Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (67 page)

“Yes, we were.”

From far off the piano began again. The song caught on the night air, and he hummed it as he watched her slip from his arms.

They met the others for a quiet dinner at Café Beaujolais, a small quaint farmhouse half obscured by overflowing gardens and situated within walking distance of the hotel. There they enjoyed a subdued meal, rehashing the day’s tumultuous events, waiting until the copious bottles of wine relaxed them enough to feel human again.

Simon ran his finger along the edge of his water glass and looked over the top of his glasses at Andrew. “Paulie, my good man.”

“Yes?” Andrew responded archly, preparing himself for a continuation of his bitching from earlier.

“While we were all waiting in the lobby for your bony ass to appear for dinner, I talked to Neil and filled him in on our day. Thought one of us ought to keep our new manager in the loop. He was bloody worried…actually, he sounded frantic. Just so you know, you’re seriously falling down in the son department.”

Andrew repeated the word in his head.
Son
. It still seemed so strange.

“I had my hands full,” Andrew retorted with a shrug.

Emily’s heel came down on his foot.

“Hey, did you ever see The Lady in White?” Zoey asked Emily, pouring the fourth bottle of wine.

Emily and Andrew took turns explaining the story, which left them all momentarily speechless, even after the staggering events of the last twenty-four hours.

“So let me get this right. Nick’s remains are in some house that you’ve got the key for. A house with raspberries.” It sounded even more absurd when Christian said it. “You know what I think, Mama Chamberlain survived him, didn’t she? I bet she kept his corpse locked away in some attic. Like in
Psycho
.”

“You know what they say about a boy and his mother,” Zoey said sagely.

“Christ, let’s hope not,” Andrew muttered.

“Chamberlain…” Margot murmured. “The ghost said something to you in the caves, Emily. About a Thomas being alone without a Chamberlain.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes at Emily and muttered under his breath. “So that’s what she meant back in our bedroom—about you not being alone anymore. Are you forgetting these relevant details for some reason?”

“I had my hands full,” she replied
sotto voce
.

“But listen,” said Margot, undeterred. “This Lady in White was surprised to see Emily—a Thomas—alone in those caves without a Chamberlain accompanying her. Now this same Lady in White told Andrew he didn’t want her near Emily. Maybe Emily is meant to be with a Chamberlain.”

“Excuse me?” he sputtered, nearly choking on his wine.

“Yeah, but whatever The Lady in White told Nick’s mother about Nora,” Christian interjected, “it made her nuts. This ‘truth’ everyone is talking about—what if it’s about Thomases and Chamberlains being together.”

“Or not being together. Like Romeo and Juliet,” Zoey reasoned aloud. “You know, like doomed star-crossed lovers throughout time. Over and over again,” she added melodramatically. “That’s what everybody keeps saying—‘it’s happening again,’ right? First at the séance and now from this Lady in White. Things keep repeating themselves.”

Andrew shot Emily a grim look and saw her face had paled.

“Get real,” Simon scoffed.

“And talking to ghosts with black lips is real?” Christian cocked his head at Simon.

“Is everyone forgetting a crucial fact? I’m with Emily—she’s not with some other man.”

“What are you worried about, Paulie? A little competition?” Simon said and leveled a gaze at Andrew over his glass. Andrew couldn’t be sure he was teasing anymore. The day had worn away the last pretense of both men’s patience.

“Whatever this truth is,” said Margot, ignoring them, “Nick’s mother is not going to be pleasant to deal with from the sounds of her. If she even shows at all.”

“Oh, she’ll show. She wants Emily. Dead,” Simon concluded with a sip of his wine.

Andrew’s hand tightened around the stem of his glass. “Well, she’s going to be highly disappointed. Because first, there is no bloody way in hell that Emily is going off with a Chamberlain, and second, if things become even the slightest bit threatening during that séance tomorrow, we bolt. I’m taking Emily and getting the hell out of there.” He stared at her. “I still hate the idea of this.”

“She can’t make me do something I don’t want to do.”

“We can’t be sure of that. And I don’t trust Egan to be able to control the situation—he did a wretched job the last time. The moment anything goes sideways, it’s over. Understood?”

She nodded, and the rest of the table agreed.

The whole conversation did nothing to abate Andrew’s mounting sense of apprehension. If Emily was indeed a victim in this reoccurring tragedy, he did not comprehend where he fit in to it all. And he refused to believe there existed another man who controlled her destiny, who was meant to be with her. But the more he tried to deny it, the more questions rankled up inside him. He remembered his nightmares, the threatening visions of cliffs, and the bone-chilling echo of screams, Emily’s screams. If there was a Chamberlain out there, would he be the one who would save her? Save her from Andrew, himself? No. Dammit, there was no other man; there was no need for saving. With that, he laced their hands together and felt her ring press against his palm. It was the palpable reminder of the present and their future. It brought back the memory of the ghost’s entreaty:

Have you pledged yourself to her?
Yes. From the beginning. Like no man alive. Always.

After dinner the group wandered back into town. Simon, Christian, and Andrew began humming something, making up lyrics and feeling all the better for falling into their familiar camaraderie.

“Andrew, look!” Emily’s face lit up and she pulled him along to a small gathering of stores. He followed her to The Raven and the Frost, an old bookshop where a collection of Japanese lanterns glowed in the window next to a sign that read “closed” although the door was wide open.

Capitalizing on her mood, he let the others drift to a shop across the street and waved, agreeing to meet in a little while to walk back to the hotel.

The shop appeared more whimsical attic than bookstore. The Tibetan bells tied to the door chimed richly as they entered. Their eyes blinked, adjusting to the dim light, then their gazes traveled across the first floor, crammed to the ceiling with antique and forgotten tomes. Several small animal skeletons hung suspended from the second story ceiling by thin threads of fishing line and must have forced many a wary customer to duck from the sight on his way down the rickety spiral staircase. Above their heads the gallery appeared to sag under the weight of a massive display case jammed with everything from jade cigarette holders, ivory handled opera glasses, and snuff boxes, to outdated globes and row upon row of cobalt blue bottles in varying shapes and sizes.

The peal of the bells roused a small March Hare of a man from his reverie. He stood on a bookcase ladder, balancing a cumbersome volume of Proust in his hand. The man peered at Emily over the rim of his spectacles as if to say,
Looking for anything in particular?

“Your poetry section, please?” she asked.

He nodded toward the spiral staircase. She shuddered at the skeletons as she and Andrew navigated their way up the stairs.

“Bet he’s a ghost,” Andrew murmured in her ear, to which he received a wry glance in return.

Once they reached the gallery, he watched as she pored over the endless volumes stacked around them, all in disarray and shoved in any available space. She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled up at him sideways. His fingers trailed along her shoulder.

“Help me look,” she whispered.

“I am looking.”

“Andrew…”

“Kiss me. Just once.”

He took her face in his hands, gazing at her, and lowered his mouth to hers, brushing their lips together, back and forth, slowly, exquisitely. There was something so innocent and untouched about her, and every time he kissed her he felt she was offering all of herself to him and him alone. That he would be the only man to taste those lips, and he would be the only man to hear those poetic moans. It was overpowering.

Her hands tangled in his hair as she pressed her lithe body to his and surrendered herself to the kiss. Lost in the haze and stacks of books, he knew where they were, and it would be so easy to take her now, but he needed to kiss her. He needed the clarity that only holding her in his arms could bring. He wanted to show her that he could wash away everything wrong in her world, that he could love her more than she could understand, and that he would never leave her. That he would not hurt her. Ever.

“Why?” he asked her, hoping she knew the answer.
Why, Emily, is every act of love, every touch, haunted by the specter of loss? Why does as if feel as if I’ve said goodbye to you more than this heart can bear?
Emily’s eyes glowed in the dim light, her lips swollen.

Just then they heard the rumbling of a ladder and startled, flew apart; the emotions they had been lost in had been so potent. The old man had pulled his ladder to them. He stood on the rungs and looked at them with his eyebrows arched in question. His skin shimmered faintly in the dusky light, and his stare was so disconcerting that Andrew adjusted his collar and tried not to make eye contact.

“I’m looking…I’m looking for a poem that contains the line, ‘purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.’ Do you know who wrote that?” Emily asked, brushing the hair away from her eyes.

He smiled softly and pushed off. The ladder moved faster and much more quietly than Andrew expected, especially with him standing upon it. His hand retrieved a thin black volume from high above. With a whoosh, he glided back to them.

He held it out to Emily with a triumphant look in his eyes.

“Yes! Of course!” she cried.

Andrew angled around to see the spine.
The Voice of the Poet: Robert Frost
.

Emily excitedly pawed through the pages until she stopped short. “That’s it! That’s it.
The Ghost House
.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Andrew replied wryly.

She began to read aloud.

“I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow
.”

“See? That’s it! The purple-stemmed wild raspberries!”

“Go on,” he urged her.

“O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field
;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the graveyard is healed…
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
…”

“What do you suppose it means?” Emily asked, still studying the stanzas of the poem.

“That Nick’s ashes are in the remains of an old house, or part of an old house, perhaps. But where?”

“A house near a graveyard?”

“Excuse me, sir, do you know if there is a graveyard nearby…”

Emily and he glanced over to the old man. He had vanished.

The bells tinkled, and they peered down at a middle-aged woman walking in the door with a few books under her arms.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Have you been waiting long? I was just next door. May I help you?”

Emily and Andrew shared a knowing glance.

“I told you,” he whispered in her ear as he took the book from her hands. “We’ll be taking this, thank you.”

When they stepped out of the store the others were waiting for them across the street as promised. He stopped and took one last look at the curious shop, the large opal of a moon rising behind it, and turned back to Emily, but she was already crossing the street to join the others, lost in her book.