Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  “Frank, wait.” Aubrey attempted to exit the booth, Levi pinned her in. “Will you let me out, please?”

  “No. I don’t think you should.”

  She patted him on the leg. “It’ll be fine. I promise. I’ve got this.” Reluctantly, he stood and Aubrey slid from the booth. As she did, Levi held on to her arm. “Frank, you asked us to take a leap of faith with everything you said. Would you do the same for me?”

  “I don’t follow—”

  “I don’t believe our meeting was for nothing. I also don’t think it was just about Missy. Laurel, she wants you to know how sorry she is.”

  “Laurel what?”

  “Unbelievable as this is going to sound, she’s been here all this time. Think about it. You could have returned the phone call of a dozen different media sources. They all want to talk to you. But there’s a reason you decided to call us. There’s a reason you ended up speaking to me. Laurel’s that reason.”

  Frank shuffled closer. “She . . . I dreamed about Laurel last night. I haven’t dreamed about her in years. Not like that. It was vivid . . . intense.”

  “Dreams are one way of communicating. She very much wants the chance to talk to you.”

  “Talk to me? What do you mean?” His gaze moved around the diner, perhaps looking for an apparition, or an exit.

  “Look at me, Frank.” He did. “Laurel’s right here. Incredible as this is going to sound, I can communicate with people like Laurel, people who have passed.”

  “You can . . .”

  Aubrey drew a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. She showed the drawing to Frank.

  “A laurel wreath,” he said.

  “I drew it while we spoke on the phone the other day. At the time, I had no idea what it meant.” A shaky breath filled Frank’s chest. Levi’s grip tightened around Aubrey’s arm. It was curious. Usually, in this moment, she was so completely alone. Now, with Levi there, Aubrey felt a solid connection to both sides. “What Laurel did, it left you with the impression she didn’t love you. It’s what started you on the dark path to this place. She regrets that more than anything. She was so young . . . lonely. It’s too late for her, but there’s still time for you make better choices. She wants you to know that.” Aubrey broke eye contact, focused on the battered linoleum beneath her feet. She looked back up. “Laurel . . . she wants . . .” Aubrey held up her hand to empty air. “Slow down . . . I don’t understand.” She stared at Frank, her tone a recitation. “‘The Christmas story, not the manger one . . . the hand-written version . . . the one with petit fours and sunglasses’ . . . I’m sorry,” Aubrey said, feeling frustrated. “It doesn’t make sense, but that’s what I’m hearing.”

  Frank looked equally bewildered. Slowly his face relaxed. “The first Christmas I was overseas, Laurel wrote me a ten-page letter. We’d been married a year. We barely had a dime between us. The letter was her Christmas present to me. She wrote out our entire life, exactly how things were going to be. Where’d we live, the kids we’d have . . . everything a person could want. In the care package were new sunglasses. I’d lost mine. The letter was inside a box with petit fours. They were my favorite.”

  “That’s incredible,” Levi said.

  “You’re fucking telling me.” Frank’s eyes were damp, the back of his hand running across his nose. “The letter, it’s at my sister’s. I never could bring myself to throw it out, even after her affair, even after she died.”

  “Good. That’s good, Frank. I think going to your sister’s is the place to start.”

  “Yeah . . . maybe. Hey, could, um . . . could you tell Laurel something for me?”

  “Absolutely, Frank. Just say it.”

  “It’s just that . . . even after everything, I still loved her.”

  “She knows, Frank. I promise, she knows.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “It’s a good story, honey. Very well written.” Yvette closed the A2 section of the Surrey City Press, where the continuation of Aubrey’s and Levi’s front-page story was printed. The former carnival seamstress smiled at Aubrey, the same way she had after reading her essay assignments for Carmine twenty years ago.

  “Thanks, Yvette,” Aubrey said, seated at one end of her dining room table, her long legs tucked tight to her chest. In her hand was a half-eaten pancake. “But it’s not the one we wanted to tell.”

  “Doesn’t your Dustin Byrd, bullets, and ballistics scoop trump the other media outlets?” Charley said, pouring cream in her coffee. “I didn’t hear Nancy Grace say anything about adding a murder weapon to the evidence they have against him.”

  Yvette chimed in. “Nancy Grace would never admit that. Why, she’s practically BFFs with Byrd’s mother,” she said as if they were characters in a TV crime drama. “Nancy will be arguing the other side by airtime tonight.”

  “Yvette has a point.” Aubrey bit down on the dry pancake. It was the only way she ever ate them. “There’s nothing wrong with the story,” she said, poking at the paper. “It’s good. Levi and I put enough effort into it. Malcolm held the press until two this morning. But still . . .”

  “Perhaps you’re being impatient, dear. Didn’t you say Frank Delacort’s story will take some digging?”

  “It will. He gave us plenty to consider, but not much we can corroborate. It may take months until we get there, if we can get there at all.”

  “Speaking of getting there,” Yvette said, rising. “I’ve got to get in the shower. Your grandmother and I are doing a little fabric shopping this morning.”

  “Yvette’s insisted on whipping me up something new. Carmine and a few others are in the area on Monday. Didn’t I tell you?” Charley said, crooked fingers brushing against a gray temple. “We’re having an impromptu reunion down in Newport, spending the night. We’d love for you to join us. Maybe it would be a distraction from all this Missy Flannigan business.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Aubrey said, smiling. “I can’t. Not right now. There’s too much going on. But I am glad Yvette’s here to go with you.”

  “It should be a good time, sweetie,” Yvette said. “Two of my four ex-husbands have threatened to show.” Passing by, she gave Aubrey’s shoulder a squeeze. In the air was a faint hint of lemon verbena. The scent followed Yvette everywhere and it took Aubrey back in time. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, hearing carnival music, sensing breezy summer days. Aubrey leaned forward. The vision of a single September day was so clear, like a still photograph, one capturing an orb. Aubrey and Yvette were working the duck-shooting game. There was a man. His hands were dirty. His smile was dazzling . . . Then it was gone. Aubrey glanced toward the credenza where her box of ghost gifts sat. “I thought I put that away.”

  “You did. Yvette wanted to reminisce. But she didn’t want to peruse the box without asking.”

  Aubrey shook off the déjà vu and the orb. Like the ghost gifts in the box, déjà vu and random orbs were impossible to place. She relaxed her balled position, stretching her legs onto an adjacent chair. “Look all you like. But seeing everyone from the troupe will be way more interesting.”

  Charley’s mouth curved upward. “More interesting than you? Doubtful. As it is, Yvette’s been clamoring to reminisce over your ghost gifts since she arrived.” Her grandmother leaned back, arms resting across a rotund middle. “So, my darling girl, we’ve talked about everything from newspapers to new frocks. Seems you’ve exhausted ways to avoid personal information. Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your Saturday . . . maybe your life?”

  Having finished the pancake, Aubrey picked up her tea and cheered the cup toward Charley. “I was waiting for that.”

  “I know it’s hard to find time to share. Especially when you’ve been so busy, rolling in at two in the morning and all.”

  “I told you, it was a super late press. And to answer your Saturday question, I’m going to see Owen.” />
  “How nice. A tidbit. If nothing else, it would be wonderful to know if I should look into other living arrangements.”

  “Nonsense. You’ll have the option of staying here—either way.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “Meaning I have no intention of selling this house.”

  “That’s all well and good. But I sincerely feel three would be a crowd. Owen would agree.”

  “There is no crowd.” Out of stall tactics, Aubrey slowly sipped her tea. “Charley,” she said, putting the cup down. “Owen had some wonderful news the other night. At least I hope you’ll think it’s wonderful. Sky Secure Technologies has offered him a permanent job . . . in Seattle.”

  “Seattle? How very grand. Convey my congratulations.” Years of dealing with hired hands made for practiced calm and Charley’s expression gave nothing away. But her hands, clasped around her girth, rose at least six inches with the breath she pulled in. “So this is a plan.”

  “It’s a discussion.”

  “Please, bring me up to speed. Is putting this marriage back together what you want?”

  The question was too direct. She didn’t answer.

  “Aubrey?”

  “It’s what I’ve said since Owen and I fell in love—one life, one marriage, one address. I want roots and a routine. I realize that life doesn’t appeal to you. But maybe you can appreciate how important it is for me not to have failed at this marriage.”

  “True enough. That sort of life was never for me, but it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the attraction.” She sipped her coffee and Aubrey waited for Charley’s point, which surely wasn’t complacency. “But for whatever it’s worth, it seems something is missing from that eloquently stated need not to have failed at marriage.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Your husband.”

  She blinked at her grandmother. “Owen is understood.”

  “Is he? My mistake. Based on the past year, I wasn’t sure Owen was a given.” A stone-cold silence crept into an otherwise chatty relationship. “Look at me, please.” Aubrey’s gaze had shifted, stuck on her and Levi’s bylines, printed above the Surrey City Press fold. “If I can offer unsolicited advice?” Aubrey shrugged; it was coming despite any objection. “Along with your need not to fail, carefully consider your feelings. Just because something surprised you, jumped in front of you, doesn’t mean it’s the right answer. Sudden circumstance doesn’t give that man lasting substance. Employ some common sense and logic here, Aubrey. Consider where you were emotionally, only a short time ago and the way he’s affected you. When I think about that, a change of heart seems rather unexpected.”

  “You think it’s unexpected? Try it from my point of view.” Aubrey rose from the table, busying herself with a flurry of activity. “My life was fine—close to ordinary, thank you very much. You talk about common sense and logic? Forgive me, but where’s that logic here, because I’m feeling absurdly confused.” Aubrey pursed her lips, fighting an unexpected rush of emotion. If she was a teenager, she might have run from the room.

  As it was, she straightened items on the lazy Susan, shoved salt and pepper shakers into their designated spot. “Anybody who knows either of us can see that we’re completely ill-suited, an absolute train wreck.” Aubrey shuffled napkins into an orderly stack, imaging her life with daily doses of organization and preciseness—a singular counterweight to her ethereal gift. Finishing with the napkins, she grabbed up scattered newspaper pages. “And don’t even get me started on that ridiculous kiss. Had it been a crappy kiss, fine. It would still be weird, but at least we’d be done. There’d just be some awkward moment to avoid. But it wasn’t crappy. In fact, it was disgustingly perfect. Common sense and logic,” she huffed, wondering if any two words could be further from describing what she felt.

  Aubrey stared at the neatly arranged newspaper sections. Great. Just the way he’d like them . . . She smacked the pages, sending her story and his skittering in every direction. She eyed her grandmother, who showed little outward reaction to her fit. “From the moment he dropped in on my life, nothing has been what I expected.”

  “From the moment who dropped in?” Charley said, looking curiously at her.

  “Levi, of course. Isn’t that what we were talking about?”

  “My dear, I didn’t say a word about Levi.”

  Aubrey took a deep breath and rapped her knuckles on the door. “Hi.”

  “Hey . . . it’s, um, early for you, especially after such a late night.” He looked sleepy, rumpled.

  “I know. I just needed to see you . . . talk to you.” The door opened wider and Aubrey glided through.

  “Okay, sure. Sorry, the place is kind of a mess.” Owen grabbed a sweatshirt from the sofa back, a pizza box off the floor, then shoved them both aside. “I wasn’t expecting you. Not before nine anyway,” he said, glancing at his watch.

  “I don’t think this can wait.”

  “Hang on. I’ll make some coffee . . . tea. I’ll make tea.”

  He headed for the kitchen. “Owen, wait.” He spun back around. Standing bare-chested in the middle of their Boston loft, he was a vision from the past—his sinewy body in pajama pants, a tattoo, binary code in the shape of a heart, taking up a large portion of his right side.

  “Are you okay, Bre?” he said, coming across the small space. “I got your text. I know you said you worked that story until early this morning.”

  “It was a late night. I had breakfast with Charley and Yvette. In between, I’ve been thinking. Maybe not so much thinking,” she said, picking up the pizza box and sweatshirt. “More like ironing out the wrinkles in my head.”

  “The other night, you said you wanted time to think about going to Seattle. I admit; I didn’t like it. But I’m open to giving you space. Should I assume your doorstep arrival means you’ve made a decision?”

  “Yes.”

  “Awesome,” he said, grinning. “That’s great news.” Owen looked as if he wanted to rush the distance, but the cardboard and sweatshirt impeded forward motion. She held on tighter. “Hey, it’s early for champagne, but how about mimosas? I think I have orange juice that isn’t expired.”

  Aubrey turned the words she’d come to say over in her head once more. “Owen. I’m not going to Seattle.”

  “You’re not—”

  “Could we sit down, talk?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t understand. It’s everything . . . every last thing we ever talked about, everything you wanted.”

  “I still want those things—someday. It’s us I’ve changed my mind about. I’ve had a whole year to think . . . to grow, to be on my own. It was hard, but it was hardly awful. It reminded me that I did a pretty damn good job before I even met you. Before I got caught up in the whirlwind that was us.”

  His hand rose. “Was us? Aubrey, stop. Back up. Moving home, it’s what you wanted.”

  “Right. To our home. I don’t want to uproot my life, move to a place where I don’t know anyone. I feel settled in Surrey, like I belong there. In so many ways, I’ve waited my whole life for that feeling.” She took a couple of steps toward him. “But it’s even more than that now.”

  “More. Like what kind of more?”

  Aubrey needed to slow it down. She needed to explain her feelings, not come rushing at him with them. “Owen.” She shoved the sweatshirt and pizza box onto the desk, which housed a large computer monitor. It jostled the mouse enough to wake the computer out of sleep mode, and the monitor went from Technicolor bursts to a big-screen selfie of Owen and Nicole—kissing.

  For a moment, Aubrey’s breathing and rational thought ground to a stop. She couldn’t process what she was seeing—if it was Photoshop feat, like erasing orbs, or maybe a carnie sleight of hand. Just as she eliminated either possibility, Owen dove for the mouse
. Aubrey got to it first. “I think I’d like to have a look.” She started flipping past image after image, her brain catching up with the simple but telling photos. There was no sound other than the click of a mouse. Nicole was in the loft, looking comfortable on the couch Aubrey had chosen, wearing Owen’s shirt, which she’d also chosen. Aubrey’s throat tightened, her grip around the mouse doing the same. Nicole showed off a thong and a butt cheek to whoever was holding the camera. In the background, Aubrey also saw a window air-conditioner. Her mind raced. Maintenance installed the units on June 15, and they removed them promptly the Tuesday after Labor Day. The photos were surely taken last summer.

  “Bre, before you say anything, let me explain. I was deleting the pictures when you came in. It’s over. It’s been over for months.”

  “She still works for you.”

  Owen opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Her tech knowledge is almost impossible to duplicate.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said, laughing as her eyes welled.

  “Aubrey, don’t do this. I get that you’re upset, angry. But we were separated. What happened last summer isn’t the point. And I’ll fire her today if it helps. But she doesn’t matter—I swear. You and I, we’d be three thousand miles away . . . from her, from the past. What we need to focus on is our future. I wasted so much time understanding just how much you mean to me. If you just give us . . .”

  Owen’s hands closed around her shoulders; Aubrey pulled away. “You’re not serious.”

  “All right. Clearly this is something we’re going to have to deal with, but don’t overreact. Don’t throw everything away because of some stupid, six-week . . .”

  “Affair.”

  His jaw clenched. “Not technically. I don’t think so, Bre. We’d been apart since the winter.”

  “And you were sitting here deleting photos so I’d never find out. Who are you kidding, Owen?” Aubrey closed her eyes. The guilt she’d felt over one emotionally charged kiss between herself and Levi had sent her into a tailspin. But this, these photos, they had all the markings of nothing more than a down-and-dirty affair.