by ghosts too. Interesting coincidence. Were they as much of a pain in the ass as you are?”

“You’ll go straight to hell, reading other people’s mail. That’s what the old mater used to tell me.”

“Sounds like a peach.”

“No, not a peach. More like a vicious-tongued, superstitious old nut. Holed up in that boarding house on the coast with her Ouija boards and crystal balls.”

“She was a medium? Your mother was a medium?”

“No, she was a nut, plain and simple. Crackers, pure crackers. But I thought Nora was the same when I met her too. Believing in ghosts and all that. What my mother believed, though, that was ludicrous, preposterous.”

“What did she believe?”

Nick started to play again and did not answer.

“What? What did she believe? Damn it, why can’t you ghosts ever answer a direct question?”

“There are rules. Forces. Things we can’t interfere with. Destiny.”

“You didn’t marry Nora.”

“Oh, I’d planned to, even had the rings. I had everything I’d ever wanted in that car when we drove off to elope. But, well, you know what happened.”

Andrew recalled what Emily had told him. About Nick’s propensity to drive fast. Then it hit him like a cold hand clamped over his mouth. The flashbacks at the trunk: the hotel, the cliffs, the screaming. “You…you were on your way there when you died? Christ, I’m sorry.”

“Well, I do believe the little man cares.”

“No, seriously.”

“Put quite a damper on the honeymoon, trust me.”

“Nick, listen. I know this doesn’t make any sense, but I feel responsible. I…I would like—no, I want to help you. We all do. But we can’t do it alone. You have to help us. I know you say you can’t give us answers, but is there anyone, anyone we could…contact, someone who you were close to?”

Nick shrugged and began playing again, his eyes focused on something far away.

“You know what to do, you’ve always known. But remember, just because you know what to do doesn’t mean you know everything. People, people you think you will understand, they may turn out to have secrets you never could fathom. Secrets that could hurt you. Your only hope is to trust your instincts. Seize life with your hands, live it. But don’t do it faintheartedly. It needs to be all or nothing. That’s the only thing that will save you in the end.”

“Save me?” Andrew didn’t like the sound of that at all.

Nick started to wisp away. He played the last strains of the song. “Make sure you show her a great time tonight, kid. At least get something new to wear. She likes the old stuff.”

“Nick? Nick, damn it, come back. Nick!”

Andrew slammed the piano keys. Nick was gone. But his warning echoed in Andrew’s mind.

Seize life with your hands…secrets you could never fathom…the only thing to save you.

Why did he need to be saved? From what? From whom?

He left the bench and wrapped his arms across his chest, staring out of the glass panes to the far off hills. A bank of fog had gathered on the horizon, waiting to blanket the city. The sun had only a few hours left.

What did it all mean? Who were they supposed to contact? And how was he involved in any of this? He understood Emily’s need to reunite the lost lovers and wanted to support her, help her in her pursuit, but why did he feel he was now being pulled into something personal, something he was responsible for but over which he had no control?

Filled with anxiety and having no desire to remain in that room a moment longer, he abandoned the letters, telling himself he would show them to Emily after they returned from their date. He stormed down the stairs.

Seize life. Live life
. That’s what Nick had said, and that’s what he would do. He could govern very little of his life, being torn in so many different directions, but what he could control was his time with Emily. And whatever time they had would be brilliant.

Needing to escape, Andrew headed down to Haight Street. It was still before noon when he arrived, and the street was practically vacant; apparently, most of its denizens had yet to awaken.

Tie-died window displays and Grateful Dead memorabilia mixed with cafés and head shops. The scent of cigarettes and urine and spilled coffee wafted up from the sidewalk under his feet. He walked for a while, stopping in a record store here and a bookstore there, places where he had placed flyers a few weeks before, trying to kill the few hours before his meeting with Neil.

At one corner a familiar shop caught his eye. A cluster of headless mannequins stood in the window, clothed in everything from Victorian top hats to 1970s beaded dresses. A black frockcoat stood out from the rest, draped on the shoulders of a striped dressmaker’s dummy. It was Emily’s shop.