"Those really are the worst letters I’ve ever seen," she laughs, giving the tray back to me and moving into her place on the other side of the board.
I glance down at my tiles—X, W, G, Q, V, Z, O—and, inhaling deeply, pour them down onto the floor. They clink upon the wood planks and tumble in all directions, setting the kittens to pouncing. "You win, Alis Baker." I cough into my hand; my voice is shaking.
"Well, you were a valiant opponent."
"Little did I know I was playing with a shark…"
Alis folds the board and tilts it so that the used tiles fall into the bag in her hand. "Hey, it’s really all a matter of fate. Chance. Good tiles, bad tiles."
"A killer vocabulary doesn’t hurt." Coughing again, I manage a smile and begin to count off on my fingers. "LOVESICKNESSES, RECONTEXTUALIZE, VERTICALITIES—"
"Don’t forget CAMPANOLOGIST. I was pretty proud of that one."
"What does it even mean?"
She feigns shock. "Turn in your librarian license, madam. A campanologist is—of course—a person who studies and/or casts bells."
"Bells? Like…ring-a-ding-ding bells?"
She holds up a finger, pointing her nose snootily in the air. "Precisely."
I smile at her as I stretch my arms over my head, standing up. "Well, I bow to your superior wordsmithery and will relinquish my library license at dawn. But right now…I’m beat. Want to head back to the house?"
"Sure. Let me just clean up a little first. Hey, Darcy?"
"Yeah?"
Alis drops the Scrabble bag and board and rises to stand beside me, nudging the game box with her fidgeting toes. "This has turned out to be a really nice Christmas, despite—you know. I mean, I loved spending the day with you."
I take a deep breath, hands in pockets, thinking of the spelled-out message on my tray…and I step a little nearer to Alis, searching her unreadable eyes. Then, with a small sigh, she throws her arms around my shoulders and buries her face against my neck, lips parted, her warm breath teasing my skin.
"Thank you," she whispers into my ear, "for everything. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had."
"Yeah, you, too." I draw away, laughing softly, though that word—friend—sank my heart like a stone. "I’m not sure I’ve been the best friend to you, honestly, but I appreciate the sentiment. And I had fun today with you, despite—"
"Yeah." Alis smiles sadly and then returns to putting away the Scrabble game pieces.
"Be right back." Hurriedly, I step into the bathroom, closing the door behind me, resting my forehead against the cool silver surface of the mirror over the sink and breathing slowly, in and out. The words—KISS HER—disappeared the moment that Alis looked at them, but they were there, clearly there.
I don’t think I’m crazy, don’t think I’m seeing things, but I can’t make sense of the strange occurrences since Catherine’s death. I don’t know why she’s still here. Is she trapped, lost, afraid? Does she want something from me? I thought she was lingering because her play was unfinished, but I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
Maybe it’s time that I made a more determined effort to figure things out.
I gaze at my reflection in the mirror and watch, biting my lip so hard that I taste the metallic tang of blood, as a large heart slowly forms in the steamy film my breath left on the mirror’s surface. The heart is large and round, and its point is open at the bottom—an exact copy of the hearts Catherine always drew on her love notes to me.
I raise my shaking hand and draw my own heart, interconnected with the first one.
Maybe it’s time for a séance.
Chapter Sixteen
"Do anything awesome for New Year’s?" Annabelle asks, placing another science fiction hardcover on the top of the heavy pile in my arms.
I groan beneath the weight of the nose-high stack and shuffle over to the bookshelves labeled SF/FAN. With a mighty shove, I push the books onto the middle shelf and then begin the task of organizing them alphabetically. "Not really," I say, smiling through gritted teeth. I’ve spent the past three hours sorting discards and donations for the library sale next week in Annabelle’s prodding company and am approaching my breaking point. "It was very low key, just a friend and me and the electric apple on TV." I don’t mention the tense kiss-on-the-cheek moment between Alis and myself at midnight. "You?"
"Some of my girlfriends and I—Oh…" Pouting disingenuously, Annabelle places her hand over her mouth and then bows her head, pretending at embarrassment. "I don’t mean girlfriends, like"—she lowers her voice—"lesbians. Just friends who are girls."
"Gotcha," I growl, jamming an Asimov in place. "Thanks for the clarification."
"Sure! Well, anyway, we went to that new club that opened up downtown. You know, the one with the fluorescent martini glass in the window?"
"No, but do go on."
"Well, let me just say this—that place is cuh-ray-zee! Like, so OTT, you wouldn’t believe it…"
I tune out Annabelle’s ramblings for a blissful moment, entertaining myself by considering her context-less acronym. What might OTT stand for? Outstandingly Tacky Time? Objectionably Tiresome Talk? Ostentatiously Toffee-Nosed Twittering?
It’s probably Over the Top, but I prefer Ostentatiously Toffee-Nosed Twittering—and suspect it’s much more applicable. "Sounds like an IOE," I tell her, smiling so brightly that my eyes burn, though Inane Obnoxious Experience might be a better descriptor for working with Annabelle than spending a night in an overcrowded dance club.
Annabelle screws up her face, trying to interpret my meaning, but then she shrugs and heaps another stack of titles into my waiting arms.
"Annabelle, Darcy," Marjorie greets us as she enters the book sale room, hands poised on her hips, gazing about and sizing up our work progress. "Think we’ll be ready by Monday, ladies?"
With a longsuffering sigh, Annabelle frowns, letting a book fall from her fingertips to the metal pushcart, clanging. "This is like slave labor or something. Are you sure we can’t get paid overtime for this?"
"No," Marjorie begins, her voice edged with impatience. Obviously she’s been forced to endure this particular discussion with Annabelle before. "You aren’t working overtime, only your regular working hours."
"I know, but I never signed up for heavy lifting or cashier duties. I’m a librarian, not a shop girl."
Straightening her shoulders and raising herself to her full height, Marjorie steps before Annabelle and glowers down at her. Marjorie is a softie and a sweetheart, but she can be fierce when the occasion calls for it. "The funds acquired from the annual book sale help keep this library in operation. Without these funds, our finances would be severely compromised, the result of which might be… Well, we may be forced to let go some of our staff, beginning with the most recent hires." She pauses, reflecting thoughtfully for a moment. "Tell me—how long have you been here, Annabelle, dear?"
Annabelle purses her lips disdainfully. "Eleven months," she murmurs.
"Eleven months. Oh, my, then I’m afraid you would be—"
"I get it," Annabelle says, sweetening her bitter words with a smile.
"Oh, good. Because, you know, I was a shop girl once myself and took a lot of pride in my work. It’s always important to take pride in one’s work, no matter the mode of employment. Wouldn’t you agree, Darcy?"
"Completely." I suppress a laugh, pretending to be absorbed in a copy of A Stranger in a Strange Land, lifting the book up to conceal my grin.
"Excellent. Well, since we’re all on the same page now…" Marjorie moves over to me with a clip-clop of her heels and threads her arm through mine. "I’d like to talk to you in my office, Darcy, if you don’t mind. I’m sure Annabelle can handle things by herself for a while."
"It would be my pleasure," Annabelle lilts through clenched teeth.
"Come along, Darcy."
Marjorie and I leave the room and walk the length of the library in companionable silence, aiming for the back of the building, w
here Marjorie’s cozy office is located. It’s a Thursday afternoon, and few patrons occupy the tables and aisles. I recognize some regulars and nod at them, smiling. It feels good to be here again, to have responsibilities and a routine again. Catherine was a free spirit and disdained routine, but I thrive on schedules, detail work, focused tasks. The past several months of miserable aimlessness have reinforced this truth more than ever before.
I trail my hand along a row of classics: Austen and Bronte and Colette and Dumas. The books’ presence is a tangible thing: I feel it like an embrace from friends after a long absence. I’ve missed these books, deeply. I’ve missed this place.
"I’ve missed you, Marjorie," I tell my boss once I’m seated in her office, the door closed behind us, the blinds drawn. "Thank you for encouraging me to come back to work. I know it’s only been a couple of days, but I feel lighter and happier already. Rejuvenated."
"You look rejuvenated." Marjorie sits down behind her desk and reaches for my hand, squeezing lightly. "There’s color in your cheeks! Light in your eyes! You’re Mary Lennox blooming in the garden!"
I laugh, reminded of Alis’ Christmas gift. "Well, maybe I’m not that rejuvenated, not yet, but I’m getting there, I think." I let go of Marjorie’s hand and lean back in the chair with a sigh. "Every day is still so hard, but stalling out my life, hiding from life, only made things worse. This jumpstart may be exactly what I needed. I hope so."
"I hope so, too. We have certainly missed your expertise around here. Not to mention the delight of witnessing your tête-à-têtes with Annabelle."
"Well, I aim to entertain." My mouth tilts sardonically. "There’s one person who’s disappointed to have me back."
"She won’t have to work half as much with you around, so I think she appreciates you—in her own special, Annabelle way."
"But not in a lesbian way, she would hasten to point out."
"Right." Marjorie’s eyes sparkle behind her glasses, and she leans forward over the desk, her hands clasped together. "Speaking of which, how are things between you and Alis?"
"Me and…Alis?" Heat rushes to my face, and a blush, scorching as sunburn, creeps over my cheeks. "There isn’t anything between—"
"All right, all right." Marjorie waves her hands in the universal gesture of surrender, though her eyes are still twinkling at me, as if they’ve divined my deepest secrets and find them enormously amusing. "It’s none of my business. I’m just a nosy old woman and would like to see my dear, sad friend happy in love again."
"Marjorie, I like Alis. I mean, I really—I do—" Sighing, I stare down into my lap and bite my lip. "It’s just so confusing, so complicated. I…I called your friend, you know, Genevieve?"
Marjorie nods encouragingly.
"She sensed Catherine’s presence in the cabin but couldn’t tell me much more than that. So I called her again just after Christmas and set up another appointment. She’s returning next weekend." I take a deep breath. "To do a séance."
After my announcement, I expect sensible Marjorie to gasp or recoil or at least summon a frown. I watch her carefully to gauge her reaction, but her expression remains the same: serene, listening, compassionate.
Again, she takes my hand and offers a reassuring squeeze. "I hope you find the answers you’re seeking, Darcy. I truly do."
Touched by her simple kindness, tears form in the corners of my eyes, stinging. I blink, swallowing hard, and murmur, voice gruff with emotion, "Thank you."
Marjorie pats my hand three times before letting it go to begin rummaging through the top drawer of her desk. She produces a tin of peppermint candies—her sugary addiction—and offers me one; I decline.
"I asked you back here for a reason, Darcy." Her voice has a serious edge to it now, an inflection of foreboding. I lean forward involuntarily, suddenly nervous. "Someone’s been asking about you."
"What do you mean?"
"A man—tall, dark hair, fancy suit."
My heart plummets to the floor, buries itself in the earth. "Is his name Jason?" I whisper, clenching my fists.
Marjorie shrugs slightly, stuffing a few loose strands of gray hair into her bun and then unwrapping one of the candies. "He never gives a name. But he’s been coming here for some time, weeks before you returned to work. Now that you’re back, I thought it wise to tell you about it. He seems harmless, asks whether or not you’ll be in… I thought he was just a patron who missed seeing you at the library. Is he a friend?"
I laugh hoarsely. "No."
"I was afraid of that."
"Well, I appreciate the warning." I cough into my hand to clear my throat; my words sound thick and broken. "If you see him in here again, just… Please don’t give him my schedule."
"Darcy, what’s going on?"
I shake my head and rise, striding over to the window. My heart is a mad, knocking thing inside my chest. I separate the blinds to peer through the glass at the parking lot, scanning for Jason’s truck, but there’s no sign of it. "He’s Alis’ ex. The divorce papers are still in process, but their relationship is over. Definitely over. And he’s threatened her. And me."
"Not…violently?"
When I turn to glance back at Marjorie, her face is ashen, creased with worry. "We have a restraining order. The police know what’s been going on. And he’s left us alone since Christmas—"
"He came on Christmas?"
"Yeah. That was the last time we saw him."
She leans back in her chair, stunned. "I had no idea this was going on. I’m so sorry. That poor woman. I’d seen her in the library a few times but never met her before the party, and she seems so—"
"Sweet," I breathe, falling back into the chair and cradling my throbbing head in my hand. "She’s sweet. Alis is…amazing. She was Catherine’s nurse for a while, you know, before the remission. But I didn’t get to know her until after…"
Marjorie moves from behind her desk to approach me and rests a soft hand on my shoulder. I lean toward it; her thin skin is warm against my cheek. "Perhaps you and Alis might join me for dinner sometime. I’d love to cook for you, spoil you a bit."
"Oh, Marjorie—"
"And I’ve been told my pasta alfredo is worthy of five stars."
Despite the anxiety gnawing at my inner workings, I smile and gaze up into my boss’s sympathetic eyes. "How about we schedule it for Scarlett’s release day? I’ll bring you your kitten, and you fill my belly with five-star food."
At the mere mention of Scarlett, Marjorie’s face smoothes: she looks twenty years younger—no, forty. Her expression glows with excitement. "I’ve been ready for her for weeks: litter boxes, fluffy cat beds in every room of the house, a toy box full of crinkly balls and bouncy balls and plastic whirlygigs—"
"She won the jackpot with you," I laugh.
Marjorie squeezes my shoulder gently, laughing, too. "It’s only natural. Librarians and cats go together like…" She gazes up at the ceiling, thinking. "Medieval monks and illuminated manuscripts?"
"Hmm," I say, one eyebrow raised dubiously.
"Bad simile? Okay, how about…Marie Antoinette and those dainty little cakes?"
I lift the other brow.
Marjorie sighs, resigned. "Sometimes you’ve just got to give in to clichés. Let’s go with the old faithful: peanut butter and jelly."
I grin, standing up from my chair to wrap Marjorie in a quick hug. "Thanks for being the most OTT boss ever."
"OTT?"
I draw back, jamming my hands into my pants pockets as I edge toward the door. "Sure, you know…" I wink. "All the cool kids are using acronyms these days."
"But what does it mean?"
"Overpoweringly Thoughtful Tome-lover, of course."
"Tome-lover? That’s a new one."
"Well..." I pretend to shine my knuckles on my collar, tilting my head back boastfully. "I’m allergic to clichés myself."
"Oh, words, words, words," Marjorie mutters, shoving me playfully through the now-open doorway. "Get thee to the book
sale room."
"You got it, boss." I salute and stride away, bracing myself for another round of Annabellian assaults.
---
The house is quiet when I step into the entryway, hanging up my coat on the wall hook and slinging my handbag to the floor. I free my feet from the snow boots with a heavy sigh and sit down on the low bench adjacent to the staircase, shivering, though the room is warm.
"Darcy, is that you?"
"It’s me, Alis," I call back, raking a hand through my snow-flecked hair and leaning back against the wall.
Worse than straining to remember the lilt of her laugh or the precise color of her eyes is the realization that I’m losing the habits I had fallen into when Catherine was alive. I’ve stopped expecting her eager embrace when I come home from working at the library. I would often arrive toting stacks of books for her: classics, biographies, academic works of literary criticism. Catherine would sink onto this very bench and begin to pore through the books right away, her eyes bright with curiosity as she leaned near to chatter to me about this important illustration or that rare photograph.
I loved her enthusiasm, her energy. She made me feel vital, in every sense of the word.
"Bad day? I assume Annabelle was her usual charming self?"
I lift my gaze to greet Alis, and my mouth moves into an easy smile at the simple, sweet sight of her. She tilts against the doorframe leading into the living room, wringing her hands on a stained towel, dressed in her paint-spattered artist’s smock with her black hair knotted messily atop her head, the bun poked through with a paintbrush.
"Work was fine. Just indulging in a little self-pity." I press my hands on my knees and shrug my shoulders at her before rising. "Thank you for coming in. I was this close to penning a terrible poem of woe."
"I’d love to read that poem. I’m sure it would be very insightful."
"Oh, God, no," I laugh, stepping before her and tucking a stray lock behind her ear. "Why do you think I became a librarian? You know what they say: those who can’t write…"
The Ghost of a Chance Page 12