How To Bring Your Love Life Back From The Dead

by Wendy Sparrow

  When she turned away, he blew against the pencil. The burst of vapor rolled the pencil off the table and under the chair. Yes. Pencil.

  The red-haired woman, who was still not the one he wanted, sat down with her book. She looked around before shrugging and pulling a pencil out of her purse.

  Wait. What? This red-haired woman had a pencil. He needed a pencil. He remembered that. He’d been saying that all day. He needed a pencil, and he wanted the red-haired woman—who was not this red-haired woman. If this red-haired woman set her pencil down, he could blow it under the chair….

  *****

  “I don’t know who has his journals,” Ana’s mother said.

  She wasn’t sure if it was the energy drink or if she was just feeling optimistic, but Ana wasn’t quite as pathetic as she had been earlier in the day. Another night was coming and, maybe, since he’d cooled down for an entire day, she’d hear from Shane that night. In the meantime, she’d do some sleuthing into how he died so she’d never have to ask him that again.

  “Do you know where any of his stuff is?” she asked her mother.

  “Well, I know that the desk he had is an antique and still in the company office.”

  “Would they let me look over anything of his they might have, do you think?”

  There was a pause before her mother asked, “Why this sudden interest in your great, great grandfather, Analise?”

  “Well, I run a historical tour company, mother. It might be nice to know something about my own history.” Ana spun in her chair. Though, seriously, the more she’d delved into her family history, the more she realized she’d fallen far from the deceitful, vindictive, and vicious tree. There was no way she’d let Jenny spread this history around. It was shameful. The better part of her relations belonged in prison, and, even then, they’d shiv a guard and escape. No. Bribe a guard. Today’s Franklins didn’t enjoy getting blood on their hands like she suspected her great, great grandfather had. Or at the very least, they had a “guy” for that, and the money to pay for them to disappear quietly.

  “You’ve been so anxious to embrace your history so far,” her mother said dryly.

  Analise rolled her eyes. “The money is not the family, and you know why I don’t want any of my inheritance any more. I want someone who wants me…for me.”

  Her mother groaned. “Yes, and you’re so ashamed of your family and their awful money that you won’t even bring by any of your dates.” Her mother was generally good and kind. Maybe they’d diluted the gene pool a bit, or the vicious gene was recessive. She had a few cousins who weren’t bad. Her aunt was a lounge singer in Reno, and lounge singers were hardly ever evil.

  Still, the hereditary penchant for wickedness wasn’t why she’d neglected to drag boyfriends to the homestead to meet and subsequently be corrupted by the family. There was a much more pathetic reason.

  “I’m not dating,” Ana said. Okay, so this conversation was becoming rapidly less fun. She could feel her mood sinking with the sun. Her heart was at three p.m. Soon, it would set, and she’d have no ghost, and he’d been her most hopeful relationship in years. A ghost. A spirit. Someone dead. “There is no one to bring by because there is no one.” No one. At all. Because he was a bastard. Story of her life.

  Her mother let out another exasperated sigh. “You’re telling me in the nearly two years since Keaton…you haven’t dated a single person?”

  “That is exactly what I’m telling you.” She’d wanted to date a ghost. They’d made out a little. It most likely wouldn’t reassure her mother to hear that.

  Silence. She’d stunned her mother into silence. Her mother who was the queen of philanthropy—who could convince a room of people to give money for the sake of giving money. This may have been the longest time her mother had remained silent in all of Ana’s life. “Really?” her mother asked finally.

  “Really.” You didn’t count ghosts. Especially not ghosts who rejected you.

  “For two years?” Mothers really knew how to stab at an open wound like no one else. And Ana’d began this phone call feeling so positive….

  “Yes. If I was a better person, I’d automatically be a nun.”

  “I think that’s heresy,” her mother said slowly.

  “Like I said, if I was a better person….”

  “Well, there is this nice boy, Tyler, in Marketing in the company. I can see that you’re introduced. I think his divorce is final.”

  Ana banged her head on the desk in slow thuds.

  “Is someone at your door?” her mother asked.

  “You’re on the board of directors, Mother. Can you call and ask them to show me whatever they have from great, great grandpa Charles?”

  “Sure thing, sweetie, if you let me give Tyler your phone number.”

  “Fine!” It wasn’t like she had to answer the phone when he called. And he would call. She was a Franklin, and he worked at the company. She was his ticket to the big time. It did wonders for her self-esteem. Ana Franklin with a side of moneybags.

  “When he calls, you will answer the phone!” her mother said.

  Hell. “Okay, fine!” Ana said. In the sort of mood she was in, poor Tyler would run for the hills…which were quite a ways away from Seaside.

  Twenty minutes later, she was being shown into her cousin, Max’s, office. Max was finishing off some paperwork, but motioned her to a seat without looking up. There were two quick scans of previous pages before he signed the last one and set it aside, finally looking up.

  “Well, hello, Ana. How is my favorite cousin?” He tugged his tie off and stuffed it in a drawer. His charm had always seemed artificial and overly-cultivated to Ana. Max had missed his calling as a salesman. He was slick, and even after losing the tie, he looked stuffy. Max was not her favorite cousin by any stretch of the imagination. He’d sell her if he thought she was worth something.

  “Can’t complain too much.” Well, she could, but he wouldn’t believe her, and he’d insist she be locked up. “Did my mom tell you why I’m here?”

  Max nodded. “She said you were curious about the family’s history. You know we have that entire collection at the library, right?” Every so often, since she’d disinherited her inheritance, her cousin spoke really slowly when talking to her—as if he suspected she wasn’t very bright. This was one of those times. It annoyed her, but she needed information and hopefully those journals, so she put a cheery smile on her face. Now, he looked at her as if she was vapid. It was a slight improvement.

  Vapid—lifeless; insipid; weak. She felt vapid. It was nearly four p.m. The sun was dropping and depressing her.

  “I’ve already looked at those, but the librarian mentioned that some of Charles’s journals were kept with the family rather than donated.”

  Max stared at her, his elbows propped up on the desk, clearly waiting for more.

  “I was wondering if I could look at any old papers of his,” she said, still with the pasted-on smile. The smile hurt. It couldn’t look natural.

  “Are you having financial difficulties?”

  “What? No.” The smile dropped from her face. Why would he ask that?

  “So, you’re not intending to sell the journals, right?”

  Analise’s eyes narrowed. Sell the journals? Sell the journals? Who was the not-so-bright person in the room? No, of course she wasn’t planning on selling the journals. If she hadn’t wanted those journals so badly, she’d tell him where he could shove them. “I just want to read the journals.”

  “What about what’s in the journals?” Max asked.

  “What do you mean?” Was he asking if she planned on reading the inside of the journals? Of course she did. Max was the vapid one in the room.

  “Do you mean to sell what is in the journals for profit or write a biography or something?”

  “No. I just want to read them.” Once again, her hand itched by her side. She wanted to slap her own cousin. This was beyond insulting. She’d requested not to be sent a stipend of her in
heritance. She had, not the other way around. Plus, her tour business was turning a profit, which was probably miniscule compared to what Franklin Investments made.

  Miniscule—small; insignificant; infinitesimal. See also Living History Tours as compared to Franklin “blood money” Investments.

  But it was her money, and she’d earned it herself—and not just by being born a Franklin.

  Max looked at her seriously as if examining her to the depth of her soul. They were just journals, for crying out loud. Just journals. “Only the current company owner is allowed to read the journals.” He leaned back, pressing his glasses up his nose. He didn’t need glasses of course. He liked them because he thought they made him look distinguished. Men were stupid that way.

  “What’s in the journals?” Ana asked slowly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, what could possibly be in the journals that’s worth the third degree you’re giving me?” she ground it out between her teeth. Being polite to her asinine cousin was taking more and more of her patience.

  Max’s eyes narrowed. “You tell me. What do you think is in there?”

  Ana closed her eyes in one long blink. He had to be kidding with her. Why on earth would he be so secretive about the whole thing? “Was our great, great grandfather a cross-dresser or something?”

  His laugh was so completely fake. Max stood, signaling they were done discussing this. “No, of course not. Well, sorry I couldn’t help you, Ana, but my hands are tied as far the journals go.”

  Ana stared at her cousin. He’d lost his mind.

  Max gestured at the door. “Let me see you out.” As they walked toward the door, he asked, “Since you’ve been to the library, did you happen to notice the artwork on the walls?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is a life-size painting of his old business partner. Have you seen it?”

  Ana turned to back to him. Odd that he should mention it. Creepy even. Some might say suspicious. Not her—she’d call it chary which meant suspicious, but hardly anyone used it anymore. “Yes, do you know anything about it?”

  His expression appeared impassive and disinterested. All Franklins learned from the cradle how to suppress guilt. His cheeks were clenched, and there was a slight twitch in a muscle near his eye. Yeah, he knew something—or he was losing his mind and on the verge of a psychotic breakdown. “I’ve never actually even seen it.”

  “What about the disappearance of his old partner? Do you know anything about that?” she asked.

  “You’ve always asked a lot of questions,” Max said vaguely.

  “What?”

  He opened the door and said, “Give Aunt Liz my best.” Max gave her a shove across the threshold before slamming the door behind her. Well, that was really odd and not just a little frustrating. Shane wasn’t the only one indulging in some heavy stomping. Ana stomped all the way to her car.

  *****

  Despite the coldness and emptiness of the collection room, he still hoped that he’d find Analise in the room, so he could explain. If only it was that easy....

  Dropping to the ground beside the chair, he stared at the collection of pencils beneath it. Fourteen pencils. Really? Dealing with his daytime self sometimes felt like dealing with a toddler with a short memory span. Occasionally, his daytime self felt like something was vital enough to remember during the day that he used the same trick of repeating it over and over. Without exception, these memories were ridiculous at night. His latest rubbing with his imbecilic self had been when he materialized in front of his painting two weeks ago muttering, “The new black is brown. Brown is the new black.” What did that even mean?

  Grabbing the pencils, he searched around for a stray sheet of paper to write a note to Ana. Luckily, paper was easier to come by than something to write with, and he’d always hated this book on the cholera epidemic that had killed his parents. They’d postulated that the local spread had been caused by poor hygiene practices. Poor hygiene, my ass. He relished ripping out one of the back empty pages. It wasn’t technically defacement, but it felt good.

  Sitting down at the table in the center, he positioned everything for when inspiration struck. He wouldn’t pick up the pencil until then so as not to expend extra energy. Think, Shane, think.

  Ten minutes later, he was still staring at a blank piece of paper. How did one say, “I was a moron for stomping around when you asked me how I died, but I’m stuck haunting this room for eternity,” without it sounding like the psychotic ramblings of a mental patient?

  Plus, it would have to be passed along to Ana by way of a helpful librarian who’d assume she had dropped it. He would assume said helpful librarian would read it—especially if it was that one—Carly or Carla or whatever her name was. His daytime self called her “Catty” and, for once, they were in agreement—though it did make it difficult to remember her actual name.

  Shane tried pacing. He’d always thought better while pacing. In fact, he’d come up with the concept of the investment company while pacing one day. He’d presented the idea to his best friend, Charles, and that was that. Three years later, they’d reinvested as he’d planned originally based on the local tourism. It had begun with that first investment that he’d come up with while pacing. Pacing had been good to him.

  Admittedly, Charles had been wildly successful after Shane’s death, but he’d used the company as collateral for those investments—many of which Shane wouldn’t have approved of. They’d been fighting more and more near the end there, in fact. This very collection room had become a bone of contention. Shane had insisted that the community would give back to those who helped them thrive. The funding to the library had been his choice and perhaps that’s why he haunted it. At least he was able to fill his nights with reading—censored and often boring reading, but it was something. It had kept him sane.

  Not that his grasp of the language was doing him any good tonight. Reaching down, he picked up the pencil and snapped it in half by using too much force. Okay, so maybe his dumber self had the right idea with fourteen pencils.

  “Dear Analise,” he wrote in a cramped hand. It was legible…barely. Perhaps he’d need more practice. Luckily, the cholera book had plenty of blank pages to give up for the noble cause.

  By the time the sun rose, on the table’s corner lay a neatly folded note addressed to “Miss Analise Franklin.”

  *****

  An energy drink plunked down in front of Analise.

  “I take it he didn’t call?” Jenny asked.

  “He might not even know how to use the phone,” Ana muttered. He might not even know what they were. This was so doomed. Why was she still bothering with research?

  “Was that meant to make sense?”

  “No,” Ana said, opening up the book on Seaside’s occult again. She’d almost finished it last night, but succumbed to a headache from lack of sleep and trying to puzzle out why Cousin Max was behaving like a complete psychopath. Then again, Max was a male. Who knew why they did what they did? Not Ana. They were completely inexplicable…and stupid.

  Every last one of them. Stupid.

  “Huh, look at that. They used to think the old salt factory was haunted,” Jenny said, pointing to a paragraph on local haunted locations.

  The library had gotten a nod in this chapter too. Apparently, the fit Shane had thrown that night with her wasn’t the first time he’d exercised his right to a poltergeist tantrum. At least he didn’t trash the collection room again and let her get blamed for it.

  “It’s a shame they bulldozed it in the sixties,” Jenny said.

  “Yep, the salty ghost had to find a new home.” Ana flipped the page. Ghosts were not on her list of safe topics.

  Stupid ghost.

  “They don’t do that,” Jenny said, still reading over her shoulder.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid…huh?

  “What?” Ana asked.

  “Hmm. Check that out. Which barn do you suppose they’re describing here?”r />
  Ana sighed. Was no one going to answer questions directly? “I don’t know. What did you mean when you said they don’t do that?”

  Jenny grinned. “Don’t you know anything about ghosts? They haunt locations. If those locations get bulldozed, they don’t just pick a new spot to haunt. They’re tied to that spot. Your salty ghost might still be haunting the salt there, but he hasn’t moved on to the Denny’s around the corner.”

  “He’s not my salty ghost!” she snapped which made Jenny laugh and was, admittedly, a lame thing to say. She flipped back a few pages to the section on the library. “So, this ghost…the one in the special collection room?”

  Jenny gasped and leaned in. “Whoa, there’s a ghost in the Franklin Collection room? You really scored with that one. Maybe I should take over the research.”

  Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t going to give Shane the opportunity to start a harem.

  Ana snapped her fingers in front of Jenny’s eyes. “Focus. Are you saying that a ghost haunting the library would have to stay in the library?”

  Jenny’s eyes were busy scanning the page but she murmured, “Uh- huh, and possibly that room. Who is this Shane guy they think is haunting there?”

  “Just a guy.”

  “Was he murdered there?” she asked.

  “In the library’s Franklin Collection room?” Ana didn’t have to try very hard to inflect her voice with disbelief; it got there all on its own.

  “Well, why is he throwing books around there? Why the library? Usually ghosts haunt either places they’ve lived or places they’ve died, not just random places they visited a time or two. That’s why you don’t end up with ghosts at Denny’s, little Ana.” She patted Ana’s head patronizingly with a laugh.

  After swatting at Jenny’s hand, Ana groaned and dropped her head to the desk. Maybe Shane wasn’t the stupid one. Well, not the only stupid one. Really? Shane couldn’t come to her? She should have thought of that, but she wasn’t getting enough sleep.

  “It’s most likely a hoax or an urban legend, then, if there isn’t anything tying him there—like a violent crime or an object from a violent crime. Sometimes ghosts haunt mirrors and stuff like that.”