Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (38 page)

A man in a bowtie and suspenders met them. Andrew whispered something to him to which he replied with a discreet nod before escorting them down a long hallway. The smell of cigars and leather bound books hung rich in the air. At any moment she expected to see Al Capone or John Dillinger pass by with a dew-eyed starlet on their arm.

“Right this way.”

They entered a grand room buzzing with subdued conversation, not a vacant seat to be had. A beautiful mahogany bar dominated the room. High-backed booths filled the remainder, all occupied with high-toned people intent on inhabiting their own worlds. Above their heads a tremendous chandelier warmed the room in amber. Somewhere nearby a piano swooned jazz.

A maître d’ materialized out of nowhere, nodded to the tuxedoed man in somber thanks, and escorted them to a booth in the corner.

“Would you like me to take your coat, Miss?” he asked.

Before she knew it, Andrew’s hands grasped her shoulders instead. The coat slipped off the beads of the dress like water. She heard him catch his breath. He deposited her coat in the outstretched hand of the maître d’. “Here is the libations list, Mr. Hayes,” he said, and glancing at Emily’s newly exposed arms a trifle longer than necessary, he added, “Enjoy.” Then he returned toward the door.

Her eyes drank in the Prohibition splendor of the place. She felt like someone who had stepped out of time in her flapper dress, its pink beads draping her body like countless strings of pearls. Smiling madly, she turned to face Andrew, her long earrings brushing against her bare collarbone, a spot on which Andrew’s eyes were now fixed.

“You need to speak easy to me now,” Emily said.

His eyes flashed back up to her face. A most dangerous look darkened his features, yet he said nothing.

Discomfited by his continued muteness, she bristled and said, “I had to wear the dress. I’m a girl, you know.”

Andrew reached across the table and draped his warm hand over hers. “That is a fact every man in this establishment is now painfully aware of.”

“Well then, I should warn you that I’m wearing a garter belt. I’m not exactly sure I have it on right, so if I start fidgeting, I have an excuse.”

A flame of something wicked passed through his hooded eyes. “I’d be happy to lend a hand in that department.”

“With the garter or the fidgeting?”

“Tell me about your day, or we’re never going to get past the first drink.”

She told him of the basic details, school work, and the phone call with her mother. She sighed as the warmth of close-gathered bodies and the rich commotion of conversation hummed about them. Candles glowed on each table, reflecting the patrons’ eyes and casting their silhouettes against the brick walls. He gazed at her as she leaned back into the corner of the booth, both of them suffused in the deep contentment that permeates two people aware of themselves and no one else.

Then she told of him of her conversation with Anthony Obester.

“He gave you his personal cell phone? Is that normal procedure?”

“He thought it would be best, and I think it’s a bit overprotective, but he is a friend of the family.”

“You know him?”

She watched his eyes narrow, his lips purse just a tad. Tickled by his jealousy, she could not pass up the opportunity to tease him.

“Your drink selections?”

Andrew’s eyes didn’t release hers as he addressed the waiter. “The Pol Roger Brut, thank you.”

“About this detective…”

“Anthony and I were very close. We spent a lot of time together.”

His lips pursed harder. “Really.”

“He took me out on a lot of dates. I may have broken his heart.”

“Poor him.”

“But it’s hard to remember. I was four, I think.”

A smile slowly creased the side of his mouth. “Detective Obester had excellent taste, even then. I won’t have to kill him now. Though, seriously, what he said makes sense. Vandin is unstable—you shouldn’t be near him.”

“So noted. I’ll be careful.”

Moments passed. Andrew had begun to run his fingers around her wrist, studying the small bones in careful attention.

“Tell me about what happened today now, please.”

Blinking at her as though he was unaware exactly what she had asked him, he smiled and laughed as if remembering a joke. “Christ, where to start?”

“Why not start after you snuck out of my bedroom.”

“I found your trunk, by the way,” he told her and released her wrist, his tone oddly contained, but he went on to tell her about the letters. She sat transfixed as he related the nature of the correspondence. “And I had a run in with Nick.”

“Seriously? He actually spoke to you? What did he say?”

He found her eyes and told her.

“Died on their way to get married? God, that’s horrible. But what was that about ‘saving you’? Why do you need to be saved?”

“I wish I knew. He’s not the world’s most straightforward kind of a ghost, I’m afraid. He seems to think I know what to do, whom to contact to help us, and whom to trust, even. Plus, did I forget to mention, he had one mother of a mother. Evidently, she was big into spiritualism, and whatever she believed, he disliked her intensely for it. Maybe she tried to drive a wedge between Nora and him, who knows? But the more I think about it, the more I think she’s definitely involved in this somehow. I hate to add one more thing to the search, but I think we might need to find out whatever happened to Mother Chamberlain. Have you had any luck with opening the box?”

Emily shook her head. “I’m about ready to pry the thing open with my bare hands, but I’m just afraid it might destroy something inside. You know, I think we should have that séance Dwayne suggested, whether we want to or not.”

Andrew laughed. Perhaps he was envisioning Simon communicating with the great beyond, or Margot, for that matter. The champagne arrived too elegant to swallow.

“So Simon wore a tuxedo to a baseball game?” Emily asked. The Irishman had shown up for his date with Margot wearing a full-fledged, cuff-linked, sharp pressed, bow-tied tuxedo that left her roommate speechless.
Home
run, Simon
, Emily had thought. The drummer had knocked the ball out of the park before he’d even left the house.

“I couldn’t restrain him. He felt the need to celebrate.”

“Okay. What’s up with you guys—what aren’t you telling me?”

“Wait, don’t drink yet, I want to propose a toast.” He lifted his glass, eyes sparkling. “Here’s to the next band, the brilliant, most bloody talented band, I might add, to be featured on the cover of
Rolling Stone
. The Lost Boys.”

Emily’s jaw dropped; she blinked repeatedly in utter amazement. Andrew’s smile beamed, lighting up their dark corner like fireworks, and without a thought she launched out of her seat and threw her arms around him, nearly crashing over their champagne.

“It’s a photo shoot too.” His smile, if possible, became even more magnificent as he took a sip of his drink and grinned cockily. “Cover of
Rolling Stone
, hell, it sounds like the bloody Dr. Hook song. You know that went to number six on the U.S. charts in nineteen seventy-three? Boggles the mind.”

“Andrew. Why didn’t you say something sooner? Andrew! Really? When are they going to do the article?”

He went on to explain their meeting with Neil. Emily had to continually goad him into telling all the details; he was barely able to control his excitement.

“It’s great that this S.J. person wants to help you.”

“She wants to do more than that—she wants to sign us, take us on as clients.”

“And that’s a good thing, right?”

“I honestly don’t know. She represents some incredible groups, but there’s something that doesn’t sit right, especially between her and Neil. There’s a tension there you can cut with a knife. But you never know with Neil. My guess is that they’re old lovers. He seems rather bitter, and she was goading him on something fierce. I’ve never seen Neil put in his place like that. You should have seen her. It was refreshing, to say the least.”

Emily blinked twice at his choice of adjective. “Well…then do the photo shoot and don’t use her, trust your gut.”

“Funny, that’s what Nick said to do.”

“Then here’s to Nick.” They clinked glasses. He kissed her, only breaking off when they heard the discreet cough of the waiter.

“Would you please follow me to dinner.”

Andrew grabbed her hand. As they walked, her dress whispered as the beads clicked together. His fingers moved to smooth her back in a drumming a pattern, as though intrigued with the sensation. She glanced at him in question.

“I’m composing.” His lips were near her neck, making the bare flesh on her arms tingle.

They entered another room, an old private library from the looks of it, displaying brick walls filled with shelves of books. Over dim candlelight, they enjoyed what turned out to be an exquisite meal with wine that tasted like honey, although she noticed Andrew barely touched his entrée. And his hand was never still, like it had a life unto itself. All of this didn’t bode well for Emily. She could see the signs; he was distracted, his mind already a million miles from here and back with
Rolling Stone
, back out on the road. Finally, at the end of dinner, he caught her staring.

“Still composing?”

“Yes.” His fingers reached out to brush lightly along the curve of her shoulder, his eyes narrowing. “I want to play you.”

She gulped down a mouthful of wine. “Play away,” she said, feeling her face blaze.

“But first, I need to talk to you.”

She took another sip. She braced herself for his words. He could only be lost in such deep concentration over one thing. Here it goes.
It’s all been grand, but
…Stupid, stupid, love struck girl, she chided herself. You walked into this with both eyes open; you only have yourself to blame. It seemed horribly ironic that Vandin’s words would reverberate in her mind.
You, an obscure little college student.
An almost-famous rock star is really going to drop everything and remain here for you
?

“When we were talking with S.J. today—”

“Is she pretty?”

“Pardon?”

“This S.J., is she pretty?”

“Well, she—”

“That pretty, huh.”

“For a blonde, yes.”

“Ah, a blonde.”

“I prefer auburn-haired women with wicked jaws, myself.”

She grumbled and looked down. She didn’t want to be handled or placated; she wanted the truth. Just get it done with.

“Are you going to let me talk or are you going to have her in the sack with me before we order dessert?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll want dessert. It’s a homemade cherry tart.”

He took her fingers in his and raised her chin with their joined hands. It was apparent that whatever he was going to say was difficult for him at least; he seemed to struggle to find the words.

“We’re going to have to start touring again. As much as I never want to leave this city, I have to. Goes with who I am, I’m afraid.”

Her heart fell to the pit of her stomach. The last few weeks began to flash before her eyes; everything seemed large, loud, and out of focus. He was saying goodbye.

“No!” The forcefulness of her voice caught the attention of some other patrons. He tightened his grip. He must have known how she would react, and he was trying to soften the blow. He seemed embarrassed, tongue-tied, and a sense of humiliation filled her. She swore to herself she would not make a scene. Her eyes flew to the nearest exit sign. She had to get out of there. Instead, he took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, the lines of concentration deepened around his eyes.

“I found something today. I believe it belongs to you.”

He reached back into his coat pocket and took out a small velvet box, and placed it on the table.

Emily sat unmoving. Her hands had gone quite cold.

“It’s better if you open it,” he added quietly as she sat there staring at it.

Louis Armstrong crooned from far away, and she could hear someone breathing more heavily. She raised the lid slowly. Nestled within the box lay the ring she had adored, the ring from her shop, its platinum and diamonds reflected the candlelight. “My ring, how did you know?” she mumbled incoherently, the lump in her throat making speech difficult. “And the pattern, the pattern, my God, I never noticed, it’s the same. The same as the urn. And the box.”

“Yes, it is. It’s fate.”

Andrew took the ring from her and gently put it on her left ring finger. He then clasped her hands to his, raising them to his lips. He was shaking. Holding himself steady, he let out a long breath.

“Emily,” he went on, his voice seemed to have dropped an octave. “I have something to ask you. I know I’ve only been with you for a heartbeat of time. But you’ve always been with me…I’m asking you…what I want to say…what I mean…I would very much like for you to wear this. Always. I don’t have much to offer right now, not living the ideal kind of life for us, I’m afraid, but I will someday, I promise you. And if you’ll wait, if you want to wait, I never want to lose you…”