Ghost Planet

by Sharon Lynn Fisher

  When I shut off the water, Murphy took my arm and guided me to the table, pressing me into a chair. He returned to the fridge for a bottle of wine, filling a glass and handing it to me.

  “It’ll be ready in a minute,” he said with a wink.

  “Oh, fine.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like I didn’t warn you.”

  As I watched him finish the sauce with white wine, herbs, mushrooms, and cream, I couldn’t escape the feeling I was on a first date. What bizarre circumstances for a man and a woman—practically strangers, single, and close to the same age—to find themselves in.

  “Okay,” said Murphy, as he came over with two steaming plates. I hopped up and grabbed silverware and napkins, and when I came back I saw that he’d set our plates on adjacent sides of the table rather than across. I sat down and he refilled our glasses.

  “Sorry it’s just noodles and sauce. It’s time to go to the market again.”

  I forked a mushroom and took a bite. “Mmm, you’re amazing at this. I’m jealous.”

  I watched the pink stealing along those high cheekbones. “My mother is amazing. She worked as a chef in Dublin before she married my dad.”

  “How did you all end up on a farm?”

  Murphy looked surprised, and it occurred to me this was a rather personal piece of information to have on the tip of my tongue. I couldn’t think of a tactful way to explain I’d been reading up on him.

  “We moved to the farm because my dad had a strange fascination with dairy cows.”

  “And your mom?”

  “She had a strange fascination with him. And he managed to convince her she wanted to make cheese.”

  I smiled. “And babies. You have four sisters, is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And the photo on the wall in the laundry room—that’s your mother, with your aunt?”

  Murphy nodded, his expression clouding.

  “They look like they were close.”

  “They were. But it’s been twenty years since she died.”

  The easy, flirtatious mood that had prevailed during dinner preparations was evaporating. The problem being, of course, that there weren’t many topics we could discuss without brushing up against the troubling realities we faced. We focused on the meal, and a gloomy silence descended.

  When we finished, Murphy rose to carry our plates to the kitchen.

  “I’ve thought a lot about my aunt the last few days,” he said. “Especially about what happened to her.”

  I watched him for a moment before answering. Did he mean the new Aunt Maeve, his ghost?

  “I’ve thought a lot about her too.”

  He returned to the table. “I wonder whether she’s still…”

  “Alive?”

  He nodded. “Assuming there’s been nothing calculated about it—that Lex was wrong about me having been targeted—”

  “I don’t know that we can assume that.” Much as I might like to, I couldn’t discount an explanation with merit just because it made me uncomfortable.

  “Perhaps not, but for the sake of argument. I’ve been thinking about what you’ve said about symbiotic relationships. There was little potential for a strong bond to develop between my aunt and me. She was born thirty years before I was, and we were never close.”

  “You also never accepted her ghost as your aunt.”

  “True enough. But I’m thinking more about compatibility. If there is something important about the bond, and if she and I were a weak … pairing, could it be your own death actually triggered her replacement?”

  I raised my eyebrows, not sure I understood what he was suggesting. “You and I were little more than strangers. What would indicate we had the potential for a stronger bond?” My face grew hot as I recalled what Ian had said about the bond of attraction.

  Murphy shrugged, and his gaze drifted down to the tabletop. “More common interests. Similar backgrounds. I don’t mean to sound cold about my aunt—I did care about her. But there was never a strong temptation to…”

  “To interact with her ghost?”

  “Yes.”

  Setting aside the implication that had now brought color to his face as well, I said, “But you must see you’re reinforcing Lex’s theory.”

  He glanced up. “Could be, yes. I think it comes down to whether you’re comfortable believing there’s a conscious decision about ghost selection, made by some kind of alien intelligence with a sinister motive. I think that’s naïve.”

  “So you think there’s some kind of natural process at work? That the reason the whole thing makes no sense to us is because there is no grand scheme.”

  “Yes, we try to make sense of it by assigning motives to the planet.”

  “Ones we’re familiar with. Hostility, and aggression.”

  “Exactly.”

  I stared at him. “How long have you been thinking about this theory?”

  The frown of concentration relaxed into a grin. “What time is it?”

  “I see,” I said, laughing.

  Encouraged as I was by all of this—intrigued as I was by his idea—it was impossible not to extend out the theory and question what would happen to me if someone closer to him suddenly died.

  Murphy’s attention had shifted to my hands and I realized I’d begun twisting a strand of hair around my index finger.

  “You did that the first time I met you,” he said.

  Releasing the strand, I explained, “I do it when I’m thinking. Peter—my fiancé—thought it was cute when we first met. Later it drove him crazy. I always worked a bunch of loose ones out and they’d end up all over the floor.”

  Murphy’s smile dried up. “You were engaged?”

  I stared down at my bandaged hand, remembering the monitor I’d smashed to prevent myself from contacting him. “For a while I was. Funny, after the transport accident I couldn’t help wondering if I’d still be alive if I’d married him.”

  Murphy stared at me and I was touched by the pain in his expression. “I’m not sure that is funny.”

  “Probably not.” I smiled, hoping he’d let it drop. But that was not in the cards.

  “Why didn’t you marry him? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  I realized with surprise that I didn’t mind him asking. He was easy to talk to. I was enjoying his company. And I no longer noticed any of the pangs that I’d felt when I’d thought about Peter before.

  “I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times. We were together on and off for ten years. When he finally asked me I said yes. But every time he’d try to get me to name a date, I’d put him off. Finally I realized I couldn’t do it. I broke it off and came here.”

  Murphy’s head tipped forward as he studied me. I fidgeted in my chair. “No ideas why you couldn’t do it?”

  Because when he looked at me, I never felt like I feel right now. “A few.”

  “But you’re not going to share them.”

  I smiled. “How come you’re not married?”

  He rolled his eyes at the evasion.

  “No, really. You cook. You have nice manners. Clean fingernails. A good job.” Don’t even get me started on your eyes.

  “You forgot arrogant, stubborn, and single-minded.”

  “Ah, well. A girl can’t have everything.” But I didn’t buy it. “Come on, there must have been someone.”

  “No one I thought seriously of marrying. And since I’ve been here—well, you can imagine romances on Ardagh 1 are complicated.”

  “Mmm, yes. Having your girlfriend’s husband following you everywhere is definitely a complication.”

  He had the decency to look uncomfortable. “Julia and I weren’t really … we hadn’t been seeing each other for long.” I noted his use of past tense.

  “Yes, Ian told me.”

  Murphy’s eyes moved back to my face. “The two of you seemed to hit it off.”

  “We did. I like him very much. I take it I’m not going to be seeing him again.
”

  Murphy picked up the wine bottle and emptied what was left into our glasses. He folded his arms over his chest, leaning back in the chair and studying me. “You can see him at the center, when Julia comes for counseling. But I’m not seeing Julia anymore, so he won’t be coming here.”

  “Did you stop seeing her because of Ian and me?”

  He shook his head. “You and Ian are just one piece of it. Lex and I dated in college—actually we lived together very briefly. It didn’t work out, but we parted friends. She’s Julia’s counselor, though, and it’s been a bit … weird.”

  “Ah,” I replied, nodding. It explained a lot.

  A dark eyebrow shot up. “Ah?”

  “I knew there was something. The dynamic between the two of you—it’s not just colleagues. Or friends.”

  “Well, that’s been over now for about five years. We’ve been friends much longer than we were … more than that.”

  “I see.” Maybe it was over for him.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about Ian. If you like I can give you the schedule for Julia’s counseling sessions, so you can look for him on those days.”

  This was kind, and unexpected. “Thank you,” I said earnestly. “I’ll try not to cause you more trouble.”

  Murphy eyed me for a moment as I sat feeling awkward and uneasy.

  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you.”

  I swallowed. “Yes?”

  “About Caroline—about your mother…”

  My heart gave a throb of warning.

  “I wanted you to know how sorry I am that—”

  “Please.” I dropped my gaze to my hands, which I’d pressed against the tabletop for support.

  Murphy hesitated. “I don’t mean to upset you. But if you’re interested—if you like—I discovered the memorial service was recorded—”

  “No.” I stood up. “No. It’s kind of you, but—”

  I broke off and headed for the closet.

  “Elizabeth, wait—”

  The lights came up as the door closed behind me. I shut them off and lay down on the pallet. Though I’d washed all the bedding, the rose-scented lotion was tenacious. I liked the fact my predecessor’s presence wasn’t so easily scrubbed away. I’d left up her picture. Kept all her clothes, even the ones that didn’t fit. Made the bed when I got up in the morning because she had struck me as an orderly person.

  Tears ran down my temples, trickling into my hair. Murphy’s kindness was both a comfort and a threat. It had loosened all the knots I’d used to bind my grief, and now my head throbbed from the effort of containing it. Despair was not conducive to survival.

  As I dried my face on the blanket, the door opened. Murphy stood in silhouette, but light washed over me from the outer room. I sat up and slid my feet to the floor.

  He came and knelt beside the pallet.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I keep doing and saying the wrong things. But please don’t hide in here. I don’t want you sleeping here anymore.”

  I folded my hands in my lap to stop them trembling. “I don’t mind it. I like having my own space.”

  “Then take my room. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  I stared at him, bewildered. “Why, Murphy? You didn’t mind her sleeping in here.”

  “She was never real to me, Elizabeth. I know that’s not likely to soften you toward me, but I mean to be honest. She was never a person, in my mind. She was my ghost.”

  “As am I.”

  Murphy sighed and rose to his feet. He held out a hand to help me up.

  “It’s no longer that simple, love.”

  * * *

  I wanted to stay put. The closet made me feel safe. Allowed me to escape when I needed to. Maybe I’d feel more exposed, more vulnerable, sleeping in his room. But I believed I understood what it meant to him. We were going to live under a flag of truce. More than that, he wanted to help with my research. That meant I was no longer his shadow, and I didn’t belong on the floor of the laundry room. Gentlemanly instincts, Lex had said.

  That night was strange and uncomfortable. He came in long enough to collect some clothes and other things, but then he left me alone. I soon discovered the primary benefit of the former setup was that I pretty much had the run of the apartment. I made tea in the middle of the night. Showered any time, and for as long as I liked. Now I had to be conscious of the fact he was sleeping in the middle of the apartment.

  The bed was a whole other adjustment. Besides the fact it was luxurious compared to the pallet, it didn’t smell like roses. It smelled like him. Not just the spicy-clean smell, but his smell—fleshly, male, and intimate.

  Once I finally managed to relax enough to drop off to sleep, I slept hard. The sun was well up by the time my growling stomach roused me. All I had with me for clothes were the ones I’d worn the day before, which now smelled like day-old sautéed onions. Glancing around the room, I saw a caramel-colored sweater tossed over the back of a chair at the foot of the bed. I pulled it over my nightgown, which was Aunt Maeve’s size and stretched revealingly across the chest and backside. As the sweater was Murphy’s size, it covered the essentials.

  I passed through the bedroom door and froze.

  Murphy lay on his back on the sofa, naked from the waist up, his skin like ivory against the dark fabric. My eyes moved slowly over the curves of his upper arms and shoulders. The planes and angles of his stomach and chest. His shoulders were broad, but you wouldn’t call him burly. There was a slender-muscled, thoroughbred beauty to his form.

  One long hand rested on the back of the sofa, the other across his abdomen. My gaze slid down to a faint tracing of dark hair that trailed into the waistband of his pajamas.

  I swallowed, steadying myself against the doorframe.

  As I lifted my gaze I found him watching me. Heat flashed from my forehead to my toes.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice creaky from sleep.

  Um, no. “Uh-huh. Do you mind about the sweater?”

  His eyes moved slowly over me, aggravating my condition. “Not at all.”

  He sat up and pulled a T-shirt over his head.

  I cleared my throat and walked to the kitchen. “Can I be trusted to make tea, do you think?”

  “With supervision,” he said with a laugh.

  He joined me and we got the tea things down together.

  “That color is better on you than me,” Murphy observed. It was true—he belonged in cool colors: blue, charcoal, green. The plum-colored fabric that had provided such nice contrast earlier. “Why don’t you keep it,” he went on, “at least until we can find you some other warm clothes.”

  I turned to him, leaning my hip against the counter. “You know, I have a bunch of clothes in the container that came from Earth.”

  Murphy paused in measuring out the tea. “Braden assumed your family would want your things. They’ve already gone back.” He looked at me. “I’m sorry.”

  I wasn’t really surprised. And I’d had mixed feelings about seeing the things from my old life. “No, it’s okay.”

  I fiddled nervously with the sugar bowl as Murphy continued to study me. “You know, your eyes are the most unusual color. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it the first time I met you.”

  “Back in Ireland, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t notice because they were a different color on Earth. Apparently my alien trademark is yellow eyes.”

  He angled his body toward me. Suddenly I was keenly aware of how close he was standing. His hand came to my cheek and he lifted my face so he could get a better look. “Interesting. They’re hardly yellow. But they are lovely.” His thumb stroked my cheek. “You’re lovely, Elizabeth.”

  Oh God, who is seducing whom?

  My breaths came in little bursts. His hand drew me in. Or maybe I was the one to sway closer—our bodies were already so close it was hard to be sure. He lifted his other hand to cradle my face. The tip of his n
ose brushed down the bridge of mine, and our lips met.

  It was the first time I’d ever been kissed. No, it wasn’t my first kiss. It wasn’t even our first kiss. It was what every first kiss should be.

  Softly. Once, twice, a third time. His hands trembled as he parted my lips with his tongue. My arms twined around him, pulling him closer. One of his hands slipped behind my head as his other arm wrapped around my shoulders. Our forms merged, seamless.

  I don’t know how long this went on before his lips broke from mine, both of us gasping, and brushed down the side of my face to my neck. Heat surged up my spine and I gave a quiet moan, which he answered with a low “Mmm” in my ear.

  No! Stop!

  The voice in my head drew my attention away from his warm lips on my skin. I tried to ignore it.

  STOP! This time punctuated by a high, chiming series of notes. Someone at the door.

  We both jumped and he gave a choked-sounding groan. I dropped my arms, but his hands came again to my face. “I’ll let it go.”

  I raised my hands to his wrists. “No. Please. We have to stop.”

  He had a feverish look and I worried he wasn’t hearing me. He moved to kiss me again and I said, louder this time, “Murphy, I can’t do this.”

  A Woman Scorned

  Murphy released me and took a step back. The chime came again, and he ran a hand through his hair and headed for the door.

  I sank against the counter, sagging under the weight of hormonal assault and self-loathing. How could I have let this happen again? It was only going to complicate everything. Wreck the trust between us, still vulnerable in its infancy.

  Yet all I wanted was to do it again. I could still feel his body against mine … his hands, his lips …

  “Lex,” Murphy said with surprise.

  I groaned under my breath. She was the last person I wanted to see.

  “Wow, Irish—pajamas?” She walked into the apartment, and I thought of a snake slithering into a chicken house. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Isn’t that one of the perks of working from home?”

  I didn’t see Lex’s ghost, and assumed he was still out in the hallway.