How To Bring Your Love Life Back From The Dead (12 page)

“
You look awful,” Jenny said,
passing Ana an energy drink she’d probably intended for herself.
“Aren’t you sleeping at all?”

Ana shrugged and continued to read
the book after popping the top off the drink. Her cheek rested in
her hand, and she barely cared about the supernatural history of
Seaside. In fact, the supernatural world could kiss her ass for all
she cared.

Stupid ghost.

It figured.

Anyone she was attracted to was
bound to be a moron. The fact that she already felt that strongly
for him—meant he was guaranteed to be twice the moron when compared
to any guy who’d preceded him in her life.

“Well, did you see that guy? The one
you met before?” Jenny slid into the seat opposite
Ana’s.

“Sort of.” See him? Hah! That was
funny. She’d seen him, and then she hadn’t because he’d decided she
wasn’t worth it.

“What does ‘sort of’
mean?”

Her heavy sigh made the page stir,
and she pressed it back into submission. “It means that I met him.
He behaved like a jerk. I told him to get a hold of me if he wanted
to apologize. He didn’t.”

Jenny winced. “So, will you be going
to the library today?”

Ana let her head slip from her hand
to smack on the desk. It felt like a reasonable answer to the
question.

Outside the curtain of her hair, Ana
heard Jenny ask, “Uhh…does that mean no?”

*****

Shane watched the library patrons.
He was watching for the red-haired woman and a pencil. The first he
only vaguely remembered as being someone he’d spoken with but liked
quite a lot. The second he’d been repeating over and over when he’d
gone into vapor form. “Pencil. Get pencil. Pencil. Get
pencil.”

Someone dropped a pen. He didn’t
want a pen. He wanted a pencil. Pencil. Pencil. A woman with red
hair entered. No. Not the right one. The one he wanted was taller.
Plus, this woman’s hair didn’t look like it had started red. She’d
colored it red—which was funny.

Pencil. Pencil.

The red-haired woman, who wasn’t the
right woman, sat down. She had a pencil. He hovered near her,
waiting for an opportunity to blow it off the desk and under the
big chair. She wouldn’t set it down, though. She kept tapping it on
her notebook.

Did he want a notebook too? Maybe.
He couldn’t remember. Pencil. Concentrate. Shane, get
pencil.

She frowned at the bookshelves
beside her, set down the pencil, and got up to go get a
book.

When she turned away, he blew
against the pencil. The burst of vapor rolled the pencil off the
table and under the chair. Yes. Pencil.

The red-haired woman, who was still
not the one he wanted, sat down with her book. She looked around
before shrugging and pulling a pencil out of her purse.

Wait. What? This red-haired woman
had a pencil. He needed a pencil. He remembered that. He’d been
saying that all day. He needed a pencil, and he wanted the
red-haired woman—who was not this red-haired woman. If this
red-haired woman set her pencil down, he could blow it under the
chair….

*****

“I don’t know who has his journals,”
Ana’s mother said.

She wasn’t sure if it was the energy
drink or if she was just feeling optimistic, but Ana wasn’t quite
as pathetic as she had been earlier in the day. Another night was
coming and, maybe, since he’d cooled down for an entire day, she’d
hear from Shane that night. In the meantime, she’d do some
sleuthing into how he died so she’d never have to ask him that
again.

“Do you know where any of his stuff
is?” she asked her mother.

“Well, I know that the desk he had
is an antique and still in the company office.”

“Would they let me look over
anything of his they might have, do you think?”

There was a pause before her mother
asked, “Why this sudden interest in your great, great grandfather,
Analise?”

“Well, I run a historical tour
company, mother. It might be nice to know something about my own
history.” Ana spun in her chair. Though, seriously, the more she’d
delved into her family history, the more she realized she’d fallen
far from the deceitful, vindictive, and vicious tree. There was no
way she’d let Jenny spread this history around. It was shameful.
The better part of her relations belonged in prison, and, even
then, they’d shiv a guard and escape. No. Bribe a guard. Today’s
Franklins didn’t enjoy getting blood on their hands like she
suspected her great, great grandfather had. Or at the very least,
they had a “guy” for that, and the money to pay for them to
disappear quietly.

“You’ve been so anxious to embrace
your history so far,” her mother said dryly.

Analise rolled her eyes. “The money
is not the family, and you know why I don’t want any of my
inheritance any more. I want someone who wants me…for
me.”

Her mother groaned. “Yes, and you’re
so ashamed of your family and their awful money that you won’t even
bring by any of your dates.” Her mother was generally good and
kind. Maybe they’d diluted the gene pool a bit, or the vicious gene
was recessive. She had a few cousins who weren’t bad. Her aunt was
a lounge singer in Reno, and lounge singers were hardly ever
evil.

Still, the hereditary penchant for
wickedness wasn’t why she’d neglected to drag boyfriends to the
homestead to meet and subsequently be corrupted by the family.
There was a much more pathetic reason.

“I’m not dating,” Ana said. Okay, so
this conversation was becoming rapidly less fun. She could feel her
mood sinking with the sun. Her heart was at three p.m. Soon, it
would set, and she’d have no ghost, and he’d been her most hopeful
relationship in years. A ghost. A spirit. Someone dead. “There is
no one to bring by because there is no one.” No one. At all.
Because he was a bastard. Story of her life.

Her mother let out another
exasperated sigh. “You’re telling me in the nearly two years since
Keaton…you haven’t dated a single person?”

“That is exactly what I’m telling
you.” She’d wanted to date a ghost. They’d made out a little. It
most likely wouldn’t reassure her mother to hear that.

Silence. She’d stunned her mother
into silence. Her mother who was the queen of philanthropy—who
could convince a room of people to give money for the sake of
giving money. This may have been the longest time her mother had
remained silent in all of Ana’s life. “Really?” her mother asked
finally.

“Really.” You didn’t count ghosts.
Especially not ghosts who rejected you.

“For two years?” Mothers really knew
how to stab at an open wound like no one else. And Ana’d began this
phone call feeling so positive….

“Yes. If I was a better person, I’d
automatically be a nun.”

“I think that’s heresy,” her mother
said slowly.

“Like I said, if I was a better
person….”

“Well, there is this nice boy,
Tyler, in Marketing in the company. I can see that you’re
introduced. I think his divorce is final.”

Ana banged her head on the desk in
slow thuds.

“Is someone at your door?” her
mother asked.

“You’re on the board of directors,
Mother. Can you call and ask them to show me whatever they have
from great, great grandpa Charles?”

“Sure thing, sweetie, if you let me
give Tyler your phone number.”

“Fine!” It wasn’t like she had to
answer the phone when he called. And he would call. She was a
Franklin, and he worked at the company. She was his ticket to the
big time. It did wonders for her self-esteem. Ana Franklin with a
side of moneybags.

“When he calls, you will answer the
phone!” her mother said.

Hell. “Okay, fine!” Ana said. In the
sort of mood she was in, poor Tyler would run for the hills…which
were quite a ways away from Seaside.

Twenty minutes later, she was being
shown into her cousin, Max’s, office. Max was finishing off some
paperwork, but motioned her to a seat without looking up. There
were two quick scans of previous pages before he signed the last
one and set it aside, finally looking up.

“Well, hello, Ana. How is my
favorite cousin?” He tugged his tie off and stuffed it in a drawer.
His charm had always seemed artificial and overly-cultivated to
Ana. Max had missed his calling as a salesman. He was slick, and
even after losing the tie, he looked stuffy. Max was not her
favorite cousin by any stretch of the imagination. He’d sell her if
he thought she was worth something.

“Can’t complain too much.” Well, she
could, but he wouldn’t believe her, and he’d insist she be locked
up. “Did my mom tell you why I’m here?”

Max nodded. “She said you were
curious about the family’s history. You know we have that entire
collection at the library, right?” Every so often, since she’d
disinherited her inheritance, her cousin spoke really slowly when
talking to her—as if he suspected she wasn’t very bright. This was
one of those times. It annoyed her, but she needed information and
hopefully those journals, so she put a cheery smile on her face.
Now, he looked at her as if she was vapid. It was a slight
improvement.

Vapid—lifeless; insipid; weak. She
felt vapid. It was nearly four p.m. The sun was dropping and
depressing her.

“I’ve already looked at those, but
the librarian mentioned that some of Charles’s journals were kept
with the family rather than donated.”

Max stared at her, his elbows
propped up on the desk, clearly waiting for more.

“I was wondering if I could look at
any old papers of his,” she said, still with the pasted-on smile.
The smile hurt. It couldn’t look natural.

“Are you having financial
difficulties?”

“What? No.” The smile dropped from
her face. Why would he ask that?

“So, you’re not intending to sell
the journals, right?”

Analise’s eyes narrowed. Sell the
journals? Sell the journals? Who was the not-so-bright person in
the room? No, of course she wasn’t planning on selling the
journals. If she hadn’t wanted those journals so badly, she’d tell
him where he could shove them. “I just want to read the
journals.”

“What about what’s in the journals?”
Max asked.

“What do you mean?” Was he asking if
she planned on reading the inside of the journals? Of course she
did. Max was the vapid one in the room.

“Do you mean to sell what is in the
journals for profit or write a biography or something?”

“No. I just want to read them.” Once
again, her hand itched by her side. She wanted to slap her own
cousin. This was beyond insulting. She’d requested not to be sent a
stipend of her inheritance. She had, not the other way around.
Plus, her tour business was turning a profit, which was probably
miniscule compared to what Franklin Investments made.

Miniscule—small; insignificant;
infinitesimal. See also Living History Tours as compared to
Franklin “blood money” Investments.

But it was her money, and she’d
earned it herself—and not just by being born a Franklin.

Max looked at her seriously as if
examining her to the depth of her soul. They were just journals,
for crying out loud. Just journals. “Only the current company owner
is allowed to read the journals.” He leaned back, pressing his
glasses up his nose. He didn’t need glasses of course. He liked
them because he thought they made him look distinguished. Men were
stupid that way.

“What’s in the journals?” Ana asked
slowly.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what could possibly be in the
journals that’s worth the third degree you’re giving me?” she
ground it out between her teeth. Being polite to her asinine cousin
was taking more and more of her patience.

Max’s eyes narrowed. “You tell me.
What do you think is in there?”

Ana closed her eyes in one long
blink. He had to be kidding with her. Why on earth would he be so
secretive about the whole thing? “Was our great, great grandfather
a cross-dresser or something?”

His laugh was so completely fake.
Max stood, signaling they were done discussing this. “No, of course
not. Well, sorry I couldn’t help you, Ana, but my hands are tied as
far the journals go.”

Ana stared at her cousin. He’d lost
his mind.

Max gestured at the door. “Let me
see you out.” As they walked toward the door, he asked, “Since
you’ve been to the library, did you happen to notice the artwork on
the walls?”

“Yes.”

“There is a life-size painting of
his old business partner. Have you seen it?”

Ana turned to back to him. Odd that
he should mention it. Creepy even. Some might say suspicious. Not
her—she’d call it chary which meant suspicious, but hardly anyone
used it anymore. “Yes, do you know anything about it?”

His expression appeared impassive
and disinterested. All Franklins learned from the cradle how to
suppress guilt. His cheeks were clenched, and there was a slight
twitch in a muscle near his eye. Yeah, he knew something—or he was
losing his mind and on the verge of a psychotic breakdown. “I’ve
never actually even seen it.”