Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (80 page)

They returned home. The weeks flew by, and before they knew it the day had arrived when they would be leaving San Francisco—Emily to her writer’s symposium in Squaw Valley, Andrew to Boston, 2,562 miles apart.

Boston—the first leg of their summer tour. The first official Lost Boys summer tour with their official manager, Neil St. John. Almost overnight their music appeared to be everywhere, which both thrilled and disconcerted them. Neil had engaged a new publicist, which resulted in incredible press. He would be joining them in Boston with Claudia. Apparently the tour would be a family affair, though Neil had the good sense not to subject himself or Claudia to the bus he had chartered for the band.

After Boston, several sold-out venues awaited them in New York City where Emily would join them. Neil had taken the luxury of allowing them to stay there a fortnight, saying they had earned a vacation that didn’t involve bodily injury or demonic possession. If they were going to live on the road this summer, they were going to enjoy it.

So it was with mixed emotions that Andrew waited for Emily at the bar in the Huntington Hotel downtown. She had requested this locale, which didn’t surprise him—it was old and odd and gorgeous. Dark paneled and intimate, it was the one place where he hadn’t been aware of people’s eyes on him lately, probably because by walking in the brass-handled doors, he had lowered the median age of the people around him to sixty. The music bore testament to this, as Sinatra was going all
Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered
.

He ordered them two martinis. After they arrived, he took several minutes to study the rim of the glass before he toasted quietly.

“To you, Nick, wherever you are.”

There had been no trace of Nick and Nora since they had returned from Mendocino. Even though Emily took great pains to hide it, he knew she was disappointed. Somehow she thought that the ghosts would make one more appearance, to interrupt dinner or appear at the piano in the attic in the quiet moments when Emily and he lay nestled on the couch, her laptop glowing in the darkness on the floor while his guitar lay discarded nearby after a grueling workout of his arm.

She would repeat her firm belief that Nick and Nora were happy, and weren’t they glad to finally have some peace and quiet, or as much peace and quiet cohabitating with Simon, Margot, Zoey, and Christian would allow. Their living quarters had turned into some sort of two-storied commune centering around who would make breakfast and which pantry contained the wine.

Still, he could see her stare out the windows to the roof garden with a distant look on her face, or catch her holding open her closet door longer than necessary, hoping to hear a whisper.

Whispers did rustle the air around him as she entered the bar looking like Ingrid Bergman ready to catch her plane; all that was missing were the letters of transit and a pair of gloves. He stood and waved, rocked by her and the thought that he had only hours left to hold her. She beamed and sailed across the room and kissed him, bringing the fresh warm air in from the street with her.

“You got started without me.”

“Not much. I gave you my olives, by the way. Here let me take that…it’s blocking your face and makes kissing you a nightmare.” She swept off her hat with a chuckle, handing it over. He motioned to the waiter for two more, and they sat down, full of the nervous energy of partings and beginnings.

“Isn’t this the best?” she said, sipping her martini, her eyes sweeping across the walnut paneling and old chandeliers. “I bet they came here, you know.”

“I bet they did.” They toasted, but Emily looked everywhere except at him.

“Zoey is tearing apart the house—be thankful you’re here. I’m not sure how much storage you have in the bus, but you might have to rent another one for the art supplies alone. Oh, and Dwayne and his friends stopped by. They wanted to thank Neil for the new van. That was incredibly sweet of him, but I think they miss their old one. It’s just the not the same without the blue shag carpeting.” She prattled on and on, still not meeting his eyes. “And Margot, she’s going to try to make the shows in New York. She claims she’ll be there for work. Simon tried to look duly unimpressed.”

“Good for him. So you’re driving up to the symposium at noon tomorrow, yes? And you get there at four?”

“And I’ll wear my seatbelt and obey the speed limit.”

Why was everything so awkward? Perhaps because they’d had barely a minute alone these past weeks. The time they did have had been hampered by his stitches and sling—which he had shed that morning in a fit of manic glee. And now with only a night left, unfettered and deeply in love, he craved two things: time and privacy—one of which he could never control, the other he had every desire to obtain.

With that thought in mind, he reached into the pocket of his jacket to retrieve the room key when the waiter approached their table bearing a bottle of champagne and two elaborate flutes.

Emily looked on in delight as he popped the cork. “Andrew, it’s perfect. You shouldn’t have done this.”

“I didn’t.”

“Compliments of a friend,” the waiter informed them dryly, which immediately piqued their curiosity. “Instructions were left at the bar with this note addressed to you, Mr. Hayes.” He handed him an expensive looking envelope.

Andrew nodded and quickly opened it.

A simple but elegant card lay inside, rimmed in gold and engraved with the monogram N.C. Emily leaned over, enrapt, and they read together. The first paragraph was penned in a fast scrawl.

Kid, I always knew you had it in you. Damn proud of you. Hope not to see you soon, but we may visit when in town.

It was signed simply:
Nick

Underneath that in a distinctly feminine flourish was one word. Emily whispered it out loud:

Live.

It was followed by a beautiful
N
. And a post script:

The flutes are yours, use them—often.

Emily grinned through her tears, reading the card over and over and scanning the room for any signs of the famous couple.

“Andrew, oh Andrew, they found each other…they’re together.”

They finished the whole bottle, chatting madly now, all hands and smiles and laughter. It was the way they had always been with each other and the way they would always be. It wasn’t until he laid the hotel key down on the table that her words ceased and her eyes met his.

Without a sound they walked hand and hand to the elevator.

“For the next twelve hours you’re not allowed to leave our bed, do you understand? You’re mine. My concubine, my slave, my mistress…my wife.”

His body pressed the length of hers against the silk wallpaper as he kissed her hungrily, waiting for the wrought iron doors of the elevator to part. The bell chimed, and he pulled her inside, slamming the button to their floor, his mouth never leaving hers. He had wondered if the madness that he felt for her, that blind need to claim her, would subside now that life lay out ahead of them. Now that they had found peace. He had never been more wrong.

Thankfully, the doors opened to a vacant hallway. Only a few feet more. He fumbled with the key, his hands fisting in her hair, her breaths answering his, when he heard the clearing of a throat from the far end of the hall. It was a tiny, scared, but distinctly male cough.

They swung their heads to the side to see who it was—Emily gasped. There, glowing near a potted palm, hovered a short, wiry looking apparition. He wore a derby, coattails, and baggy pants and rocked back and forth on his spats in distress.

“Are you Andrew and Emily Chamberlain?”

“Pardon?” Andrew answered in disbelief.

“Herschel, Herschel’s the name,” the ghost replied hastily in a thick Brooklyn accent, his hands wringing together. “You two are famous, don’t ya know. Everyone’s going on about how you helped Nick and Nora with their little problem, and I was wondering…well, you said you might be heading to New York City soon, and I’ve got this issue with some ah…former business associates there.” His words tumbled over each other as his voice rose to a high neurotic pitch.

“Issue?” Andrew repeated before he realized what he was doing. It was enough to let loose the flood gates.

“They think I took something that’s theirs, and they, well, they want it back! I didn’t take it, I swear. But they won’t listen to me—they’re gonna sic their ghouls after me! You have to help.”

“But…you’re already dead, what’s the worst they can do?” Andrew regretted the words the moment they left his lips.

Herschel emitted a great tortured wail. “I didn’t do it! I didn’t take it.” He wrung his coattails in anguish. “You’ve gotta help me!”

Andrew threw open their hotel room door and grasped Emily by the hand. He’d had enough of ghosts in need to last for several lifetimes.

Emily, however, didn’t budge.

“Sweet girl?”

She looked at him with those eyes, those large, trouble-brewing eyes.

“But we’ll be in New York soon, Andrew.”

He scooped her up in his arms and slammed the door shut with his foot. With a determined stride he carried her past the fireplace and into the bedroom. It was lit only by the city lights, casting her surprised face in shadows. He tossed her down on the bed.

“We’ll have two weeks. We could help.” She wasn’t going to let this lie, he could tell.

He didn’t say a word—he merely stared at her.

“You look like her, you know,” he finally said, kneeling in front of her so that her back was trapped against the carved mahogany headboard.

“Like who?”

“Nora. Here, at the tip of your chin.” His lips kissed there. “And here, at the curl of your smile.” His lips kissed there too, as his hands rose to undo her buttons and feel the warmth of her skin.

“So is that a yes? Please, Andrew, we really should help him.”

She gasped suddenly as he pushed her down onto her back, her wrists pinioned and her body helpless. Then laughter filled the darkness until his mouth trailed softly down her neck and reached her breast, a breath away from her heart.

They said no more on the subject that night, although hopes and dreams and fantasies were cried and shared between them.

When the morning sun drifted over their naked bodies, and the sound of housekeeping and breakfast trolleys laden with aromas of fresh beginnings lumbered down the hall, it was then, and only then, that he whispered the answer in her ear.

THE END

Acknowledgments

The Omnific Publishing Team including Elizabeth Harper, CJ Creel, Kimberly Myers and Micha Stone, for their patience, enthusiasm and talent.Lucy O’Dwyer, for her Gaelic know-how and photographic skills. Laura Springer, for her guidance with San Francisco real estate. Steven Kacsmar, for his music expertise. Dave Conroy for his deft hand at swearing. The Muselets who supported this story from the beginning. Mom and Dad, for raising me with love and a love of their era. Peter for doing the heavy lifting, and Matthew and Hannah for sharing their mother’s lap with a computer. Finally, to Natalie whose friendship, encouragement and tireless editing skills made this story possible. Thank you all!

...

Certain locations mentioned in this book are real,
others imaginary, and still others are a combination of the two.

About the Author

A writer and recovering CPA, Sarah M. Glover lives in San Francisco in an old house with a brood of people—some taller, some shorter, all of whom she adores. As a child, she often hid under the blankets with a dog-eared copy of
The Norton Anthology of English Literature
, obsessing over the men in the sepia squares.

Sarah’s previous work includes contributions to various anthologies, personal essays for both Public Radio and several national magazines, and musical comedies written to benefit San Francisco charities.
Grave Refrain
is her first novel.

You can follow her at:
www.S
arahMGlover.com

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