Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (37 page)

He hung up, leaving her to stare at the phone, a knot tightening in the pit of her stomach. Vandin was out there, somewhere. The call had only solidified the feeling that she would never be free of him, that he would never leave her alone. The house seemed hollow and cold, and she glanced up at the ceiling devoutly wishing she was in Andrew’s bedroom, under his warm covers, nestled into his side, and his lips on hers telling her everything was going to be all right.

“No,” she said to herself, putting an end to her self-pity. “Take care of yourself.”

She closed her eyes and went over the call again in her mind, detail by detail. She thought of her parents.
Take care of yourself
—it was her mother’s mantra. They were the words of a woman who did not believe in warm covers or nestling, whose relationships were known only for their long years of silence interrupted by acute periods of politeness.

The reality of her mother’s inner life was not lost on Emily, who noticed everything. The novels left on her mother’s nightstand whispered of desires and passion far more chaotic than she would ever allow in her own home. Whether she was telling Emily
take care of yourself and love will follow
, or
take care of yourself so love won’t
, Emily could not decide. But either way the message was clear. After all, when Andrew went back on the road, she wouldn’t have him to rely on. Why was she even thinking like this? Austen was right: women’s minds jumped from admiration to love and from love to matrimony in a moment. Andrew and she had just met, and here she was wondering what they would be like when he returned to the life he had been happily living long before there ever was a
they
.

Take care of yourself.

Yet how could she think of being without him? They would have to make it work—it was their only choice—but she knew long distance relationships rarely worked for long; she had told him as much. It was an artificial life, one of trying to fit weeks into days and days into hours until the goodbyes were wished for, if only to speed along the pain of separation. But the life he had on the road involved throngs of adoring, screaming women, all night, every night. She had seen him perform and witnessed it. How could she even hope to compete with that at her writer’s seminar, typing away on her laptop? What kind of connection could that possibly provide?

Before she knew what she was doing, she had dialed her parents’ phone number. She hadn’t spoken to them in weeks and readied her mental checklist that she used for every conversation: grades, graduate school, the weather, and an occasional attempt at tenderness. The phone was answered on the fourth ring.

“Mom?”

In the background she heard the drone of female voices, a sharp laugh, the clink of glasses. “Emily? What a surprise—your father and I had you down for dead.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Stop being facetious, dear. Now isn’t a good time, my book club is wrapping up. Can you call back tomorrow? No wait, that won’t work, I have my seminar. This is all very annoying. I don’t have my planner handy.”

“No, no, Mom, is Dad there? I need to talk to Dad.”

“He’s gone to Vermont with his colleagues, won’t be back until Sunday night. You must remember, it’s their annual male bonding pilgrimage, off to re-connect with their cave dweller in a sweat lodge somewhere or some such nonsense. God knows what they really do up there.”

“Crap, I really wanted to talk to him.”

“Language, Emily.”

Emily wondered how her mother could imply her father was off buggering his work buddies and she couldn’t even swear.

“Listen, sweetie, I have to go, they’re waiting for me.”

“Hold on, Mom! I need you to ask Dad…No wait, write this down, please.”

“Emily, this is a tremendous imposition.”

“Please.”

“Fine, what is it?”

She hadn’t thought through how to phrase it without arousing her parents’ suspicions. And she was out of practice on how to properly lie to them.

“Ask Dad if he had any relatives, it’d be a great- or great-great-aunt, maybe, that was named Noreen Thomas.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes. And tell him I ran into Anthony Obester at the grocery store the other day. He’s a son of a friend of Dad’s from NYU. He works out here now.” There, that might cover her if word ever got back to her father.

“Is that it?”

“Yes. And Mom, I love you.”

Emily’s voice broke a little when she said it. She missed her mother, and she wished she could explain everything and have her rationalize away her fears like she always did, but she didn’t want her to worry.

“Emily, is everything fine? Are you in trouble?”

“No, Mom, everything is great. I bet the forsythia is blooming in the front yard, right? Or did Dad manage to cut it down?”

“No. I will never let him touch the hedge clippers again without my direct supervision. Emily, really, I have to get going. We can chat later.”

“Yeah, I’ve got to run myself, I’ve got a date—”

“With a man?” Long pause. “Just two questions: are you graduating on time and does he have a job?”

“Thanks for putting it in that order. And the answer is yes. To both.”

“Good. Because I’m too young to be a grandmother.”

With an aggravated sigh Emily ended the call and set herself to conquer the last stack of school papers, thinking that once she finished them she could concentrate on Nora, devote all her attention to finding Nick’s remains, and hope that she could create one happy ending in this world.

Somewhere around two, Margot and Zoey tumbled in the door laughing, and the sound was heaven to Emily’s ears. They found her drowning under the weight of notebooks, her laptop, and reams of paper sprawled out around her on the dining room table, not to mention her own growing glumness.

Margot wore a rare smile on her face. “I’m done with my hopeless students. Finals. What a lovely word. Say it with me, Emily. Finals.”

Emily glared at her. Zoey rubbed her shoulders, and her head slowly hit the table. “Why is she smiling?” Emily muttered out of the side of her mouth while Zoey’s hands continued to knead her tight muscles, causing her to puddle underneath her fingertips.

“Simon is taking her to a baseball game,” Zoey teased.

“You’re kidding?”

“No, he’s taking her to a baseball game on their first date. Can you believe it? A baseball game!”

“What I want to know is where in the
How to Get a Girl to Fuck You
manual are athletic events listed?” Margot muttered.

“Right next to hunting and bowling.” Zoey laughed.

“And it’s not a date. I want to go on record about that. It’s two adults paying their own way to sit in a freezing cold stadium and watch grown men stand around on the grass and scratch themselves.”

“So what are you wearing to ‘watch grown men stand around on the grass’?” Emily asked.

“Clothes that absorb beer and spit,” Zoey suggested. “I can’t believe you’re really going on a date with him.”

“I repeat, it’s not a date.”

“Why don’t you wear a Giants T-shirt and jeans?”

Margot frowned at Emily. “What? And look like I’m selling churros? No way in hell. Speaking of which, tonight is your first official date with Prince Charming, isn’t it, as I’m sure the dinner on the roof and the crypt didn’t count.”

“No, they don’t. Not even the crypt.”

“Where is he taking you?”

“I have no idea.”

“I love that restaurant. I’ve been there a thousand times, very French, very romantic. Where are you going after dinner?”

“The same place. All I know is he wants me to wear something old.”

“Wear that pale pink dress, the sleeveless one with the beads, the one that makes you look like a flapper. Virginal, yet adequate access to the neck and breasts,” Zoey told her. “Practical and efficient.”

“And what about your date with Christian?”

“He won’t care. I’ll be out of whatever I wear quick enough.”

At precisely seven p.m., a knock came from the door.

“Good evening.” Andrew stood there wearing a pair of tailored navy pants and a starched white dress shirt; his coat was draped over one arm while the other was held behind his back. A boyish smirk played across his features as he looked into her eyes, and then his gaze halted as though he had caught himself, as though he was seeing her for the first time. “Christ, you are beautiful, aren’t you?”

She wanted to look away but she couldn’t. He hadn’t bothered to shave after all; the roughness of his jaw stood out in stark contrast to the smooth, naked skin visible from his open collar. His hair was slicked back, but, as always, only barely contained.

“Here.” Andrew handed her a simple bouquet of wildflowers. “It comes from my private stock.”

Her heart melted. She took the bouquet from him and raised it to her face. “The back garden?”

“I would have emptied every florist in town, if I had my way.”

“No. They’re perfect. Thank you for the restraint.”

He smiled and reached out for her hand, kissing her knuckles fervently. “Finally. Jesus, Emily, I’ve been waiting all day. It’s been killing me. I’ve got so much to tell you.”

Downstairs a taxi was waiting. The evening was cool and foggy. The street lamps cast oval puddles of light along the sidewalks. People hurried along, zipping their coats and shoving their hands deep into their pockets, their faces hunkering down against the wind.

As they drove, she tried to nestle closer to him as best she could, reveling in the warmth of him. His body felt excited, like a spring next to hers; his left hand was drumming a chord on his knee while his eyes darted about taking in the scenes of the night.

“Where are we going?” she asked, unable to stop herself from placing her fingers over his.

He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “’Tis a secret.”

“Your accent gets broader when you’re excited, you know that?”

“Then it’s a miracle you can even understand me tonight,” he murmured.

She blushed and laughed. “What’s going on? You look like you’re about to explode. When are you going to tell me what happened today?”

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he pulled her to him and kissed her. His fingers ran through her hair and lingered on her neck. With a deep sigh, he drew away and kissed the tip of her nose before he sat back, satisfied.

“You don’t play fair,” she managed to say.

“I wasn’t playing.”

They drove a little farther, and Emily knew whatever trepidations she had about this man and about their future crumbled in his presence. He was too full of life, too charismatic, and his high spirits rendered him unspeakably sexy. She felt what all his fans must feel being near him—the need for more.

“Here’s fine,” Andrew told the taxi driver, who pulled the car over at the end of a dark alley. Emily looked around. It was eerily lit by only a single gas-lamp style street light, but before she could register where they were, he was at her side, his arm around her waist.

“Where are we going?” she asked as they walked onto the avenue. He didn’t say a word; his arm merely pulled her closer to warm her from the chill.

They stopped a block farther up, near a row of darkened doors. A sign hung above:

Anti-Saloon League, San Francisco Branch, Est. 1920

Andrew rang what appeared to be a buzzer. She frowned at him, but he merely cocked an eyebrow and smiled, only adding to the mystery.

A long rectangular slit in one of the doors opened, revealing a pair of eyes.

“Password?” a gravelly voice requested.

“Books,” replied Andrew.

Several locks unfastened with a series of clicks on the other side. Andrew cast her a conspiratorial glance and squeezed her hand.

The large door creaked open, inviting them into a foyer. The walls were lined with a lush maroon, brocade wallpaper, and candlelit sconces reflected across the dark wooden floors and the pressed-tin ceiling. Her eyes widened in disbelief. They had stepped back in time to the 1920s.