Foretold (A Ghost Gifts Novel Book 2)

by Laura Spinella

  “Zeke, that’s not happy.” Her wide smile collapsed. “That’s arguing. Not now, not today.”

  Dee glanced between the siblings and busied herself with tiny netted bags of birdseed.

  “Sorry. I just—”

  “What you’re thinking of . . .”

  Zeke looked at Nora, imagining if she could read his mind.

  “Don’t. Just don’t. Mummy and Daddy, they were married in this church. We were both baptized here.” She thrust the bouquet forward in a poignant gesture. “I bit Father Hannigan’s hand myself, right at the altar during my First Communion. It’s like they’re here, even if they aren’t. Don’t you feel it?”

  Zeke looked down at the shiny shoes that did not belong to him. Then he looked at Nora, who did. Among his less vengeful vows was the one he’d taken in front of fresh graves, the first time he’d taken off from a foster home. He swore to Kieran and Ailish that Nora’s first thought each day would not be their dead parents. That her last moments each night wouldn’t be wet with tears. “You’re right,” he said. “Nothing but unicorns and four-leaf clovers the rest of the day. I swear.”

  Nora tipped her chin toward the vestibule doors as they opened. “I don’t need unicorns or Irish luck. I’ve got Ian—and you.” She pecked him on the cheek. “One last hair check.” The gown swished as she twisted toward Dee.

  Zeke faced forward and slipped his hand into his pocket. His fingers brushed against a piece of notepaper from Hingham Hardware, Mankato, Minnesota. Scribbled on the back was next Wednesday’s date and six random numbers. On his last trip to Charlotte’s, it had finally occurred to Zeke that the odd numbers might be lottery wins. It was worth finding out, and he’d taken the notepaper in addition to the winning ghost gifts he’d come to count on.

  Over time, as he’d clawed his way into Jude Serino’s inner circle, those ghost gifts had supplemented Zeke’s income. Serino Enterprises pay had been meager but necessary for his survival, if not his cause. As he and Nora waited for the “Wedding March” cue, Zeke considered the turn of events. He’d never anticipated irony of this magnitude—a rocket propulsion thrust, not into Jude’s inner circle, but directly into his family.

  Music played, and Zeke touched the notepaper once more. He moved forward while reaffirming his vows—the ones about Nora’s happiness and the ones about revenge. He avoided Jesus’s glance and attempted to focus on the moment. Ian waited at the altar, anxious but looking like a guy who wanted to get married. Ian’s innocence radiated, and Zeke had his suspicions as to why the brothers had so openly welcomed their fair-haired half-sibling into the fold. Ian had arrived from England with no skeletons in his closet and a shiny degree from the London School of Economics. Surely his background and blank slate would be of use to Serino Enterprises.

  As Zeke and Nora reached the altar, the Serino’s family history and the Dunne’s looped over and over through his head. It was history bound by many threads; Nora and Ian’s marriage would be one more. Zeke held himself responsible for that. If it weren’t for his determined infiltration into Jude Serino’s life, Nora would not have come within a thousand miles of Ian Montague. Solemnly, he placed his sister’s pale but steady hand in Ian’s, kissing her on the cheek and whispering, “You’ll be happy, Nora. I swear.”

  Then he turned away and took his seat. The specifics of the ceremony grew fuzzy, and Zeke attempted to order his thoughts by counting the things he knew to be true: One, ghost gifts were real. Two, Ian Montague had barely known his father. He wasn’t a true Serino. Three, Jude was now at the helm of the family. The eldest son. The only downside: Giorgio Serino was already dead. Pneumonia, apparently—not terribly painful or vengeful. Lastly, a similar fate would not hold true for Jude. This was something he knew, a prognostication of his own, because Zeke Dublin had every intention of killing him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Surrey, Massachusetts

  Present Day

  Aubrey sat inside Euro, a trendy downtown bistro. It opened the year before, filled with large doses of atmosphere and intimate dining nooks. Places like Euro had helped the town recover from tabloid notoriety. Surrey was no longer known as the place that was home to a murdered girl and the duplicitous men involved in her sad life. A new town council had done a fine job of reclaiming Surrey’s status as a pleasant place to live, even bumping up amenities with a science museum and refurbished town common. Today, a text message had brought Aubrey to the bistro. Typical Zeke shorthand, noting a time and place—carnies and drifters weren’t much for details.

  As she waited in a dim booth, Aubrey’s usual defenses felt off. In their place was an altered state of awareness. If she were to encounter a presence, what sort of message would it bring? After the Prudential Tower debacle, who knew? She sniffed the air and calmed. The aroma of coffee was the only obvious thing, internally or externally.

  In anticipation of Zeke, Aubrey had ordered a carafe of coffee; he’d always been a java junkie. Euro was the perfect setting, known for its morning blends and nightly espresso shots. She sipped her tea, startling when a waitress appeared out of nowhere, asking if she wanted more. The booth was secluded, particularly with a midmorning lag of customers.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to give you a jolt. But the manager, Dashiell”—the girl pointed toward a half-hidden corner—“he doesn’t like to see customers with empty plates or cups.”

  Aubrey leaned, looking in the direction the girl indicated. “Uh, sure. I’ll have more tea. My friend must be running late. It’s nice that Dashiell is so concerned about his customers.”

  “Not likely.” The waitress snorted a laugh. “It’s more about pushing the fresh-baked goods on a slow morning.” She looked in the direction of her boss. “That’s when Dashiell’s not smoking his little French cigarettes out back or stealing from our tip jar.”

  The bistro owner stepped into view. He read as European, particularly for Surrey—a sleek suit that you couldn’t buy in town and an aura that didn’t blend with picket fences. He sniffed in her direction, his pointy nose and chin turning away. An ethereal female voice made a beeline for Aubrey, heady perfume overtaking the smell of coffee. “Tell you what,” Aubrey said as the server supplied more hot water and another tea bag. “Send over a blueberry muffin, and tell Dashiell that Vivian says he can quit wondering. She knew about them all.”

  “Vivian?” The girl stopped pouring. “Dashiell’s wife? She’s been dead two years.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  A queer smile spread across the server’s face. “Then you know the stories too. Dashiell married her for his green card, then he used Vivian’s life insurance to open this place.” She set the carafe of hot water on the table. “What do you mean ‘she knew about them all’?”

  “Every woman Dashiell cheated on her with. Vivian says . . .” Aubrey tipped her head, listening to an onslaught of expletives. “Oh my . . . she, um, Vivian says they’ll discuss it when she sees him—which will be on . . .” Foretelling information bled into Aubrey’s brain and she shut up; her trite amusement at a specter appearing turned on both her and Dashiell.

  The waitress backed up a few steps before darting toward her boss. Uneasiness gripped Aubrey, and for a moment she wanted out of her own skin. She shook off the fortuitous entity and focused on her steeping tea. Seconds later, a blueberry muffin was delivered via Dashiell’s yellow-stained fingers, the plate rattling as it made unsteady contact with the table. “Your, um . . . your muffin.” His words were thickly accented.

  “Uh, thanks.” Aubrey didn’t look up, and the pungent odor of gasoline stripped the air of perfume. “Do you happen to have a boat?”

  “Oui. I do. How is it you know this? And how do you know about Vivian—or any of my business for that matter? Did Trina send you, perhaps Joanna? Women scorned,” he huffed. “I thought it was a silly American idiom. Is this some kind of hidden camera joke?”

  “No . . .” She glanced up, and Dashiell looked anxiously around his restaurant. “But you might
want to be careful of that boat, booze . . .” Aubrey pointed. “And those tiny French cigarettes near the gas line.”

  His gaze moved to Aubrey, but the ghostly connection ended abruptly with Vivian vanishing. A plus-size woman came around the corner. Dashiell looked in her direction. “Ah, excellent. A taker for the double chocolate muffins; two, no doubt.” Aubrey’s mouth gaped. She was about to call Dashiell out on his fat-shaming remark, maybe spelling out his fate. She didn’t; her attention was diverted. Behind the woman was Zeke, his width eclipsed by her frame but not his height. Dashiell pivoted. With his chin high, he nodded at the two patrons, brushing past both. Zeke glanced at the persnickety owner but quickly headed for Aubrey.

  From the private alcove, she rose to greet him. He smelled like Zeke—a whirl of yesteryear, laced with the memories of carnival days, sugary cotton candy, sweltering July afternoons, the scent of endless open air. She wanted to ask where he’d found cologne infused with their youth.

  “Aubrey, sorry I’m late, sweetheart.” He kissed her on the cheek, his mouth warm, the reminiscent feel of his arms folding around her.

  Aubrey closed her eyes and sank into the lure of comfort. “Sweetheart” hit her ears like the cologne did: with pleasant, welcoming memories. He grazed his fingers against her cheek, a punctuation mark on the hug. A wave of familiarity pulsed through her. It was positive and safe and good. “After the tower explosion, I wondered if you decided to pack up and go.”

  “I don’t scare that easy, and I’m just glad you’re okay. Crazy, wasn’t it? I tried to find you, but the crowds were so . . .”

  “Packed like a carnival?”

  He laughed. “More cops than I care to recall. Police . . . people everywhere . . . I wandered for hours looking for you.”

  “I, um . . .” Aubrey started to explain, but with so much catching up to do, she decided against the particulars. “I looked for you too. Same result. With all the chaos, eventually I just went home.”

  Physically, he hadn’t changed a smidge since she’d last seen him at a carnival troupe reunion. But Zeke tended to be like that, an endless hourglass of life. No deep lines on his face—only the expected scar above his eye. Not a strand of gray on his head. Or maybe Aubrey only noticed since she’d taken to coloring her own hair not long ago. Today he sported a few days of scruff. Aubrey stared. It was funny curious. He appeared to be a carbon copy of the man she’d fallen in love with in her youth. She shivered, goose bumps rising. “The money-grubbing proprietor ought to turn up the air conditioning. With so few customers, it’s like a refrigerator in here.”

  “Yeah. Maybe it is cold. Nothing a good campfire couldn’t fix.”

  Aside from the reunion, they’d had little contact over the years. It was Charley who kept in closer touch with him. The two were old-fashioned pen pals, exchanging handwritten letters. From them, her grandmother kept Aubrey updated on Zeke’s adventures and Nora’s family. “Tell me,” she said. “How is . . . life?”

  “Good question.”

  “We haven’t talked face-to-face in what, five years?” She found it hard to fathom—Zeke had once defined so much of her life.

  “I’ve had my share of changes lately.” He hesitated. “Work . . . other things.”

  “That’s right. Last time you were in town, you made quite an impression. Levi and I could hardly believe you work for Serino Enterprises. Small world.” Aubrey ran her fingertips over her still-chilly arms. The small-world discovery had surprised her then, not having thought about her encounter with Eli Serino in years. He was the nephew of Zeke’s boss and the boy who’d committed suicide in the house on Acorn Circle, an angry spirit who’d scared the bejesus out of her. “Remember, I told you I had a, uh . . . run-in with the Serino’s dead son. Is that what you still do, work for the Serino family?”

  “The brother, Jude. Actually, we parted ways.” He was quiet for a moment. “I finally worked up my nerve, hit a final straw, and cut ties—permanently.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You seemed to like your job.” Zeke glanced at the carafe of coffee. Aubrey leaned in the direction the server had gone. “The waitress certainly disappeared. Did you want something to eat?” Aubrey poured coffee in his cup, nudging a stack of sugar packets toward him. “Maybe the muffin?” Without a thought, she split the fat pastry in two. The communal gesture made her think of all the things she and Zeke had shared, the ways they’d shared them.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t bring my appetite, sweetheart.” He leaned his arms on the table. “I just wanted to take a good long look at you.” He grinned, a sight that still made Aubrey breathe deep. “You’re pretty as ever.”

  Aubrey picked at the muffin, gazing into the teacup. “Definitely not aging as well as you.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  And now it sounded like she was fishing for a compliment. “So you’ve left your job with Serino Enterprises. What will you do now?”

  “I don’t need much moneywise. Lately it doesn’t even feel like I need that. Kind of liberating. I’ll be okay for a while. I’m not sure what comes next.” His stare lingered. “Maybe I’ll shop around. See if there are any carnivals for sale. Does Craigslist have a category for that?”

  Aubrey laughed, but she didn’t want to pry at what sounded like a downturn in Zeke’s luck. At the Heinz-Bodette reunion, he’d hired a limousine to transport their group—Aubrey, Nora, Charley, and Yvette. “Change can be a good thing.” But as Aubrey looked at him, the dashing, tux-wearing Zeke from that night seemed to have vanished. In his place was long-ago Zeke: A worn flannel shirt—the kind she used to swipe from him at the end of every season, an annual Zeke keepsake. A dark T-shirt with a frayed edge peeked out from his collar. Jeans. Not exactly executive attire.

  “I could always pop in on Nora.” Zeke’s usual confident look faded. “Can’t quite recall the last time I saw her.”

  “She’s still living near Las Vegas?”

  “She is. Her son, Kieran—he’s a teenager now. Their little girl . . . Emerald, she won’t be far behind. So tell me,” he said, switching gears. “I want to hear about you and—”

  Aubrey cut him off. “So you’re going to take some time now that you’ve left Serino Enterprises. Sounds reinvigorating.”

  “Closer to reinvention. My last job with Jude, I was working on a residential development in Maine. A different leg of Serino Enterprises—riskier.” Zeke sighed, which read as uncomfortable. “Anyway . . . the last business prediction I made for Jude, it was a big investment. It didn’t turn out the way he’d anticipated.”

  It seemed safe to assume that Zeke had been let go from his job, and Aubrey focused on nibbling on her half of the muffin. “Sounds like maybe old times are still the best times to talk about when it comes to you and me.”

  “Can’t disagree. Carnival days were good. In the moment, maybe we didn’t know how good.”

  “Years ago, you couldn’t have convinced me of that. But definitely simple . . . sweet, compared to now.”

  “Aubrey?”

  Hearing her name forced eye contact.

  “What’s wrong with now?”

  And for as well as Aubrey could read Zeke’s mind, clearly he could read hers. “Life . . . Levi, things are just . . . complicated right now.” She busied her mouth by sipping tea. Discussing her relationship with Levi was a line in the sand. Yet Zeke was still her oldest confidant. And honestly? She could use one. “Actually . . . we’re, um . . . we’re not living together.”

  “Really?” Zeke nodded slowly. “Charley didn’t say anything in her letters. I’m sorry. He, uh . . . Levi seemed like the guy.”

  “The guy?”

  “Yeah. The one who gets the girl. The one I’m supposed to hate.”

  It all flowed back into her brain, the delicate, heartfelt memory and Zeke’s vow—to loathe the man who won the woman.

  “Is it temporary, or are you two heading to something more permanent?”

  “Like a divorce?”
<
br />   “I don’t mean to be blunt, but since you mention it . . .”

  “A divorce would be highly unlikely.” She paused. “Especially since Levi and I aren’t married.”

  He stared as if “married” required a definition. “Really?” Zeke reached for the coffee cup but appeared too stunned to pick it up. “You never . . .”

  “Tied the knot?” Aubrey untucked and retucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Nope.”

  “Really?” he said again.

  Aubrey rolled her eyes. “Okay, could you find another interjection? And you don’t have to look so surprised.”

  “I’m not.” Zeke frowned, running a hand through his dark hair. “Okay. I am. I’m totally surprised. Last time I saw you . . . you never indicated not being married.” He blinked. “And the way Charlotte talked about you and Levi in her letters . . . I assumed. I mean, there was a suddenness to it all, a letter . . . what? About a dozen years ago . . . ?”

  “Thirteen next summer,” she said, factoring in her pregnancy and Pete’s age.

  “Even so, when Charlotte told me she was going to be a great-grandmother. Heck. I thought she just spared me the wedding-day details.”

  Aubrey stared into her cup. If tea leaves had been floating, she wondered how they might have read. “To be honest”—she looked up—“I don’t have one clear reason why Levi and I never married. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you last time I saw you.” She shrugged. “Levi fits well into a lot of things . . . a suit, fatherhood—which he surprised himself with—his job. Marriage is more of a mold.” She thought for a moment. “I’m not sure it comes in Levi sizing.”

  “Fair enough. But I know you, Aubrey. That kind of commitment was always high on your list. If I recall, lack of commitment is what did in husband number one.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with wanting those things. It was the ticket for Nora and bumbling Ian—two kids and a collie.”