by J. D. Robb
“All?” This from Ryan, who was beginning to take on the same dubious air his son had—like he couldn’t tell if she was telling the truth or not, but from an entirely different perspective than his son’s.
“Jimmy said there were three ladies in the house. My mother and her two sisters were the last true Hedbos to grow up and live in this house. I can’t think of anyone else it might be.”
“Have you seen these ghosts?” Now he looked like he wished he hadn’t asked her to help. Jimmy looked expectant.
“Sure.” Stepping between them, she gave a play-along look to the father that the son couldn’t see. She reached for a vase for the daisies. “I sat them down yesterday afternoon. I told them Jimmy was concerned about them and that they had to find someplace else to go because the house was coming down. Would you like some coffee? The power’s off, so I brought a thermos today.” Her laugh was nervous. “After they cremate me all they’ll find in my urn are tiny pieces of bone and a few pounds of ground Colombian dark roast.”
Ryan chuckled, his qualms put to rest. But Jimmy wasn’t buying any of it.
“If they coulda gone to heaven whenever they wanted, why’d they stay here?”
“Good question.” She’d have to remember not to underestimate his intelligence—his brain worked just fine despite its small container. “Maybe they needed to find something or do something or . . . or maybe they were just having fun.” She nodded. “That’s my bet. I think they were just having fun together.”
“They can do that in heaven.” He looked around, and he was clearly thinking—a notion that alarmed every nerve ending in M.J.’s body. “I think they’re lookin’ for something.” His gaze came around to meet hers, and she felt suddenly pinned to the wall with his directness and honesty. “What are they lookin’ for?”
“I don’t know.” She felt she had no choice but to answer truthfully; she felt mesmerized by his bright, believing eyes. In that moment he could have asked her anything, and she would have told him nothing but the truth. Thankfully, his father chose that instant to move toward her thermos of coffee, and the spell was broken. “But . . . but I’m sure that whatever it was, they’ve found it and left. They’re gone. You can check the whole house if you like. You won’t find them.”
The boy’s whole body twitched with eagerness. He jerked a small flashlight from his back pocket and looked to his father for permission. Ryan smiled at his son and jerked his head at the doorway. “Just don’t break anything, okay?”
“Okay,” Jimmy called back from halfway down the hall.
And just as they’d planned it, the three sisters passed through the second floor into the kitchen—the last place Jimmy would look for them.
“Oh, it feels so good to have a man in the house again,” Odelia chirped happily, putting the pie she’d made earlier into her oven. “Men enjoy food so much more than women do.”
“That’s not true.” Adeline sat at the table observing Ryan and her daughter. “I love food.”
Imogene, too, sat at the table to wait out Jimmy’s inspection of the house. She held her hands in her lap and considered Ryan. “He’s very good with the boy, a good father.”
“Here.” Ryan handed her one of the two mugs she’d dusted off for the visit. She wasn’t sure coffee was what her jangled nerves needed just then but . . . what the heck. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. “This could take a while. Care to sit?”
They made a cozy gathering—the two ghosts, Ryan, and her—seated around the kitchen table; Odelia on a stool cutting apples at the sink.
Ryan shook his head and grinned. “Crazy kid has me thinking I can smell apple pie now. It’s amazing how your mind can play tricks on you.”
Raising her brows, she nodded and glanced at Odelia, who couldn’t stop making pies, even for a brief while, it seemed. “I smell my mother’s perfume sometimes.”
“You must miss her.”
“Surprisingly, I do, though we never did get along very well.”
“That’s not true.” Adeline looked hurt. “We used to get along. Once. I remember that we did.”
“Too much alike?” Ryan asked.
“Not enough alike. I was never good enough for her. I never met her high standards.”
“That’s just plain not true, Maribelle.” Her mother stood and began pacing the room. “I adored you. Your father and I both did. You made our life complete.”
Ryan shivered. “Man, this place is drafty.” Overhead they heard Jimmy calling, his footsteps running from room to room, doors opening and closing. “But I have to tell you, it’s hard being a parent. You don’t know, and no one tells you, if the decisions you’re making are good ones or if you’re accidentally turning your kid into the next Jeffrey Dahmer . . . or in my case, Egon Spengler.”
“Who?”
“The ghost buster who wore the glasses . . . in the movie? He was my favorite.” He sipped his coffee. “Sometimes I almost wish he’d find one, he believes so strongly. I hate having to tell him they don’t exist when he’s so sure they do.” He sighed and deliberately changed the subject. “So what do you do when you’re not dealing with ghosts and tearing down old houses?”
“I’m an investment analyst with Wilson and Bows in McLean. What about you? I’m assuming you’re not married, but you know what happens when you do that, right?”
“I do.” He was watching his fingers play with his mug of coffee but glanced up and smiled at her. “But in this case you’re safe. I lost my wife to cancer when Jimmy was nine months old. It took us by surprise, and she went really fast . . . threw everything into a tailspin.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. But we figured it out . . . Jimmy and me . . . how to go on without her. I tried a nanny at first, and she was great, but . . . well, when he took his first step, I wasn’t there to see it. And she was a stranger I hired from an agency. My folks were too old to be taking on a small child. My dad has heart problems and my mom had her hands full with him. His other grandfather is a bit of a boozer. So I . . . My degree is in computer engineering. I was working as a systems analyst for Blackboard, days and nights, trying to meet deadlines. It was crazy.” He sat up straighter in his chair and took another sip of coffee. “I looked up from my computer one afternoon, and I didn’t know what I was doing. Why was I working so hard to make a good life for a son I never saw? I tried to quit, but my boss is a good guy. He said if I could keep up, I could try working from home, touch base in the office a couple times a month, and it’s worked out great. I got rid of the condo we were cramped up in and bought a house with a yard in a small town where my son feels safe . . . even with the ghosts who live next door.” She must have looked strange, because he chuckled. “Ironic, huh? But he really isn’t afraid, he says. Worried about them but not afraid.”
“Such a sweet boy.” Odelia trimmed the crust on her next pie. “Always offers to carry my apples, and I let him until we get to the fence.”
“He says he carries apples for one of them.” Ryan shook his head. “It’s probably too early to tell, but he has such a vivid imagination, I wonder if he’ll be a writer or maybe an actor.”
M.J. glanced at her mother, who’d always given her the impression that she should marry money and give lawn parties, that her MBA from Columbia and using her brain to make a living were . . . unladylike. “Does it matter to you what he becomes?”
“Not if he’s happy. That’s all any parent wants—for their child to be healthy and happy and well-adjusted.”
Adeline nodded. “Healthy. Happy.”
“Well-adjusted?” M.J. asked, looking at her pointedly.
Ryan leaned back in his chair, taken aback. “Well, yeah. I mean, I supposed this ghost thing is pretty weird to you, but he’s still just a little guy who likes to pretend—”
“No, I didn’t mean—”
“He’ll figure it out and realize there’s no such thing as ghosts soon enough. But if he doesn’t, I guess I can take him to a shrink or some
thing.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry. That came out wrong.” One of the hazards of talking to ghosts with another human in the room. “I’m the last person to be talking about well-adjusted.”
“You’re not well-adjusted?”
“How well-adjusted can someone named Maribelle be?”
“Oh, for crying out loud.” Her mother’s exasperation was gratifying.
He laughed. “I’m sorry, but I like it. Especially on you. It suits you.”
She stared at him, horrified. “And I thought we were going to be friends.”
“Really?” He sat up straight again, his grin wicked and way more than friendly. “I was hoping the same thing. You’ll be coming out again next weekend, won’t you? Maybe we can have dinner one night . . . or lunch . . . or both.”
She opened her mouth to speak, while her brain raced for a good excuse to decline, only to be saved by Jimmy’s stomping steps on the stairs. And again, as planned, the sisters rose up through the ceiling so the boy wouldn’t see them . . . Imogene didn’t even bother to stand.
Five
Their gazes met in anticipation of the future they were momentarily setting aside as they listened to the boy clatter down the hall until he stood in the doorway . . . disgruntled.
“Okay, let’s go.”
His father hesitated. “Don’t you want to come over and thank M.J. for letting you have a look around?”
Nothing but his eyes moved in her direction “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She and Ryan exchanged a look and a shrug and started to stand. They’d both expected more of a reaction from him—but where Ryan was smart enough to let sleeping dogs lie, M.J.’s curiosity got to her. “So? Did you see the ghosts?”
“Nope.” He turned on his heel and started walking toward the front door. They followed.
“Are you less worried about them now?”
A pause. “Sure.” Even she could tell he was fibbing. He was still a believer, and he was still worried. He opened the door and marched out onto the wide front porch.
“Hey. Wait a second.” Ryan sent her an apologetic grimace. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to say to M.J. before we go?”
Having already thanked her, she and Jimmy formed identical furrows between their brows as they looked at him, then at each other. The boy grew thoughtful.
“School is starting soon. I’m going to be in first grade, and I have a new backpack already. Spider-Man.” He jutted out his right arm, hand hyperextended to expose his wrist, which was, if M.J. recalled correctly, from whence Spidey’s webbing came. “My teeth are gonna to fall out, but then my big teeth will grow in, and then Dad’s gonna to teach me to whistle.” He took a breath; his gaze darted away and came back. “That’s enough for now.”
Reeling a little from the to-and-fro and abrupt halt of his news report, M.J. shook her head as a genuine grin of pleasure creased her face and danced in her eyes.
“Wow. Thank you, Jimmy. I’m glad to know all those things about you.”
He gave her a firm nod, as if he’d known she would be, then turned and hopped two footed down the steps.
Looking up at Ryan, she held her hands out at her sides, speechless, but still more amused than she’d been in a long, long time.
“This coming week we’ll be buying crayons and Power Rangers underwear. Exciting times at our house.” Chuckling, he glanced over her shoulder, then back over his at all the shattered windows along the front of the house. “What’s with the windows? Vandals?”
“Ah, no, actually.” She pushed her hair from the side of her face and glanced again at the glass. It looked dangerous. Precarious. Shattered glass just waiting to burst into smithereens. Had she been thinking clearly, she never would have let the boy or his father onto the porch or into the house, anywhere near it, despite the fact that she knew it wouldn’t come down until the sisters allowed it. “Mr. Brown backed his machine into the house Friday. It must have happened then.”
“Did he say it was safe? Should you be wandering around in there alone?” He held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
Even as she reached into her pocket, there were so many things in those four words that confused her—how he knew she was intractable about keeping it on her person instead of in her purse, what he planned to do with it, her willingness to obey. . . .
With the practiced fingers of a computer nerd, he installed his home and cell phone numbers. “There.” He beamed at her. “Now you can call me if you get into trouble over here . . . or anytime you want to talk or just say hello.”
She nodded, replacing her phone, head down, her cheeks rounding from an unexpectedly charmed smile. It was simply a neighborly thing to do, yet when was the last time anyone had offered to help her with anything . . . much less to listen when she was lonely?
And why was that? she wondered suddenly, looking up when he withdrew his cell from his pocket. His gaze was warm and encouraging. “Want to give me yours so I can call you for our date next weekend, or are you going to make me work for it?”
Well . . .
“Da-aaad! C’mon.” Saved by the boy.
She grinned, backing away from Ryan, the challenge implied. “Have a good week.”
He laughed, undaunted. “You, too, Maribelle,” he said, then skipped down the steps to join his son. She stood in the doorway and watched them walk away.
“How much do you think a computer person like him would make a year?” Her mother was an educated woman who couldn’t even spell subtle.
M.J. stepped inside quickly and closed the door. “Mother!” She stood frowning at the sisters, hands on her hips.
“Isn’t Jimmy a sweetie pie?” Odelia asked, turning to go back to her pies in the kitchen. “I could just eat him up without a fork.”
“Hold it right there, Odelia.” She waited for her aunt’s attention. “Remember what you promised me. If you want my help, you have to make yourselves scarce when I’m not here. No more apple fetching in the orchard until after Jimmy’s gone to bed. No more watching him from the upstairs window, Imogene. Promise me.”
“I didn’t know he could see me.” She looked so sad M.J. wanted to put her arms around her, hold her until the ache in her heart dried up. “I didn’t mean to scare him.”
“But you don’t scare him. Don’t you understand? He can see you. He believes you’re real. And he feels bad for you.”
“Darling,” her mother said in a tone she’d heard a thousand times—a once-again-you-haven’t-thought-this-through-to-the-end tenor that jangled her nerves and annoyed her because it was sometimes true . . . Not always, but often enough to be irritating. “You can see us. You know we’re real.”
“Yeah, well, I’m an adult. I have a conversational filter that keeps me from broadcasting the fact that I’m in here talking to my ghostly relatives. That kid will tell you anything that floats through his brain.”
“Not everything.” Her mother smiled wisely. “I don’t think he bought our disappearing act.”
“He could probably still smell us.” Imogene agreed.
“All the more reason for him to not see you from now on. Next weekend I’ll bring my laptop and a copy of The Sixth Sense so you can see what happens to kids who can see and talk to dead people. People think they’re crazy.” She bobbed her head. “I don’t think Ryan does yet, but I think he’s worried.”
Her mother grinned and then teased her. “Maybe we should keep him worried for a little while longer. . . . We don’t want him to stop coming around, do we?”
M.J. made a face. “Why would I want him to keep coming around? To see you, maybe? Haven’t we already been there, done that, with Elvis Parker when I was in high school?”
“We are not going down that road again, Maribelle Joy. I’ve told you a million times I did nothing”—she waved a vaporous finger at her daughter—“nothing to encourage that boy.”
“You didn’t have to. You’d just walk through the room, an
d he’d just about fall off his chair watching you leave. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“You couldn’t have locked yourself in the bathroom until he was gone?”
“Certainly. I could have worn a basket over my head, too. Would that have made you happy?”
It was a preposterous question, and one that didn’t matter now anyway. But she did hate losing, so she said, “Maybe.”
“Listen. I couldn’t help being beautiful.” Her sisters—both of whom were just as pretty as she in their own way—groaned and turned away. Odelia put a finger in the air and muttered “Pies,” then followed her finger down the hall. Imogene simply sighed and started up the stairs. “No, really. It wasn’t as easy as you think to look this way.”
Now this was not a familiar topic of conversation for her mother. Granted, she’d never made any secret of the lengths she’d go to, to keep up her physical appearance, but she’d never actually bragged about them . . . or better yet, complained about being too beautiful. M.J. was amused. “Inside, we’re all weeping for you, Mother.”
“No, you’re not . . . but if you knew what it was like, you might.”
“Ho! Well, lucky for me I have the face only a mother could love.”
“Now that’s not true either,” Adeline scolded. “You were a lovely child, and you’ve become a beautiful woman . . . except that you don’t realize how beautiful.”
Truly uncomfortable in the spotlight, M.J. made for the stairs with Imogene. She intended to go back to her mother’s room and take up where they’d left off when the Doyles arrived. Adeline shook her head and followed.
“After your daddy died you became so . . . quiet . . . confused, I guess. You were so young. I tried my best. I bought you the prettiest, hippest clothes, pushed you to go out and socialize, join clubs, have fun . . . and you fought me constantly. You were always so angry with me for some reason, and you did everything you could to be the very opposite of me . . . despite all our commonalities.”