by Deanna Chase
She seemed pained by the news. “I know I’m dead,” she said slowly. “It doesn’t make a difference. We’ll never be together again.”
That surprised me. The way she’d been grieving, I’d expected her to think death still separated them.
She lowered her gaze. “I still can’t see him, no matter how long I stay. He’s never coming back,” she said simply.
“What would you do if he did?” I asked her gently.
She gave a small smile. “I’d tell him how sorry I am. For everything I said.” She shook her head. “For all the things I didn’t do. For how unhappy I made him.”
“He’s at peace now,” I told her.
“He’s gone,” she corrected me softly.
“Listen, Mrs. Jackson,” I said, drawing as close as I dared. “You’ve spent the last hundred and fifty years in mourning because you believe the son you loved is truly gone. I’m here to tell you, you can believe in something else.”
Matthew’s mother kept her head lowered, her veil shielding her expression.
“Please,” I added gently. “Let yourself believe that your son still loves you. I’ve spoken with him, and I know it’s true. He would give anything to be with you again, but he needs to know you feel the same way.” I moved slowly to the window, and to my immense relief, she drew to my side.
“Matthew is right outside. Look,” I said, directing her gaze at her son.
With shaking fingers, she lifted the veil from her eyes. And for the first time, she saw.
* * *
“Matthew!” She burst straight through the window and out into the yard.
He appeared startled as she threw her arms around him and let him feel her love for the first time in more than a century. It took only a moment’s hesitation for him to return her embrace.
I cracked a window, glad for the scene unfolding in front of me.
When Mrs. Jackson finally let go, he stepped back, bewildered. “I…I haven’t changed my mind about who I am or what I believe.”
She took his hands in hers. “I always loved you, son, even when I was angry. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to show it, and that we left things the way we did.”
His face crumpled. “Me too, Mom.”
They hugged each other tight once again.
Frankie materialized beside me. “I see what you did there.”
“Yes,” I said, feeling a little wistful. Matthew had just taken a big step to being welcomed back to his old place among the dearly departed of Sugarland. I knew how hard it had been on him to be excluded. After all, I was going through a bit of the same.
“Let’s let them be,” I said to my gangster buddy as I closed the window once more.
Was it me, or had the air in the parlor warmed a bit, even with the cracked window?
I stood next to Frankie and watched as the casket and the ghostly image of a lifeless body began to disappear.
“Keep the flowers. I have use for them,” Matthew said, passing through the closed pocket doors, escorting his mother. With the weight of their separation off her shoulders, she appeared at least ten years younger than before.
I could feel the difference in the atmosphere beyond the parlor as well. It felt lighter inside the house, more festive.
His mother ran a hand down his arm, as if she still couldn’t quite believe she had him back. “You never liked flowers before.”
“No.” He grinned, motioning me over. “But there’s someone I’d like you to meet, and she positively adores roses.”
He plucked a bloom from a standing wreath as Josephine stepped in through the window, her hair done up in an elaborate braid, her white gown trailing behind her. She looked stunning, yet confused. She brought a hand to her chest, glancing around her. “Matthew, I never would have thought to look for you inside.”
“Josephine,” he said, taking her hand, “I’d like you to meet my mother.” The women exchanged a formal curtsey, and I saw Josephine stifle a gasp. “Mother,” he said, still holding Josephine’s hand, “this is the girl I love with all my heart. She’s everything to me.” Josephine blushed at his bold words, but that didn’t slow him down a bit. He motioned me forward, including me in the moment as he turned to Josephine. “I can’t find your father to ask his blessing, so I’ll ask you directly. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Tears welled in her eyes as she brought her hands to her mouth. “Yes! Oh, goodness, Matthew. Yes!”
He took her hands in his, beaming, as his mother reached behind her neck and unhooked her necklace. She drew it out from under the high neckline of her mourning gown, a stunning opal necklace set in silver, and presented it to Matthew.
He held it as if it were the queen’s jewels. “I thought you might have forgotten.”
“It’s as much a part of this family as we are.” She gave a small smile. “And as Josephine will be.”
Matthew placed the heirloom jewel around Josephine’s neck while she glowed with excitement and love.
His mother drew a black lace handkerchief from the pocket of her dress. “I can’t believe I have you back at last. And now a daughter as well.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Although look at this dress,” she added, gazing down at her mourning gown. “It’s so somber.”
The heavy black gown began to shimmer until it changed into a gorgeous silver ball gown, with ribbons on the sleeves. The mourning veil faded, and in its place, Matthew’s mother wore a sparkling rhinestone comb in her hair.
“Much better for a holiday party. Or rather, an engagement party.” She leaned close to him. “You should wear your dress uniform, dear.”
Matthew’s face crumpled at her acceptance and he nodded, his uniform shimmering from basic blue to a double-buttoned formal blue coat with a silk sash around his waist and the epaulettes of a major in the Union Army.
Josephine just about swooned and I didn’t blame the girl. With tears in her eyes and quite a bit of determination, the white nightgown she’d worn since I’d known her began to morph into a beautiful gown the same color as Matthew’s uniform, as if she wished to honor him. Or perhaps simply let everyone know who belonged with the handsome Yankee.
A cheer echoed from the foyer. The live partygoers must have lit the tree.
The air had warmed; the holiday music sounded brighter.
The pocket doors slid open and I watched as guests—both alive and ghostly—began to filter back into the room.
Matthew’s friends and relatives greeted him warmly, patting him on the back and shaking his hand, while the women made a fuss over Josephine and her engagement.
Laughter erupted from a group of live guests at the bar and warmth bubbled up inside me. Everything was going to be okay.
“Merry Christmas,” I said to Frankie.
“This might actually turn into a real party after all,” he mused.
I couldn’t fight back a grin. “I think so.”
I held up my tray and left the ghosts to their celebration. It was time to focus on the party for the living.
“Now that’s a good beef Wellington,” said a man in a red suit jacket as he left a crumpled wrapper on my tray and reached for another appetizer. “Warm and flaky.”
“Thanks,” I said, brightening. “I’ll pass your compliments to our caterer, Lauralee Clementine. She loves to do big parties like this.”
He nodded as he downed another appetizer. “Good. Because every other year has been a disaster.”
“But not this year?” I prodded.
“I wasn’t sure at first,” he said, “but it seems our new catering company has saved the day.”
I nodded and offered a delicious appetizer to his companion, and the woman beside her, and the next grouping, until I’d collected a few more compliments for Lauralee and her amazing food.
Soon the blonde and the redheaded server followed the crowd into the parlor, and we served the rest of Lauralee’s delicious treats until every Mrs. Jackson in the place declared the party a success.
“This turned out to be one nice party,” she mused, taking a sip as the ghost butler tried in vain to hand her a linen cocktail napkin. “I was really worried for a while there.”
“You have the touch,” I said, holding up my glass to her.
“A toast, then,” she countered. “To Christmas and to friendship.”
“And to love,” I said, clinking our glasses together, knowing that friendship and family, love in all its forms, was something to be celebrated—in this life and the next.
About the Author
Angie Fox is the New York Times bestselling author of several books about vampires, werewolves and things that go bump in the night. She claims that researching her stories can be just as much fun as writing them. In the name of fact-finding, Angie has ridden with Harley biker gangs, explored the tunnels underneath Hoover Dam and found an interesting recipe for Mamma Coalpot’s Southern Skunk Surprise (she’s still trying to get her courage up to try it).
Angie earned a Journalism degree from the University of Missouri. During that time, she also skipped class for an entire week so she could read Anne Rice’s vampire series straight through. Angie has always loved books and is shocked, honored and tickled pink that she now gets to write books for a living. Although, she did skip writing for a few weeks last year so she could read Lynsay Sands Argeneau vampire series straight through.
Angie makes her home in St. Louis, Missouri with a football-addicted husband, two kids, and Moxie the dog (who so far, doesn’t talk…at least not in real sentences).
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