Cross My Heart

by Natalie Vivien

  To be honest, it doesn't feel wrong. In fact, it feels kind of...awesome. I'm an adventurer at heart, and this spectral mystery is hitting all of my treasure-hunting buttons. Like Cordelia said, it's scary and exciting, all at once—and I love that. I just wish it didn't stress me out so much, philosophically speaking. This whole haunting thing has robbed me of my skepticism badge, and I feel like I have to reexamine every conviction I've ever had...

  I gather the library books into a pile and stand up, circling the table to help my woozy sister to her feet. “Let's get some sleep, okay? I'm going to give a friend of mine a visit tomorrow, see if she has any ideas about what we should do next. But I want you to promise me that you won't worry about this, that you'll have fun with David and Jack on your day off?”

  Wobbling on her legs, Cordelia gives me an unconvincing salute. “I promise. Just...don't get possessed or anything while I'm gone.”

  I laugh humorlessly. “I'll do my best.”

  “And have lots of sex with that 'friend' of yours, okay?”

  “What? I never said she was that kind of friend—”

  “Can't pull the wool over these eyes,” Cordelia slurs, motioning vaguely to her ears. “I know you, little sister. You only use the word friend when you really mean friend with benefits. Am I right, or am I right?”

  “You're right,” I smile, slinging her arm over my shoulder. I drank just as much as Cordelia, but I've always been able to hold my liquor better than her. So I hold her up with one arm and carry the library books in the crook of my other elbow. But by the time we reach the top of the staircase, I have to drop the books to the floor, because I'm supporting all of Cordelia's weight.

  I deposit her gently on the threshold of her bedroom, but she reaches out for my arm before I turn away.

  “Mom always said our family was a little bit psychic, you know.” Cord's eyes are liquid green and wide as moons. “Maybe that's why you're here. Maybe those ghosts summoned you here, Alex. Maybe they need your help.”

  “My help? For what? Digging up an ancient relic? Because that's about as far as my expertise goes.”

  Cordelia tilts her head to one side and squeezes her eyes shut, as if she's thinking hard. Or suffering from a migraine. Possibly both. “Well,” she whispers, meeting my gaze again, “maybe you should just ask them what they want. Who knows? They might answer you.”

  Ask them what they want... A cold chill races over my skin, but I shake it off, exhaling a deep breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I smooth a tangle back from Cordelia's forehead and then pat her shoulder. “Good night, sis.”

  “Good night. Don't let the bed-ghosts bite.” She laughs as she moves into the room and belly-flops onto her air mattress with a soft thump. I'd forgotten how adorable Cordelia is when she's drunk; she reverts to her five-year-old self. Whereas I just get kind of melancholy and pensive.

  I heft the library books up from the landing and then aim for my own half-painted bedroom, where I collapse, with an oof, onto the bed. My brain is too full of weird thoughts right now for sleep, so I crack open the first book on the pile and start to read.

  Godrick Patton was a true renaissance man. He excelled as a musician, a physician, an archaeologist and, most famously, as a stationery mogul. But above all else, the text informs me, Godrick was a father. He adored his daughter Elizabeth Violet more than anyone else in his wide, rich, limitless world, and the house he built on Cascade Avenue was his love letter to her.

  Chapter Five

  Disappointed to find Trudy's desk vacant—maybe she has the day off—I wander up to the top floor of the library to look at Elizabeth's drawing of Victoria again. There's no one else viewing the Niagara Falls collection, so I have the whole place to myself. As I make my way toward the glass display case, I notice a newspaper lying open on a chair, and one of the headlines catches my eye: Haunted House or Hoax? The Ghost Team Aims to Find Out.

  The Ghost Team?

  I pick up the paper and put my hand over my mouth, stifling a surprised laugh. Because, just above the article, there's a photograph of a group of four people wearing Ghostbusters-style jumpsuits—though, instead of the trademark beige, the jumpsuits are, shockingly, hot pink.

  I think I can guess who's responsible for the costume revision...because, smiling brightly and beautifully at the center of the group, her arms draped around the shoulders of her fellow teammates, is Trudy Strange. While everyone else in the photo looks a little uncomfortable and a lot silly, Trudy, unsurprisingly, is just hot. Somehow she's styled her jumpsuit to look coy and vintage, with the buttons undone to reveal her cleavage, and the pant legs rolled up to show off her legs and her pink-and-white-striped heels.

  Sexy as hell.

  “You're drooling.”

  I feel Trudy's mouth beside my ear, her hot breath against the side of my neck, as her candy-sweet scent wafts all around me. “Can you blame me? You really know how to wear a jumpsuit,” I whisper, smiling, without turning around.

  She encircles my waist with her bare arm and presses her body against my back. “I'll model it for you sometime. But only if you promise to rip it right off.”

  I chuckle softly. “Deal.”

  “Good. Wanna practice now?” Trudy grips my belt loops and whirls me around to face her. I take in her glossy pink lips, her buttercup-yellow '50-style dress, her pineapple-yellow hair drawn up into a curly ponytail. And suddenly, just like that, we're kissing—hard, fast, right there in the middle of the deserted special collections room. Trudy shoves me back against the glass case and sweeps my shirt over my head without bothering to unbutton it. Just as quickly, she unclasps my bra and bares my breasts, claiming them hotly with her mouth.

  “What if someone...” I begin, between gasps, but Trudy bites my nipple, drawing a cry from me, and laughs throatily.

  “I locked the door.” She leans back to pluck a ring of keys from her dress pocket. “Perks of working the reference desk. Saw you coming up here and hoped you'd be in the mood for some companionship.” Then she flings the keys to the floor and, gazing at me slyly, slides her hand into my pants. “You are in the mood—aren't you?”

  “Oh, God...” I moan, throwing my head back as her fingers move between my panties and my stomach and then lower, seeking, finding— “Trudy...”

  “Alex. I missed you.” She kisses me, stealing my breath, even as her fingers continue to massage my aching core. “It upset me,” she whispers against my mouth, her tongue flicking against my tongue, “how much I missed you. Wanted you. That isn't like me, you know.” She pushes inside of me, moving her hand in a delicious rhythm, and she licks my throat, sucks on my breasts. White stars bloom and burst behind my closed eyes.

  “But then I realized that it's okay for me to want you. It's okay for me to think about you...a lot. As long as you're thinking about me, too. So...”

  I lift my lids to look at her, the sweet-sexiness of her, and she bites her lower lip, sliding her fingers upward to make soft circles over my clit.

  “Have you been thinking about me, tiger?”

  I whisper, “Every day,” and reach out for her, pull her mouth to mine. I'm breathless, dizzy, near climax already, but Trudy slides her hand out of my pants and undoes the button, the zipper, sliding my khakis—along with my panties—over my legs and down to the floor. Then she smacks my bottom and points her chin toward the display case. “Up you go.”

  “What? On the case? We'll break it—”

  “It can withstand a thousand pounds of pressure. I read the specs when I ordered it. Look.” With expert fingers, Trudy unzips the front of her dress and steps out of it; she's naked, pink and perfect, underneath. Still wearing her black high heels, she boosts herself onto the glass cabinet effortlessly and then stands up on it, striking a pin-up girl pose. Her blonde hair glows beneath the soft, diffused lighting.

  Grinning wickedly, she bends at the knees and offers a hand to me. “I'm afraid I'll lose my balance if you don't join me up here. C'mon. Don't tell m
e you're scared of heights. You've climbed the pyramids in Egypt, haven't you? This oughta be a piece of cake.”

  Laughing softly, I kick off my shoes, boost myself onto the case and stand in front of Trudy, our nipples grazing. Her hand seeks out my wetness, and my hand, too, searches hers. As we entwine, our mouths crash together in a kiss that leaves me panting and aching. And feeling a little out of sorts. I've never been so drawn to a woman... Everything about her—her voice, her playful teasing, her hot bared skin, her cupcakes-and-paper scent—pulls me in like a moth to the light. Honestly, Trudy isn't even my type, or what I imagined my type to be. Lucia's my type: tall, dark and smoldering; earthy but cool; forward but private; physically available but emotionally removed...

  Still, when I lie down in my bed every night, I'm not fantasizing about Lucia. The moment I close my eyes, I see Trudy's smile, remember our night together on the dusty floor, and feel piercingly alone. Lonely for her.

  It's weird. New and weird, like everything is turning out to be in Niagara Falls. But, as Trudy said, maybe this kind of weird is okay. Maybe we should indulge our attraction to each other right now, see where this—whatever this is—leads us...

  And maybe I should ask her for her phone number, for God's sake.

  I'm not certain how we end up lying down, but suddenly I'm arching on top of Trudy, pressing her into the cold glass, moving my fingers inside of her as my lips and teeth taste and bite her neck and her large, blushing breasts. Her hand is still exploring me; I throb around her in an increasingly urgent rhythm. And then it's too much—too much heat, too much longing, too much sensation—and I give in to the waves, feel the orgasm crest through me. At the same time, Trudy cries out, clutching my shoulder, spasming against my hand for a long, gasping moment.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathes a minute later, her cheek soft and warm against mine. “We came together. That's never happened to me before.” Her mouth catches my mouth, kissing me lingeringly, deeply. “Another first. Know what, tiger?”

  “What?”

  “You're awesome,” she smiles, then kisses me again, harder, spiking my already stampeding heart rate and making my toes curl.

  I chuckle and draw back from her, rising onto my elbow to peer down at her face—still flushed, alight, her blue-violet eyes hooded and sleepy. She looks so calm. So present. So lovely.

  “You're awesome, too,” I whisper. “You're...astonishing.” Mystified, I shake my head, lick my lips. “I didn't expect you, Trudy Strange.”

  “I do like to surprise people.”

  I trail my fingertips over her inner arm, causing her to flutter her dark lashes. Then I grin. “I hate surprises. But you're my favorite kind of surprise. The good kind. Like the trowel my father gave me for my fourth birthday.”

  “You're comparing me to a trowel?” Her mouth slants, amused.

  “Hey, it was my first trowel. It meant I was growing up. It meant I could dig in the dirt, just like my dad, and hunt for treasure.”

  “You're lucky, you know.” She glides a cool finger over my lips. “To be so passionate about your career. To seek out adventures—and get paid for it.” Her chest rises and falls in a small sigh. For a moment, she's silent, thinking. Then she breathes, “That's what I want.”

  I blink at her. “You do?”

  “Yeah.” She lowers her eyes, suddenly shy. “You'll think it's silly. I mean...being a reference librarian is a little like digging for treasure. But it isn't adventurous so much as monotonous. Sometimes the copy machine breaks. And that's as exciting as it gets around here.”

  I tilt my head, curious. “Well, how would you rather spend your time?”

  She peers up at me and blushes adorably, resting a hand against the side of my neck. “Okay. The thing is, I get such a rush when I'm ghost-hunting. Oh, my God, it's like nothing else. Well, it isn't better than sex.” Her knee moves coyly between my legs. “But it's close enough.” She holds up a finger. “Hey, don't forget your promise about my pink jumpsuit. I'm going to hold you to it.”

  “Please do,” I smile, kissing her, warmth rushing through me as I imagine undressing her at some future point in time. Even after our exhaustive lovemaking this afternoon, and after that life-changing simultaneous orgasm, I'm still aching for her. I still want more...

  But I came to the library today to ask Trudy a specific question, and, in my, well, distraction, I haven't gotten around to it yet. So I clear my throat, smile sheepishly. “I was wondering... Trudy, can I hire you?”

  “Hire me? Oh, you mean, to research those Victorian archaeologists—”

  “No, no. I mean”—I kiss her lightly—“to go all Scooby Doo in my house.”

  Her eyes widen. “You want me to bust your ghost?”

  “I...guess?” I laugh. “Well, I don't want her busted, exactly. My sister and nephew are staying with me right now, to help me renovate the house, and we're all a little creeped out by the haunted happenings. Yesterday we saw a second ghost.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes way. Another female ghost. And I think...” I shift my gaze to the case beneath us, my eyes resting on the drawing of Victoria to our immediate left. Victoria, Elizabeth's model. Victoria the ghost. A chill runs through me as I stare into the portrait's eyes and remember the ghost's eyes—hardly there, only gaps in the fog. I tap on the glass over the drawing. “I think that ghost was her. Victoria. And the other—the one we saw together—is the artist, Elizabeth.”

  Trudy peers down at the drawing, and then she stares at me, speechless.

  “So...what do you say? You can bring your whole team. We just want to know what's going on, why their spirits are unsettled... How they're connected to each other, if they are. Do you think you'd be available to—”

  “Yes. Yes! I mean, I'll have to clear it with everyone on the team, but how does tomorrow night sound? Around seven?”

  I laugh again, charmed by her enthusiasm. “Sounds perfect.” I press my mouth to her breast, and then I lift my gaze to meet her dark, smoky eyes. “I'll look forward to seeing you. I...feel different when I'm with you. Like...” I frown, considering.

  “Like what?”

  I sigh, look down at Trudy, and graze my thumb in semicircles over her forehead. “You make me feel like someone else. Someone I didn't know I had inside of me.”

  “Does that scare you?” she whispers, watching me.

  “Yeah.” I chuckle softly. “It scares me more than the ghosts, to be honest.”

  She nods, her lips curving into a small, weak smile. “Me, too. I can't stop thinking about you. When my FWB—friend with benefits—Ruby called me yesterday for a hook-up, I turned her down. Like, right away.”

  Now I smooth my thumb over Trudy's delicately arched brow. “Why?” I ask her, leaning down to kiss her shoulder.

  She rakes a hand through my messy brown curls. “Because I only wanted you.”

  I take her breast in my mouth again, teasing her nipple with my tongue, as my fingers trail lightly over her skin. We kiss, kiss madly, smearing the glass beneath us as we move together...

  And then the loudspeaker announces: Trudy, patron waiting for you at the Reference Desk.

  “Damn it,” Trudy laughs reluctantly, her breath hot against my ear, the heel of her hand pressed against my wetness. “Duty calls. I was on break, but my break is definitely over. We have been up here for...a while.”

  With feline grace, she disentangles her limbs from mine and lowers her high-heeled feet to the floor. Then, in one easy motion, she steps into her dress and zips it up, her eyes never leaving mine, her lips pink, swollen from my kisses. “How do I look?” She smooths down her rumpled ponytail. “Like I just got ravished?”

  Still lying on my side on the case, I smile up at her. “Kinda.”

  “Good.” Trudy leans over me and pinches my nipple as she gifts me with the French kiss to end all French kisses. Hell, to redefine the French kiss. “I'll be thinking about you as I, well, reference things. See you tomorrow night. With my
pink jumpsuit on.”

  “Can't wait.”

  And with that, Trudy blows me a kiss and walks away, leaving me—alone and glaringly naked—in the special collections room. I dress quickly, my muscles deliciously sore, and soon follow in Trudy's footsteps. When I walk past her desk, she's chatting animatedly with a gray-haired woman in a tweed suit, but she pauses to wink at me as I lift my hand, my fingers still sweet with her scent, and wave good-bye.

  ---

  When I get home from the library, I sprawl on my bed and distract my brain from rampant, raunchy thoughts of Trudy by reading for the rest of the evening. I don't learn much of interest about Elizabeth, aside from the fact that she never married and died young, suddenly, from an undiagnosed illness that she contracted, her doctors assumed, during her travels.

  Her father was abroad in England when his valet Xavier found Bess lying on her bedroom floor—my bedroom floor now—and assumed, at first, that she had fainted. But Bess wasn't breathing, though her bright green eyes were still open, still shining, according to the valet, “like a pair of glass marbles.”

  Elizabeth's father's health went into immediate decline, and he died a few months afterward, presumably of a broken heart. His layabout brother Thomas inherited his assets, including this house—which he willfully neglected, allowing it to fall into disrepair.

  Patton Papers lived on, though, and lives on to this day, providing the world with greeting cards and stationery for every occasion. My mother used to buy packs of blank Patton cards printed with the image of a brown rabbit, her favorite animal; she sent correspondence on them to her friends in Canada whenever we were abroad.

  Sighing, I shut the library book and roll over onto my back, staring up at the water-damaged ceiling. This house was once so full of love, bursting with love—until the tragedy of Elizabeth's death befell it. Is that why her spirit can't find rest? Because she's still mourning what she had, what she can never have again?