Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  Frank spun around; he almost swore she was smiling. “I’m not jealous. You and your sweet candy ass give yourself too much credit.”

  “Then why else would you get so upset or care who I was with behind Watts Lumber?”

  And this was why a smarter Frank avoided women. They confused the shit out of him. They twisted words and the way he felt. Laurel, Dr. Harrison, and now her, a girl he never thought would climb into a bed, or a truck, belonging to Dustin Byrd. “I am not jealous,” he said. “There’s an outside chance I’m suffering from Stockholm syndrome—the way you’ve kept me here.”

  “You could have left anytime you wanted. Staying was your choice.”

  He still stood closer to the exit than her. He wished he could be that smarter Frank and leave. Some fucked up feeling inside wouldn’t let him go.

  “I can’t change what you saw, Frank. But you’re not being fair.” She was the calmer, more rational of the two. He desperately wanted to be the one in control. “You’ve never even suggested . . . Well, you never even asked if I had a boyfriend.”

  “A boyfriend I could get my mind around—even a girlfriend. But him?” The duffel bag crunched in Frank’s white-knuckle grip. “Why him, Missy?”

  “It’s a long story. I . . .” Missy stared at her hands. They wrung together in a way that said the explanation was just as twisted. “Dustin was in the right place at the right time. That’s . . . that’s the most basic answer I can give you.”

  “How long?”

  “How long what?”

  “How long have you been . . .” Frank dragged his hand over his crew-cut and rushed through the rest of the thought. “How long have you been doing that with him?”

  Her hands unknotted and Missy’s arms moved to self-comfort. Frank saw her finger dig into her flesh. “Almost five years.” She looked everywhere but at him. “Since I was sixteen.”

  “Since you were . . .” The duffel bag hit the floor. “You’ve got to be kidding me. What kind of man goes after a sixteen-year-old girl?” Frank shoved his hands in his pockets. It would force him to be still and think. “All right, I can see you making a mistake at that age. But why are you still with him? Byrd’s a puffed up know-it-all who doesn’t know a goddamn thing. I could make him piss in his county-issue boots in heartbeat.”

  “Don’t make me defend him. Dustin’s not a bad person. Sure, maybe a little false ego, but he’s been good to me. Don’t hate him for that.”

  “Okay, how about I hate him for having the scruples of any predator?” Frank was right about Dustin Byrd being an asshole. He’d just undershot what the dickhead could accomplish. “I would never go near a girl that age. It would take incredible circumstance to consider . . . you, at twenty.”

  “Is that why . . . why you’ve never . . .” Missy tipped her head toward a bed that they’d treated as if it were invisible.

  “There’s lots of reasons why I’ve never . . . gone there.”

  “For a while now,” she said softly, “you and I have talked about everything under the sun. We got drunk and still you never even hinted . . . Do you know how surreal that is, Frank? Do you have any idea how that made me feel?”

  “Unwanted?”

  “Unbelievable. You chose to spend time with me, just me. The thoughts in my head, talking . . . listening. That must sound small and ‘so what’ to you, but it was a first for me.”

  “Glad to be your novelty, Missy.” His focus moved from the untouched bed to the moonless sky outside the Plastic Fork. “But I get it now, why you weren’t interested in more.”

  “No,” she said, which sounded like confirmation to Frank. He wished he were as emotionless as the army had intended. “You don’t get it at all.” Missy’s chest heaved, her sweet façade cracking under utter honesty. “A little more than a month ago you stood right by that bed and asked me what I wanted. Do you remember?”

  “I remember you being a cocktease then turning it off like a faucet. I took that as an almost-twenty-one-year-old girl who wasn’t ready for anything more.” Frank stared into her watery blue eyes, thinking he’d made the smarter choice that day. That maybe he’d even been looking out for her. “Guess I was wrong.”

  “Not entirely. Please, Frank,” she said, “just keep listening.” His stance was tense but stationary, at ease but not quite. “When you asked me that, I had this brand new idea. But it was all so strange, different from anything in my life. At first I just reacted the only way I knew how—I guess that was the cocktease part.”

  “And that’s changed how?”

  “Because I changed. And before you turned up at the Snack Shack, I didn’t think that was possible. I thought being with Dustin was more than I could hope for. I never imagined things could change so fast over a few buckets of chicken wings and some bad video rentals.”

  “Missy, what are you talking about?”

  “You. I’m talking about you, Frank. It’s the way you ordered mild wings when we both knew you liked hot. It was you telling me to pick the movie and asking what card game to play. It was Frank Delacort wanting nothing from me but to be with me. From the time I was nine years old,” she said, her voice shaking, “nothing has been about what I wanted—not with Dustin, certainly not before him. Not with anybody.”

  And despite whatever his uneven life hadn’t delivered, Frank thought this was the emptiest, saddest thing he’d ever heard. A punch of pride drove through him. He, Frank Delacort, had made something better for her. Frank moved past the duffel bag, righting the chair he’d knocked over. The toppled object was indicative of his temper and he needed to erase that. It didn’t go with the man she claimed to see. He stood a foot from her, staring at her soft skin, admiring her altered outlook. “I’m sorry about the champagne you brought.”

  “It was just cheap champagne. Today is one month at Holliston’s, you know? Missy’s hand brushed against his. “I wanted to celebrate. I thought we could see if grilled-cheese sandwiches go as good with champagne as they do Rolling Rocks.”

  “I guess the champagne isn’t going to happen. Neither is the beer, I’m fresh out of Rolling Rock.”

  “That’s too bad,” she said, their fingers linking. “Got any other ideas how we can celebrate?”

  “Maybe. As long as it’s what you want.”

  “I want you. I want out of this town, out of this life.” He saw a tear at the edge of her eyes. He brushed it away. “I think, Frank, that maybe you’re the answer to a prayer.”

  Frank squinted through the giant picture window. He didn’t know about that. But he did know he felt something good standing there with her. “Missy, I don’t want to talk about him anymore, but if we start something here . . . You should know, I’m not into community property. If there’s an us, there can’t be a him—not for any reason.” He looked back at her. “Do you understand what I mean?”

  “There. You just did it again. That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me,” she said, her mouth bowing.

  Frank didn’t want to think about right or wrong, but he felt sure this was more honorable than what Dustin Byrd had done. He pulled Missy close. Residual anger melted as she hugged him. Frank closed his eyes, not kissing her. Not yet. He needed to find his center. Calm was at the center. It was the one good piece of advice Dr. Harrison had given him before he’d thrown her into a steel door.

  “Wait,” Missy said, bobbing out of his reach. He almost lost it; he almost grabbed. It gave him confidence when he didn’t. Maybe she could fix that part of him, like whatever it was he’d done for her. “You could sell tickets with this window.” Missy pulled down the yellowed shade. “Just roll it back up tomorrow; the spring doesn’t work.”

  “Will do,” he said, mesmerized, as she glided back to him. Frank helped her discard the blouse and unsnapped her denim skirt, which slid to the floor. He stripped the undergarments from her body unceremoniously. He didn
’t want to think about where her clothes had been. She pulled off his shirt, Frank shuffling out of his jeans. Doubt vanished as they fell onto the bed and Frank realized how much she wanted this. He wanted to make her come, and there was an encouraging moan almost as soon as he made the effort. Everything whirled as Missy kneaded tighter to him—he liked that. But he wanted her to look at him, tell him. Frank straddled her, but he couldn’t get the words out. Goddamn it, tell me you won’t fuck him again? It was weak . . . needy. He hated both.

  She saw the question on his face. “What?” she said, breathless, her hands running hard over little scars and used skin. He rose over her, kissing her. She kissed him back.

  “Missy, this . . . this is supposed to happen to us, right?”

  “God, I hope so,” she said as he thrust himself inside her. “I was beginning to believe this was nothing but a means to an end.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Present Day

  On the coffee table were a large tin box and a bottle of wine. Aubrey stretched out her legs and rested her feet on the table too, flexing her aching arches. As far as Missy Flannigan was concerned, it had been a satisfying, forward-motion kind of day. The rest of the evening wasn’t proving as productive. Aubrey swallowed a mouthful of red wine and dropped her cell phone beside her. “That was Owen.”

  “I gathered as much.” Charley clicked off the television, sitting stiff in her wingback chair.

  “He’s stuck in New York longer than expected. He sounded really disappointed.”

  “And you?”

  “Of course I’m disappointed! Everything changes in one phone call and we can’t connect long enough to tear up the divorce papers.” Her brow wriggled at Charley. “If it weren’t for all this Missy Flannigan business, I’d get the car and drive down there myself.” She picked up a throw pillow and gave it a punishing toss into the sofa. Charley was silent, not encouraging the option. Aubrey changed the subject. “I was thinking,” she said, gliding her glass past the comfy, casual furnishings. “If I recall, that chair of yours had a mate. What became of it?”

  “It’s in storage. It doesn’t fit in your house. I should probably get rid of it. Sometimes,” Charley said, sipping her tea, served nightly with a shot of whiskey, “it makes sense to let go of things when they no longer fit into your life.”

  “And yet,” Aubrey said, smiling, sensing an uptick to the conversation. “It might be wiser to recognize the value in keeping what you already have. I mean, the chairs do go together.”

  “Perhaps. At a glance. But the supposed mate, it hasn’t shown the same constitution, lived up to expectations,” she rebutted, resting her head against the back of the tall chair in which she sat. “Of course, I appreciate the remorse in discarding a once-meaningful thing. But sometimes one has to make the more practical choice.”

  “I don’t see that as practical,” Aubrey argued. “It could be that the chair is entirely repairable. Chances are you’ll never come across two chairs quite like those again.” She put the wine glass down and focused on Charley. “Obviously, they were meant to be together.”

  “You could be right.” She breathed deep, surveying Aubrey’s eclectic choice of furniture. “Yet, I feel a duty to mention that recently, upon closer inspection, I learned something about the banished chair.”

  “What’s that?” Aubrey said.

  “The so-called mate isn’t a match at all. In fact, it’s nothing more than a cheap knock-off.”

  Aubrey picked up her wine. “Well, lucky for me it’s my house . . . my life. I get to decide what . . . or who fits.”

  “Why, of course,” Charley said, patting her hand against the firm arm of her chair. “I was merely talking about furniture.”

  Aubrey narrowed her eyes. It was all so easy for Charley, with her revolving rotation of husbands. Why fight for marriage number one when a second or third held so much possibility? Aubrey leaned deeper into the couch cushions, her big toe nudging the latch on the tin box that was shaped like a small treasure chest. “Seriously. You ought to get together with Levi. I believe you’d find common ground.”

  “Do tell? Your odious partner in reporting is aware of your personal affairs? I didn’t realize you’d bonded.”

  “Clearly, I should have just taken the bottle to bed.” Aubrey sat upright and refilled her glass. “We most certainly have not bonded.” She took an unladylike gulp, her foot brushing over the tin. “But . . . odious is a strong word. I’d say Levi is stubborn, direct . . . ambitious—which, in the right light, might mimic odious.”

  “In the right light, I wonder if he’d favor a young Gregory Peck or perhaps Rock Hudson? Though I didn’t get a—”

  “No, definitely Gregory Peck. Levi has a longtime girlfriend.”

  “Interesting. I’ve always found that term vexing. I hear longtime girlfriend as not that interested.”

  Aubrey laughed. “In Levi’s case? Quite possible. I can’t imagine him overly interested in anything but his work. Wait. How do you even know what my reporting partner looks like?”

  “I Googled him.” Aubrey’s curiosity segued to a disapproving glance and Charley returned to her tea. “I needed to put a face to the person you’ve been chattering on about for weeks. Whatever his ticks, the man has moxie. He’s certainly made his mark—editor of the Brown Daily Herald, MediaMatters City Desk Editor of the Year, Reporter of the Year—twice.”

  “My, did your homework, didn’t you?” Aubrey’s big toe continued to fondle the latch on the tin box. It squeaked like a tight gate as she raised and lowered it. “As noted, I’m sure Levi likes his ‘longtime girlfriend,’ but ambition is his true love.”

  “Seems to fit. But I also Googled him because I needed to know if Mr. St John’s face matched the man in my dream.”

  Aubrey’s alarmed look shot from the tin box to Charley. “Did it?”

  “Is there a reason it should? Is there something about Mr. St John, other than his newspaper moxie, that you haven’t shared?”

  “Maybe.” Aubrey took another gulp of wine. “Yes,” she confessed. “There’s someone—a young man—looking for Levi. But I can promise you one thing; I won’t be brokering that exchange.”

  “For what reason, may I ask?”

  “Uh, where to begin? For starters, Levi would be as open to the idea as he would be to”—she picked up her glass, sweeping it by Charley—“well, marrying his longtime girlfriend.”

  “Set in his ways, is he?”

  “Imagine the conversation: ‘Levi, FYI, for the past few weeks, someone’s been hammering my brain on your behalf. Salt water and burnt wood, a bit of a pothead from what I can gather . . . There’s this wicked itch of wool—and that damn watch of yours, the one with the leather strap. Does that hodgepodge mean anything to you, other than ideas about labeling me a mental patient?’ No thank you.”

  “That’s an intense host of signs, Aubrey. You don’t think he’d recognize the specter attached to them?”

  Aubrey thought for a moment. She sat upright and her knuckles knocked against the tin box. “I don’t want to be that involved in Levi’s life.”

  “Because?”

  “Because Levi’s here to do a job—that’s all. Because I don’t allow random entities to push me around my newsroom—there are rules.” She set the glass down, a splash of cabernet spilling over. “Because I have enough going on with sizzling listing sheets and blistered fingers,” she said, holding up her hand. “Not to mention a damn dead girl swirling two inches from my head.”

  “I thought you said the only Missy Flannigan progress you’ve made is the generic investigative sort.”

  “It has . . . it is.”

  “Then I don’t see how she factors in . . .” Charley stopped, struggling to straighten her crooked posture. “You’re considering it. You’re thinking about making a concerted effort to connect with Missy Flannigan. Ho
w stunning.”

  “Would you be that shocked?”

  “I’ve known you a while now, dear, and I dare say it would. Can I ask why? You’ve never been open to using your gift proactively. Spirits seek you out, not the other way around.”

  “I’m thinking out loud. It’s just talk.”

  “Careful what you talk about, Aubrey. You never know who’s listening.” Her grandmother’s blue-gray gaze focused on Aubrey’s crescent-moon scar. In response, Aubrey pushed down her sleeve, covering her pockmarked arm. “If you were to take up ghost hunting, a murdered girl would not be the place I’d like to see you start.”

  “I agree—completely. Yet . . . I’m curious,” she said. “When this began, I thought I’d be fighting a Missy Flannigan insurrection . . . resurrection. The fact that her presence is as cold as most of our leads . . . it’s disconcerting, that’s all.”

  “Ah, I see. Something like a genius stumped by the equation.”

  “I don’t know about that, but if I did make an effort, it might speed things up. It could lend a hand in substantiating Dustin Byrd’s guilt or Frank Delacort’s innocence—or the other way around. We’d be done.” Aubrey picked the wine glass up again. “And Levi could go back to where he belongs.”

  “Ah, so we’ve circled back to Mr. St John. Why is that?”

  Aubrey offered a deadpan stare. “Because he’s freaking me out a little, okay?” Once more, she touched the tin box. “Levi’s intense physical presence, coupled with his reeking . . . noisy . . . itchy . . . bossy past.”

  “Oh my, that adamant of a specter, is it?”

  “Enough so that Levi turned up in your dream. Charley, what . . . what, exactly, was Levi doing in the dream?”

  “As long as you ask . . . He was sitting on an airplane, reading a newspaper. I couldn’t tell you his destination, he was definitely returning . . . flying east. He was so focused . . . complex. Um, virile, if I had to pick a hands-on word.”

  “You don’t.” Aubrey bristled at the footnote. “But that does sounds like the Levi in our newsroom.”