Kiss Me Hello

by LK Rigel

  “I thought you’d left,” she said. “The house felt empty.”

  “It is empty.” Finally he met her eye. “Cavernous.” He looked sick. No, he was upset—with her. “You didn’t tell me. Amelia’s gone.”

  “She died, Joss. Yesterday morning.” Only yesterday? It felt so long ago. “I’m sorry.”

  “I knew it. I felt it when I saw you walking away from the barn, I knew she was gone. It was just like the other time.”

  “What other time?”

  “When her friend Eleanor died. Eleanor and Amelia used to ride out almost every day on the horses, a pinto and a palomino. They were looking for me—my body, anyway. One day Amelia came back to the barn with both horses, but Eleanor was missing. There was only the nothingness of death.”

  Sara pictured Aunt Amelia’s lifeless body at the rehab center. The nothingness of death. That’s how it was. But not with Joss. There was none of that nothingness about him.

  “What happened to you?” she said. “How did you die?”

  “I don’t know. One day a strange fog rolled in off the ocean. It was so thick that if I stretched my arm out completely I couldn’t see my hand. It seemed all of existence consisted of me and the gray mist. I thought I’d died and gone to hell. Not a pit of fire and drama, but cold unending gray.”

  “How awful.”

  “What made it worse were the scattered glimpses. Every so often, the mist would clear and I’d see something of the world. Snowdrops at the pond, the aerie, the vineyards. I saw people, but none ever saw me. Life was there, but beyond me. The longer I was disconnected, the less I could remember, the fewer glimpses of life came to me. Existence was a cold soup of endless gray.”

  “Are you ever warm?”

  “When I come out of the mist and see real things, I have a sense of warmth. Am I warm now?” He put his hand over hers.

  “No.” The same creepy-crawly chill passed over her skin as earlier at the pond. She looked away from him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. No need. One day, I heard a bell ring.” He continued. “It sounded familiar. Important. I followed the sound, and then all of a sudden Amelia was standing in front of me. Looking at me. No one had actually seen me since I fell into the mist. I said hello. She heard and answered. She disappeared, but later I saw her again, and again. Each time I saw her it was for longer periods of time. She became my anchor on sanity.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “She was like you. She wanted to help me.” Joss didn’t hide his sarcasm. “She came up with the idea of burying my bones on consecrated ground. She believed then my soul would find peace.”

  “And I thought Aunt Amelia wasn’t religious,” Sara said.

  “She wasn’t,” Joss said. “Not in a hellfire and brimstone sort of way. I’d say she was spiritual.”

  Sara smiled. That was exactly how she’d described Aunt Amelia. “I rang a bell the day I first saw you,” she said. “Years ago. The brass bell in your trunk with the snowdrops on the rim.”

  “That’s the bell. I’d forgotten it until you read about it in the journal.”

  “Aunt Amelia was so upset when I rang it. She wasn’t worried about chickens. She was afraid I’d see you.”

  “And you did see me.”

  “I rang it again yesterday, the same bell.”

  “I heard. I followed the sound and the mist faded as I expected, but no Amelia. I was by the barn while you walked away. I was desperate to get your attention, so I shoved the barn door.”

  “I saw it close, but I didn’t see you. Not until later on the stairs.”

  “And then later in your room.”

  “Technically, that wasn’t you I saw in bed,” Sara said. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “I think our discussion of my existential status qualifies as personal. But go for it.”

  “Did you try to have sex with Aunt Amelia?”

  Joss rolled his eyes. “She wasn’t like that,” he said.

  “What does that mean? I am like that?”

  “And just a technical point, doll.” Joss ignored her question. “I didn’t try to have sex with you. You attacked me.”

  “I still don’t understand how that happened,” Sara said. “I mean how did you end up in Bram’s body?”

  “I can’t help you there,” Joss said. “I tried to do it again today, get back in his body, when that other guy was telling you how to get rid of me. But it was a no-go.”

  “You were there?” Sara turned away. There was a lot to digest in what Joss just said. “I’m not trying to get rid of you. I’m trying to help you.”

  “Right. By getting rid of me.”

  “By helping you move on. Are you happy like this?” She turned back and grabbed his forearm. Proving the point, her hand made a fist and passed through.

  “Of course not.” Joss looked at her eagerly. “But something’s different now. I mean with you. I don’t see just you and some of the space around you. When I see you, I see the world—as if I’m actually in it. I hear other people. When you read my journal, everything you read comes back to me. Like my memories are restored.”

  “Why me and not Aunt Amelia?”

  “It’s like we’re connected where time and space have no power,” he said. “It’s as if we’re…”

  Soul mates. She finished the thought, but she couldn’t speak it. To speak it would give it power. Make it closer to true. It was the opposite of true. It was ridiculous.

  “You know, you can’t just go around taking other people’s bodies,” she said. “I mean, even if you could…you can’t!”

  He shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. I was on a sofa listening to that woman, Peekie, telling sad stories about Amelia. The next minute I was in a booth watching your manly man make goo-goo eyes at that blonde. I thought I’d do you a favor and interrupt the two of them.”

  “You thought no such thing.” Goo-goo eyes? So Joss saw it too. This time it really was different. Bram liked Bonnie. “You wanted to be in a body again.”

  “Maybe a little.” Joss grinned at his understatement. “But it’s not going to happen. That guy is a paradox. His body is strong, fully alive. But he felt inconsequential inside, almost empty.”

  “That shows you what you know,” Sara said. “Everybody loves Bram.”

  A seagull screamed overhead and was answered by a faint cackle somewhere near the cliffs. Sara watched the bird soar over Highway 1 to join its flock. She didn’t want to fight with Joss, but she didn’t want to hear about how empty Bram was inside, and she certainly didn’t want to hear about his attraction to Bonnie.

  A faraway look came over Joss. “I shouldn’t have said he was empty. His life force is strong. But there was no spiritual pathway into him, not that I could find.”

  “Maybe because you’re the one who’s dead.” Crap. Crap. That was mean. “I’m sorry, Joss. But Bram is…” Bram was what, her husband? Technically, but he hadn’t acted like a husband in a long time. If ever. And she wasn’t even sure she loved him anymore. She was so confused.

  “Is what?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Forget about it. You’re right,” Joss said. “I have no right to think of you this way. Maybe I’ll go find the light.”

  He was gone. Sara was left with the birds cooing in the wisteria and Joss’s words lingering in her mind. I have no right to think of you this way.

  And she had no right to be happy that he did.

  - 17 -

  The Opposite of Dying

  BONNIE WAS PROUD OF her little house on a cul-de-sac at the end of the peninsula. It was a dump when she bought it, but she’d turned it into a gem worthy of Architectural Digest. The front door opened into a foyer with a door to the guest bedroom on the left. Sliding pocket doors to the right led to a parlor. The hallway straight ahead divided the remainder of the cottage through the middle, guest bath, Bonnie’s office, then bedroom on the left; kitchen, dining area and living room on t
he right.

  She led Bram through to the back of the cottage, where her bedroom and the living area both opened onto a wide deck that looked out over cliffs above the Pacific Ocean. “Otter Cottage is no Turtledove Hill,” she said, “but you can’t beat the view.”

  “What do you mean? This place is fantastic.” Bram stretched out on one of the chaise lounges and laced his fingers behind his head. “The waves must sing you to sleep every night.”

  “That’s what makes you such a good writer,” Bonnie said. “You’re a poet.”

  “I’ll bet it’s been in your family forever.” His smile deepened the dimple in his cheek, and his blue eyes squinted in the afternoon sun. “I’m surrounded by heiresses.”

  “No, nothing like that.” She unfurled the awning. “I got it the other old-fashioned way. Inside information. An old couple lived here before. When the wife died, I sold the husband a condo in Fort Bragg and made an offer before it hit the market.”

  “Sweet.”

  “It wasn’t so sweet when I bought it,” Bonnie said. “But I saw the potential.”

  “And you did what was necessary to make it work.”

  “When I want something, I always do what’s necessary to make it work.” She rested her hand on his shoulder. Lightly. Without meaning. “Stay there while I get the wine. I have a Napa Valley sauvignon blanc unless you’d like something made from your grapes.”

  “The Napa.” Bram reached across his chest and touched her fingers. “And they aren’t my grapes. Not yet, as Sara keeps pointing out.”

  And didn’t that sound just like sour grapes? Bonnie smiled inwardly on her way to the kitchen, relishing that he said my grapes instead of our grapes and the bitter vein that crept in when he said Sara’s name. Good sign.

  Two bottles of the sauvignon blanc chilled in the refrigerator. She folded some asiago bread sticks in a cloth napkin and put them in a wicker basket with one bottle, the opener, and two crystal flutes.

  “Everything you do is art,” she said to herself. Including how you handle clients. She texted Gracien: With B Blakemore now. Working on him. Call you later. She left her phone in the kitchen. For the next few hours, she wanted no interruptions.

  On the deck, she handed Bram the wine and opener. “Would you do the honors?” It always helped to give a man some little task to make him feel useful and effective. When a man felt self-confident, he usually felt sexy too.

  Not that Bram Blakemore needed help along those lines. On the second glass of wine, she offered to give him a tour of the cottage, ending in her bedroom. By the time they finished the bottle, he was in her bed, plunging into her desperately. Good thing she had condoms in the bedside table. The poor guy had been denied love far too long.

  “Fucking is the opposite of dying,” he said as they collapsed together in a sweat. “God, Bonnie. You feel so damn good.”

  “That’s an understatement.” She ran her fingernails lazily over his back.

  “I just met you,” he said, “but it feels like you’ve known me all my life.”

  “You make me sad,” she said. “It sounds like you’ve been lonely.”

  “I think I’ve been lonely for a long time. I didn’t realize it until now.” He sat up and leaned against the headboard and gathered her into his arms. “I didn’t want to marry Sara. We were best friends for ages. Since high school. But there was never any grand passion. When she got pregnant, I tried to make it work. You know, be a man.”

  “That’s admirable.” But tell me how you feel about me.

  “Then she miscarried. We said we’d start a family later, when we were more settled, but I knew even then it wasn’t right. All this time, it’s like I was in limbo. I didn’t want Sara. But I didn’t want anyone else either, and what would be the point in hurting her? I guess it was just easier to stay than to go.”

  This is why you don’t get involved with married men. They talk about their wives all the time.

  “She started hinting about getting pregnant again, just when I got furloughed. It freaked me out. I’ve been putting her off ever since.”

  “If I had you in my bed every night, you’d never get away with putting me off.”

  “If you had me in your bed every night…god, the thought is amazing.” He ran his fingers over her face and kissed her. Gently. Tenderly.

  He was a good guy. He’d just made a mistake. He married the wrong person.

  She wasn’t going to dis Sara, but she wasn’t going to defend her either. She ran her fingers through Bram’s wavy brown hair. “If I were Sara I wouldn’t let you leave Pelican Chase, not even to go back to work.”

  “I’m not going back to work,” Bram said. “I haven’t told her yet, but I called in and quit this morning.”

  “Good for you,” Bonnie said. “Now you can focus on your writing.”

  He grinned and rolled over on top of her. “Right now, I just want to focus on you.”

  Bram didn’t leave until after sunset. While Bonnie washed up the dishes in the kitchen, another call came in from Gracien.

  “Sara Blakemore said she’d meet with Amelia’s lawyers in the morning,” Gracien said. “Find out what they tell her, if it’s probate or a trust, and how soon we can move.”

  “Everything is in motion.”

  “Just make sure you do it.”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t get your panties in a wad. You already control the vineyards. Why such a hurry?”

  “That’s my business,” Gracien said. “Get me that deed. I’ll make it worth your effort.”

  “Will do, jefe,” Bonnie said. “It’s all pink icing on a chocolate cupcake.”

  The light was on in the courtyard, shining on the wisteria outside Sara’s open window. She wasn’t sure if she’d heard a vehicle drive in or dreamed it. Bram wasn’t home yet. At least, he wasn’t with her in bed. She heard it again, a shuffling noise, coming from outside. She went to the window. Bram was back. His truck was in the courtyard, parked by her car. The barn door opened. He came out, tossing that spike knife in the air, higher each time.

  He took the steps on the back porch lightly and closed the kitchen door without a sound. She got back under the covers and waited, listening to him come up the creaking master stairs. Down the hall, the shower in Aunt Amelia’s bathroom turned on. She fell asleep listening to the water.

  - 18 -

  The Things We Think We Have

  “MILLIONAIRE.” SARA CHOKED ON the word. She gripped the arms of the hard oak chair at the offices of Briggs & Mason, Aunt Amelia’s estate lawyers. Across the massive desk the no-nonsense Jerrod Mason looked perfectly serious. “You’re telling me I’m a millionaire.”

  “Multimillionaire, to be precise.” Mr. Mason tapped a document in front of him on the desk. “But only on paper, Ms. Lyndon. I don’t advise going on a mad spending tear.”

  “And there is income, right? From the vineyards?”

  Bram was going to be thrilled. She didn’t wake him this morning before she left. It wasn’t his fault his internal clock was messed up. All that could be over now. With this inheritance, he could give notice anytime. Their schedules could finally get back into synch.

  It was what exactly she wanted—wasn’t it?

  “A substantial income,” Mr. Mason said. “The lease payments from Gracien Poole—Poole Haven Wines, to be precise. Now let’s see here. Poole Haven’s current lease will be up at the end of this season. Briggs & Mason will be happy to assist you in negotiating terms of a new one, if that’s your wish.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be, Mr. Mason? I don’t mean to sound rude, but this is all new to me.”

  “Of course. I understand Gracien Poole is anxious to purchase the vineyards. If you want to sell, of course it’s your right. But I would urge caution, Ms. Lyndon. It’s not a good idea to make quick decisions about an inheritance.”

  “We were thinking of selling the vineyards to Mr. Poole but keeping the house,” Sara said. “But I suppose you’re right. It’s best not to be ha
sty.”

  “We?” Mr. Mason said.

  “My husband and I,” Sara said. “It’s not Lyndon, actually. I’m Mrs. Blakemore.”

  “I see.” He pushed the document over to her. “Please sign on the lines beside the Post-its, and I’ll file the probate papers for you today. Sara Lyndon Blakemore will do.”

  Aunt Amelia had made Sara executor as well as heir, but Mr. Mason would carry out the details. She signed her full name on the necessary lines.

  “So you’re fully informed, Mrs. Blakemore, let me explain. In California, inherited property is considered separate property. To be precise, Turtledove Hill belongs to you. But the income derived during your marriage is considered community property.”

  “But if anything ever happened to me, it would go to Bram, right?”

  “Absent any children, yes. And once probate is settled, we can make an appointment to discuss your estate thoroughly. I’d be more than happy to advise you on the matter.”

  Your estate. Not a term Sara had ever imagined in reference to herself.

  “Can you advise me on this now?” She dug Gracien’s check out of her purse. “Mr. Poole gave me an advance on his next lease payment.”

  “Very good,” Mr. Mason said.

  Sara suppressed a smile. He spoke and dressed with such formality, but he didn’t seem much older than thirty. But then, dealing with millions of dollars’ worth of property had to be sobering at any age.

  “I’ll make a copy of this for the files,” he said, “and you can deposit it.”

  “And I can put it in my account with Bram?”

  “As income, it’s community property, so yes. Also—and not being impertinent—but it might be seen as a gesture of good will to open an account in a local bank, but that’s for you to decide.” Mr. Mason smiled, and for a moment he looked young and cute.

  “That’s an excellent suggestion, Mr. Mason. I will do it.”

  “You’ve inherited the vast majority of Ms. Lyndon’s estate, the land, the house and its contents, a stock portfolio—everything but two small separate bequests. One is inconsequential, as far as I can tell. She’s left an Oxford Study Bible to George Lyndon.”