Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  A hum rang from her throat and she answered honestly. “I think looking forward to my cooking is a borderline fantasy.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Dustin said. “You look cold.” He didn’t wait for Missy to confirm as much, producing a town-issued jacket and wrapping it around her. “As for the cooking, Mom’s offered to teach you a dozen times.”

  “I know . . . I know,” she said, gathering the jacket even though the July air was more wet than chilled. Missy’s name was branded on the breast, so for now it was a garment they kept hidden in his truck. It was the anchor item to Missy’s upcoming twenty-first birthday presents from Dustin: the jacket on her back, a ring on her finger, and him on her arm—publicly. “I’m just wondering how my cooking will compare to Violet’s.”

  “You’re going to be the perfect wife. Besides, Mom’s a whiz in the kitchen and she’d be glad to show you.” Dustin cupped his hand around her cheek.

  Missy inhaled hard, wondering where the shiver of expectation had gone. She pushed past its absence. “It’s sweet of her to offer,” Missy said, and she did think it was. “Violet’s been amazing. And you’d think by now I might have picked up a thing or two.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ve got a lifetime to figure out all my favorites. And Mom has been good to us, keeping our secret. But I, for one, can’t wait to end it—make honest women out of both of you.” He pulled her into a tight embrace as he made his vow. Missy’s hands were busy holding the jacket closed, making the motion awkward. Her throat thrust into Dustin’s shoulder where air was momentarily cut off. “And whether you’re a fine cook or we live on takeout, it won’t matter to Mom,” he said, letting go.

  “She just wants to see us happy, doesn’t she?”

  He smiled. “Mom’s like that—simple pleasures. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if she thinks our wedding night will be the first time we . . . you know.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “You have to admit, innocent follows your face.” Dustin traced over her collarbone, running from the hollow of Missy’s throat to her cheek. “Besides, I’ve never said, ‘Hey, Mom, instead of going to the shooting range, I’m bedding Missy at the Red Maple Motel.’ She thinks intimate exchanges occur on the couch, holding hands, while she scoots off to do her weight training.”

  “Now you’re just teasing!”

  “No, I don’t think I am. Mom loves her exercise.”

  “I didn’t mean . . .”

  Missy laughed at the remark, but as Dustin spoke, his hand moved lower, running along her leg. Humor dissipated as she watched his wind-chapped digits edge under her skirt. Separating herself from this act wasn’t nearly as hard as the others. Missy reminded herself to be grateful about that. “And now we’re just under the three-month mark.” Dustin leaned across her lap, popping open the glove box. From it he retrieved a daily planner. It was where Dustin noted important things: when the town drains needed flushing, water restriction violations, and October first, Missy’s twenty-first birthday. There was a fat red circle around it, the date he’d designated. She’d actually been impressed by his plan; it was crafty and in-depth. Dustin’s mantra had been clear: “Twenty-one is respectable, Missy. Eighteen invites too much speculation and sixteen . . . well, people just wouldn’t understand.”

  “It’ll be here before we know it. You’re right.” Missy took the planner from him, but as she reached to put it back a hard object caught her eye. “Hey, this is new.” From the deep hollow of the glove box her hand gripped a revolver, fingers clasping the trigger. “When did you—”

  “Give me that thing!” Dustin locked his hand around her wrist. Her fingers disengaged, dropping the gun, which he grabbed. “Are you crazy, Missy?”

  She laughed. “I’m not the one with a gun in my glove compartment!”

  “Remember, I told you about it—cost me a damn fortune, but it was worth every penny. Slim and fine piece of weaponry. This Super Redhawk is considered an expert firearm. In the military, they only assign them to special ops, a few sharpshooters.”

  “So how’d you get one?”

  Dustin grazed the cold barrel of the gun lightly over Missy’s arm. “Well there, Miss Missy, you just have to know the right dealer—and I do.” He pointed the gun toward the windshield. “I took this Ruger baby out to the range this morning. It was the envy of every other shooter—I looked damned important just holding it.” Dustin talked a lot about his guns. They were his property and he liked to let people know as much. “But the last thing we need is for you to get hurt with one. I’d have a wicked time explaining that.” He tucked the Ruger into the recesses of the glove box. “Of course, maybe after we’re married I might teach you how to use it.”

  “Right. After we’re married,” she repeated. “The time has gone fast, hasn’t it?”

  “What are you talking about? I swear, if your birthday was any later in the year I’d just take my chances—tell your parents today. I think your mom will be pleased, and your dad will come—”

  “I don’t give a shit about him.” While she said the words, Missy thoughts turned to the contents of the glove box. She imaged the power of pulling the gun’s trigger. “But I do want him to know how much you love me . . . how normal it is. If it weren’t for my mother, I’d never speak to him again.”

  “We’ve been over this. No question, your father’s behavior was wrong, cheating on your mother like that when she’s so ill. But—”

  “Dustin,” she snapped as his misconception. “There is no but. And you should know, my father—” She stopped. Missy gently placed the planner back in the glove box. It wasn’t Dustin’s fault. That was the story he knew, because that was the one she’d told him. The truth was too repulsive. “Forget it. Could we just not talk about it?” But her throat had gone tight, and a fresh knot gripped her stomach.

  “All right, okay,” he said, his hand swooshing over the vinyl jacket sleeve. “I know how much he upsets you. Why don’t we”—his . . . glance moved between her balled fists and taut jaw—“go back to a happier topic?” He tucked the jacket tighter, as if this might help. “Hey, here’s an idea crazy enough to solve everything. Let’s do it tonight, run off and get married.”

  “Now?” Predictability was the trait that drew her to Dustin. In five years he’d exhibited all the spontaneity of a wet match. Missy deftly negotiated around it. “Dustin, that’s sweet. But you came up with a solid plan for a good reason. Does it make sense to blow it now, when we’re so close?”

  Dustin leaned lazily into his side of the truck. “Yeah, it is a smart plan. But I’m starting not to care what anybody thinks. I just want us together. Don’t you feel the same way?”

  “You know the answer to that,” she said, employing his rhetoric. “If your job wasn’t in the public eye we could have said the heck with it a long time ago. But you still want to be the director of Surrey Parks and Recreation, don’t you?” He hummed in agreement. “And we don’t want our relationship to put any kind of mark on your integrity—no matter how ridiculous. Right?” As Missy spoke, she slipped into a practiced ritual. She caressed his bulky arm muscles, shrugging off the jacket. Damp perfumed skin brushed against his. She didn’t make eye contact, also a ritual.

  Men had specific smells; Dustin’s was infused with grass clippings, chlorine, and security. But in the last year, maybe more so in recent months, the lure of the last one had withered like a summer flower. Missy shifted closer, trying to be good. She tried to snuff out deodorant bar soap and the sensual cotton T-shirt smells of Frank Delacort. “I’ve been thinking about us a lot lately,” she said, which was true. “Waiting, it seemed like a lifetime when we first talked about it. Like it would never get here.”

  “But you’re glad it’s almost here, right, Missy? I mean, you’re looking forward to telling everyone that I’m your guy. That it’s you and me—forever.”

  She hesitat
ed a second too long.

  “Missy?”

  “Dustin,” she said, turning his question into hers. “How can you even ask that? After all the plans we’ve made. Tell me again how it goes.” She soothed them both by nuzzling into him and an old daydream. “Please?”

  He feigned irritation, a smile spreading beneath a bushy mustache. “Okay. But only if you really want to hear it.”

  “I do.” Missy snuggled closer, willing old feelings.

  “On a few acres, just outside town, we’ll build a log-cabin house. It’ll be rustic on the outside, but you’ll have every modern convenience on the inside, including a big kitchen. You’d like that, right?”

  “Sure,” she said, her fingers running over the buttons on his khaki shirt. “A kitchen with a giant window that looks out over a yard with a pool.” It was her favorite part of the big picture.

  “Right. We’ll take all the money I’ve saved . . . Did I tell you I crossed the eighty-grand threshold?”

  “Dustin, that’s incredible,” she said, rewarding him with a kiss.

  “Yep, eighty grand—tucked inside my bedroom safe. I definitely don’t need Ben Franklin Savings knowing my net worth.”

  “Oh, you’re being silly about that. They’re very discreet at the bank.”

  “Sure, if you’ve got nothing saved but a few hundred bucks.” Missy smiled and shrugged. “Anyway, our house will have four bedrooms, a huge one for us,” he said, kissing her neck right below her ear. “One for guests and a couple we’ll put those kids in not too far from now—maybe before your twenty-second birthday.”

  Kids . . . Missy’s breath quivered on the exhale.

  “Cold?”

  “A little.”

  “I told you.” His arms bundled around her. “Hey, speaking of the Red Maple, I thought we could see if they have the room with the Jacuzzi tub available.”

  Agreement hummed from Missy, but her mind wasn’t on the Red Maple. It wasn’t even in the truck. It was in the room above the Plastic Fork. “I’m not sure I can wait that long.” It offered an excuse that would make Dustin’s evening complete. Instead of touching his shirt buttons, Missy undid them, her mouth following, gliding over his hairy chest.

  “Damn, Missy . . . not here. Not like this.” Dustin always thought it should be in a bed. It was a mindset that had, once, so thoroughly charmed her. Missy wriggled her fingers beneath the slope of his belly, reaching for his belt buckle. “I wanted to put some dinner in you first. I thought we could go to the other side of Leominster. We wouldn’t run into anybody there.”

  “Don’t you like the pouring rain?” She kissed him. Dustin responded, his tongue flying into her mouth like a missile. “The thunder . . . the wind, the empty parking lot.” She reached past him, hitting the control that moved the seat back.

  There was lots of headroom in the cab and Missy stood tall on her knees, Dustin’s hand sliding beneath her skirt. With the other, he rapped his knuckles against the foggy truck window. “This weather is making things private. Nobody would see us.” Dustin’s mischievous brown eyes skimmed her body, his fingers looping around her underwear. “I suppose it’d be okay. Watts Lumber closed at five sharp. But what’s the rush?”

  “No rush,” she said, helping him slide her panties off. “But I do have a major accounting test tomorrow. That summer class I’m taking.”

  “Didn’t you say that was Monday? You said that’s why you had to cancel.” He wrapped his hands around her ass, laying claim to Missy like he did his guns.

  A sultry moan vibrated out of Missy and she bit down on her lip. It bought her a moment. He was right. She’d used that excuse to spend Monday drinking Rolling Rocks with Frank. They’d eaten chicken wings, played three hands of gin, and watched the movie she’d rented from Blockbuster. But as he undid her blouse and Missy unhooked her bra, the misstep was forgotten. Dustin was too busy shoving his pants down. Rain hammered the truck’s roof. It was as rhythmic as the groans radiating out of him. Missy’s kissed him back the way he liked, stroking him, multitasking as she took in the truck’s rear view. It wasn’t as foggy as the rest of the windows. Dustin would stop if he knew that. He’d insist on the Red Maple. It wasn’t where she wanted to be. But her plan moved along as Dustin’s hand crooked around her neck, yanking Missy into lustier kisses. She closed her eyes and whispered something dirty in his ear, straddling Dustin Byrd and the very fine line she walked.

  At nine forty-five Missy was in another deserted parking lot. But the rain had lifted, meaning she only had to jump the puddles to the rear stairs of the Plastic Fork. One of the best things about Dustin’s job was his five a.m. call. It gave her lots of free time. After having sex in his truck and a quick meal at Hobart’s Barbecue, he’d yawned twice, farted once, and kissed her goodnight. In Missy’s hand now was a bottle of champagne, compliments of Marty Finch, who owned Finch Liquor and supplied Missy with alcohol on demand. She never bartered for goods, making Marty the exception to the rule.

  Today was Frank’s one-month anniversary at Holliston’s Hardware & Feed. That called for a celebration. Missy bounded up the tall, narrow staircase, her steps light and happy. This was the effect of Frank Delacort, and with each passing day she found herself wanting more. Frank was unexpected, like a punch of air in the midst of a last ghastly breath. He was mesmerizing and strong, complicated but easy to be with. He was also incredibly unique—not once had he suggested that they have sex. At the top of the stairs her thrumming heart consumed Missy. Whatever she felt for Dustin, it paled wildly in comparison to the emotions Frank stirred. She couldn’t figure it out. But Missy also wondered what was so wrong with that. There wasn’t time to speculate as the flat’s steel door flew open, the surprise attack thrusting Missy into the wooden rail. The worn barrier bowed as the champagne slipped from her grip, going overboard and smashing onto the asphalt below.

  Frank grabbed Missy, knowing his grip was viselike. He didn’t care. He hauled her inside, the door slamming behind her. “You tell me what the hell is going on!” His voice was ugly—scary—he didn’t care about that either. “Right now, Missy. I’m not fucking around.”

  “Frank, stop! You’re hurting me!” He let go. Missy stumbled back. “What is with you? Have you been smoking the fertilizer at Holliston’s?”

  “I want to know what game you’re playing.” Frank’s bad luck continued to spiral. Between his dead wife and the army, he’d been on the receiving end plenty. But this was too much. “You must think I’m pretty dumb, the way you sneak over here, then take care of your real life business. I don’t think I’ve been a bigger pawn . . . or putz—not even with Laurel.” Frank didn’t wait for a reply, moving fast across the room. He’d made up his mind. Laurel had played him for a fool; he wasn’t giving Missy the same chance. Frank took his duffel bag from the closet and began shoving whatever life he’d accumulated into it. “Just forget it. There’s nothing you could say anyway. I’m out of here.”

  “Frank, wait! You can’t—” She rushed toward him.

  He swore he heard panic. But that couldn’t be right.

  “Two nights ago we sat here and drank beer, watched a bad movie, played cards . . . What happened? Why are you so angry?”

  Frank pulled his frame upright. Hearing the question made him aware. He recognized the same blinding rage he’d felt toward Laurel, even Dr. Harrison. He fought for self-restraint. He couldn’t get hold of the rage, not entirely, but he did redirect it. Frank threw the duffel bag, tipping over a chair. He came toward her. Missy backed up until she hit a wall. He tried harder, recalling Dr. Harrison’s advice. Frank imagined how Missy saw him—a wild, looming, out-of-control vine, something that could strangle the life out of her. Staring into Missy’s damn damp eyes, something inside him softened. It tamped down his temper, enough that his mind could get a grip around the hot edges of anger. He backed up. He was still angry, but he’d keep it to words—they j
ust wouldn’t be very nice ones. “Your innocent act, it’s really good. But you know that, right? Your never-been-bedded wannabe-nun face. But you’re not so innocent, are you Missy?”

  “What, exactly, are we talking about?” she said, her gaze scaling his rigid body. “Specifically.”

  “I saw you,” he said, sound seeping through gritted teeth. “I watched you fuck that dick-brain, weed-whacking mastermind in his truck.”

  “You saw me . . . with Dustin?”

  “Yeah, with Dustin! Who the hell else would I see you with?”

  She didn’t say anything, like there might be another answer. “How did you . . . Watts Lumber is miles from here,” she said, skipping right over denial. “You don’t have a car.”

  “Logistics?” His fists balled so tight Frank thought he’d crack a bone. “You only want to know the longitude and latitude?” For safety sake, he backed up. “Fine. Watts supplies stock to Holliston’s. The old man was too shaky; he didn’t want to make the drive. He told me to take the company truck and make the pickup. I was in the loading bay when you got there. I stayed to watch since I had a front row seat for the whole peep show! And I’m an ass for thinking you . . .”

  “For thinking what?”

  “Nothing.” He refused to go near vulnerability. Instead Frank retrieved the duffel bag. “My damn fault. I thought you were somebody else.” He zipped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

  “No!” she said. “You can’t leave! Where are you going?”

  “I’m getting out of your way, sweet Missy Flannigan. Send up a flare to the Surrey Parks and Rec patrol unit. The dickwad can head over and have another go at it in style.” Frank threw the room key onto the mattress. It bounced like a ball on the taut military-made bed. “Shut the lights when you’re done.”

  “Oh my God, Frank.” He blew past her in a whirling gust of emotion. “You’re jealous.”