Mr. Always & Forever

by Ashlee Price

  She silences me with a glare.

  “Alright, alright.” I raise my hands, then let them fall on my lap.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “How about we just talk about work?” She picks up the remote control and turns the volume down. “Do you have any ideas for the assignment? Does anything, anyone come to mind? Any place to start?”

  I can tell she’s still annoyed, but at least she’s talking to me.

  I sit back. “Actually, someone does come to mind—this couple I know back in Dallas. They’re in their sixties now, but they used to be in this orchestra traveling the world. The man was the conductor. The woman played the violin. They’re still inseparable up to now.”

  “Romantic.” Ingrid touches her cheek. “Nowadays, not too many relationships last, so that’s sure to tug at some heartstrings and give some people hope. Also, I like how music plays a part in their story.”

  “I’m glad you like it. What about you?” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Any ideas?”

  “I was thinking of a couple who fell in love against all odds, you know,” she says. “Not exactly star-crossed, because that’s outdated, but more like having a serious obstacle to overcome, like physical disabilities maybe.”

  “Like two blind people falling in love, or maybe a blind person falling in love with a deaf person?”

  Ingrid’s face lights up with excitement. “Exactly. That’s the kind of thing that could be in a heartwarming reality show.”

  “Yeah. Good idea. You’ll definitely nail the inspiring part.”

  “Thank you.” She hugs the pillow on her lap. “Now I just need to find that couple.”

  Chapter Six

  Ingrid

  “So, you were blind when the two of you met?” I ask Maggie, the sixty-eight-year-old woman seated in front of me, my recorder on my lap.

  She nods, a smile on her pale, thin lips as she appears to be recollecting the moment. Her milky eyes grow smaller as more lines appear around them, adding to the multitude already present on her timeworn face. Beside her, her husband, Dave, who is four years older than her, seems to be on the brink of dozing off, if he hasn’t already. He’s slumped on the chair with his head drooping and his belly out.

  The three of us are seated at a corner of the lounge of their nursing home just outside Denver, where one of the nurses kindly agreed and arranged to have us meet. She’s still in the room, all the way across, seemingly occupied with watching over the other elderly men and women who are chatting or playing Scrabble or bridge. I can feel her gaze on my back every now and then, though, like a hawk.

  I adjust my scarf. “So, how did the two of you meet, then?”

  “Oh, at the park. The wind blew my hat away and he got it for me and we just started talking,” she says. “The next thing you know, we were a couple.”

  “How did you become a couple?”

  Maggie shrugs. “Oh, he asked me if I wanted to go out with him and I said yes. Then on one of the dates, we kissed, and a few months later, we got married.”

  “I see.” I tap the recorder on my lap.

  Nothing unusual there.

  “Was it hard because you were blind?” I ask.

  “Not really. Actually, that was the first time in my life I didn’t hate being blind, because he was so caring. If I wasn’t blind, I’m not sure he would have acted the same way. Would you, Dave?”

  She nudges her husband, who suddenly lifts his head. “Where’s the fire?”

  “There’s no fire, Dave,” Maggie tells him. “Dave here used to be a fireman.”

  “Oh. That’s wonderful.”

  “He was wonderful.” Maggie sighs, running her hands through her winter-white curls. “Now, I don’t know.”

  I blink. Wasn’t this supposed to be an endearing, perfect romance?

  “Anyway, we got married and I had my eyes operated on and whatnot so I was able to see. Imagine my reaction when I first saw him.”

  “What was your reaction?”

  She leans forward, holding a hand over her mouth as she whispers, “I thought he’d be hotter.”

  My eyes grow wide.

  “But hey, he was fine. I didn’t complain. We had our usual ups and downs, but we stuck together. Well, we almost didn’t, especially when I found out he cheated on me with this nurse…”

  “For God’s sake, that was one time, woman,” Dave says. “And it was centuries ago.”

  “You ain’t a century yet,” Maggie tells him. “Though you sure look it.”

  She turns back to me. “Anyway, one time, ten times—it doesn’t matter how many, right? Once a man cheats on you, it just breaks your heart.”

  I pause, remembering the woman clinging to Conner at the mall and the tinge of jealousy I felt. I shouldn’t be jealous, though. I have no right to be. Technically, Conner isn’t cheating because we’re not really together.

  Why did I feel the claws of that green-eyed monster, then?

  “But we got through that,” Maggie continues. “I forgave him.”

  Dave rolls his eyes. “So she says.”

  Maggie ignores him. “And well, the rest is history. Here we are now, an old couple with our children living far away and with our roles reversed. Now he’s the one who can’t see and I’m the one who can. Funny, isn’t it?”

  I nod.

  I have to admit it is amusing, and Maggie and Dave are both interesting people, Maggie especially. She reminds me of my own grandmother. Even so…

  ~

  “The story just isn’t good enough,” I tell Conner at the cafe a few hours later, taking a sip of my coffee. “It’s inspiring maybe, but powerful and unique? I don’t think so.”

  “Unfortunately, I agree,” Conner says, tapping his fingers on the table.

  I lean forward. “I want something less real, you know, more magical.”

  “The stuff of fairytales. I understand.”

  I set down my cup in the middle of the table, and as I do, my fingers brush against his. The contact is fleeting but not unnoticed. I quickly pull my hands off the table, sitting back.

  “What about you? How’s your story going?”

  “I haven’t heard from the couple yet,” he answers, folding his arms over the table. “They’re still out of the country. Apparently they spend the holidays in Europe every year.”

  “Well, that’s magical.”

  Conner shrugs. “I suppose some people can hold on to the magic.”

  As he speaks, his eyes, warm and brown like my coffee, find mine and hold them. And just like coffee, they give me a rush and a jolt of heat, waking something inside me.

  I stand up. “I’ll just go to the restroom.”

  “Okay. Don’t take long.”

  Those last words make me pause just as I’ve left my chair. I draw a deep breath.

  Jerk.

  I head to the back of cafe where the restrooms are. Finding the door to the women’s room closed, I stand outside, my eyes scouring the room to curb my impatience.

  The quaint cafe has less than twenty tables, all round, coated in white linen and just big enough for two, maybe three. Stained glass pendant lights hang from the wooden ceiling and gilded mirrors of all shapes line the walls, which are still adorned with candy canes, red bows and holly leaves.

  Aside from the table where Conner is sitting, only three other tables are occupied: one by a mother and daughter, making me think of Alexa; another by a man busy with something on his laptop; and the closest one to the bathroom by three college-age girls, giggling and chattering in between sips of coffee and glances at their expensive phones.

  As I wait for my turn at the restroom, I end up eavesdropping—alright, so maybe it is a journalist’s habit.

  “Trust me, you don’t want to go there.” The girl in the red sweater rubs her arms as she shivers. “I still have goose bumps remembering the place.”

  “That’s why I want to go there,” sa
ys the girl beside her, who’s wearing a green parka and earmuffs around her neck.

  “Maybe your grandmother has something she wants your grandfather to do,” says the girl with a pink bonnet and glasses. “That’s why she’s haunting the place.”

  A ghost story?

  “Maybe she found out he cheated on her while she was still alive,” the girl with earmuffs says.

  “Nah.” The girl in red shakes her head. “They loved each other so much. You should have seen them. They were all over each other even when they were already in their fifties.”

  Wait. It’s a love story.

  “Ew.” The girl in the middle grimaces.

  “Maybe that’s why she’s still there,” the girl with glasses suggests. “Maybe she doesn’t want to leave the house because she doesn’t want to leave your grandfather.”

  “Maybe.” The girl in red shrugs. “I just wish she wouldn’t scare us all.”

  The girl with the earmuffs takes a sip of her coffee. “Maybe she’s trying to scare your grandfather to death so he’ll die and they’ll be together.”

  A love story and a ghost story.

  My curiosity piqued and my journalist senses tingling, I approach the table.

  “Excuse me,” I interrupt them. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but overhear you girls talking. Did you say something about your grandmother haunting your grandfather?”

  ~

  “I have to say you really have a good nose for good stories,” Conner says, walking alongside me as we make our way to our designated boarding area at the airport.

  I shrug. “I just happened to be at the right place at the right time.”

  “Exactly. It’s a gift.”

  I glance at him. “You didn’t have to come with me all the way to Louisiana, you know.”

  “Why not? We said we’d work together, didn’t we?” he answers. “Besides, the couple I’m interviewing aren’t due back for a few more days, so I’ve nothing better to do.”

  “Maybe you could start looking for a back-up story,” I suggest.

  “Maybe,” he says. “Also, I didn’t want you to go to a haunted house all by yourself.”

  I pause. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t. I just said I wanted to come along. You don’t believe the house is really haunted, do you?”

  “I hope it is, or this trip will be a waste.”

  I continue walking but stop again as a woman, busy talking to someone on her phone, bumps into me, the purse hanging from her elbow hitting my arm.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles, going on as if nothing happened while I stand there rubbing my arm.

  And I would let her, except for the fact that something has slipped out of her purse—a red envelope that’s now on the floor.

  “Excuse me!” I call after the woman as I pick up the envelope.

  She turns.

  “You dropped this.”

  “Oh.” She finally lowers her phone as she turns back towards me. “I don’t know what I would have done if this got lost. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  I hand her the envelope, only then noticing the familiar emblem on its wax seal, the initials D and S.

  My eyes widen in surprise.

  “That envelope was the same as the one for the invitations to Damien Shore’s party years ago,” I relay my observation to Conner. “And I’m pretty sure that emblem on its wax is his, too.”

  Conner nods, glancing at the woman. “You’re probably right. I recognize that woman. She’s the wife of someone important.”

  “But I thought Damien Shore’s in jail. How can he throw a party if he’s in…”

  “He was released last year,” Conner tells me. “Didn’t you hear about it?”

  “Um, no.” I shake my head.

  Shit. They let him out?

  “Well, it wasn’t too publicized,” Conner says. “It’s almost as if they were trying to keep it hushed.”

  “Or maybe I was just busy watching a marathon of My Little Pony with Alexa when that news was aired,” I say. “But why did they let him go?”

  “I’m sure you know why. He’s rich, well-connected.”

  “But the charges…”

  “He has a good lawyer, so he got away with only a few years in jail.”

  My hands drop to my side as my shoulders heave. “That… scumbag. And now he’s throwing a party? Again?”

  “Well, rumor has it he invited members of the jury to this one,” Conner says in a low voice. “Also, he invited the press just to prove that nothing fishy will go on this time.”

  I sigh. “Well, at least he’s decided to behave.”

  Conner chuckles. “Damien Shore behave? I doubt that.”

  He has a point.

  “At the very least, no underage girls are going to get sold or hurt.”

  “Yeah, at least there’s that.” He moves closer to me. “You don’t think we should go to the party, do you, for old time’s sake? Just make a quick appearance?”

  I stop, narrowing my eyes at him. “If that’s a joke, it’s not funny, Conner.”

  He raises his hands, backing off. “It was just a suggestion.”

  Yeah, right. He deliberately said that to make me remember the party, which I’ve been trying every day of my life since then not to.

  “All passengers for Flight 103 bound for Lake Charles, Louisiana,” a voice announces over the PA system. “Please proceed to Boarding Gate 4.”

  I glance at the speaker. “That’s our flight.”

  Conner steps beside me. “Haunted house, here we come.”

  Chapter Seven

  Conner

  The house doesn’t look at all haunted, I think as I stare at its non-creepy facade.

  In fact, it looks like an ordinary, crumbling three-story house. No vines creeping up the walls. No shadows looming behind the windows. No screams or whispers from the inside. No hideous gargoyles or monstrous creatures sticking out. No full moon or ominous gray skies in the background.

  Nothing.

  I’m not even feeling a chill. The hairs on my arms are completely at ease.

  “Are you sure we have the right address?” I ask Ingrid.

  She glances at the paper in her hand and nods. “This is it.”

  She walks up the creaking stairs and crosses the porch, knocking on the front door. A few seconds later, an old man opens it. He’s in his sixties, wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt and round glasses.

  “Mr. Murrow?” Ingrid asks.

  “Yes.” The old man scratches his bald head.

  “I’m Ingrid Halfield from The Colorado Chronicler.” Ingrid shows her ID. “We spoke on the phone.”

  “Ah, yes.” Mr. Murrow pushes his glasses up. “I just didn’t think you’d be here so soon, or that you’d look so young.”

  Ingrid smiles. “You’re too kind, Mr. Murrow.”

  I frown. Is he flirting with her?

  “Then again, these days everyone looks so young to me,” he says. “Please come in.”

  He holds the door open and Ingrid goes in. I go in after her, shaking the old man’s hand as I pass him.

  “Thank you for having us,” I say.

  “Don’t mention it.” He ushers me in. “An old man like me is always grateful for the company of the living.”

  I raise my eyebrows at the remark but let it go, looking around the living room.

  Even the inside of the house doesn’t look disturbing. The furniture is old but free of dust. Pictures—colored, not black and white—and colorful paintings of landscapes hang on the chartreuse walls. Behind the couch stands a shelf with books and vases. A wooden coffee table sitting on a fluffy brown rug is right in front of it, and there’s a twenty-four-inch TV across the room.

  Suddenly, I feel something wet against my hand. I turn my head to see a dog behind me, a Golden Retriever about four years old, a red collar around his neck and a friendly welcome in his eyes. Staring at me, it steps back, tail wagging
.

  “Hello, there.” I kneel down to pet it.

  “That’s Shadow,” Mr. Murrow introduces. “He’s my only friend now. Problem is, I’m not his. Why, he’d even befriend a burglar if he could.”

  “Would you now?” I pet the dog behind the ears.

  Ingrid sits on the couch and turns on her recorder. “Mr. Murrow, how long has it been since your wife passed?”

  It’s just like her not to waste any time.

  Mr. Murrow sits on a chair. “Her name’s Nancy, and it’s been three years.”

  “What did Nancy die of?”

  “Pneumonia.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Ingrid says. “But I also hear she hasn’t really left you.”

  “Kelly told you that, did she?” Mr. Murrow scratches the back of his head. “That girl talks too much. She used to talk less when my wife was around, but now…”

  “So it’s true?” Ingrid asks.

  I get off the floor and sit on the couch a few inches away from her so I can listen to the story.

  Mr. Murrow nods, stroking his spade-shaped beard. “During the first few weeks after she died, the house was eerily quiet. Too quiet. And then maybe about three months later, on our forty-first wedding anniversary, I saw her right there in our bedroom. She was standing by the window, wearing her wedding dress.”

  He stands up and points to a picture hanging on the wall, their wedding portrait. “This dress.”

  A white dress with beads shaped into tiny, yellow flowers.

  “And after that?” Ingrid asks.

  “I’d see her regularly.” Mr. Murrow gazes at the portrait. “Often there by our bedroom window, sometimes in the chair in the room where she used to spend the nights knitting while watching old soap operas or listening to Dolly Parton. Once or twice I even saw her sitting in the bathtub, always in that wedding dress. She’s never showed up here, downstairs, though.”

  Ingrid nods. “I see.”

  He sits down, and Shadow lies down at his feet. “I was happy to see her, even though she never looked into my eyes—she was always looking away—and even though she never said a thing. Even when I didn’t see her, I felt her presence and I was happy. I missed her very much, after all.”

  “Of course you did.” Ingrid reaches across the table to place her hand over his.