“What’s vexing you, Sammy lad?” Mrs. Beaty asked.
Sam turned at the shoulder to smile at her. He hadn't realized she was watching him, which was a dangerous thing to do. Old Mrs. Beaty, since the first day he moved to this town, had been an expert Sam reader. She knew what was up just by looking at him, which is precisely why he never stood still in a room with her for too long. “Writers,” he sighed.
“That young girl getting under your skin, is she?”
Sam laughed. “You know, when I asked her to stay with me, I had no idea what I was getting myself in for.”
Mrs. Beaty laughed, sitting down in one of the arm chairs and relaxing back. Sam came to sit with her, as he usually did when the store closed, but something about this evening felt different. He supposed it was because he, for once, wanted to talk. Needed to talk. Needed old Mrs. Beaty’s wisdom.
“I should have remembered from growing up around my mom,” he said. “Writers are fickle, emotional things. She keeps me up all night discussing the lives and trials of people that don’t exist and she asks my opinion about plots, then says my ideas won't work, only to go ahead and use them anyway.”
Mrs. Beaty laughed, and Sam sighed.
“She’s driving me crazy.” He leaned back in the armchair and looked at the fire as it burned down. “And then there’s the light.”
“The light?”
“She leaves her lamp on until two in the morning and the glow of it shines right into my face through the fireplace. It’s brighter than the damn flames.”
Mrs. Beaty laughed again, her heart getting warmer as she watched young Sam explain. “Then you love having her there, I take it.”
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. Mrs. Beaty could see him fighting hard not to laugh, but wasn’t certain what kind of laugh it was to be.
In truth, Sam hated how messy Ali was, and how she sung too loudly in the shower every night. But he loved a friendly face in the kitchen every morning, usually there before he was out of bed because she hadn't been to sleep yet, and he loved coming home to her in her zombified state, when she would announce this as the worst writing day she’d ever had, only to have produced some amazing material.
“To be honest,” he said, leaving a little pause in case he wanted to back out of this confession, “I don’t want her to finish the novel she’s working on.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it’s almost November,” he explained. “And in November her room at the hotel will be available, and she’ll leave if she’s finished the novel.”
“And you want her to stay—with you?” Mrs. Beaty probed, her expression neutral. Sam couldn't tell if she was happy or concerned.
He leaned forward and rested his forearms over his thighs, dropping his head a little. “I don’t know what I want.” But that was a lie. Even Mrs. Beaty could see that.
Sam often wondered if Ali had already finished the novel and just didn’t want to say so in case he asked her to move out, because, to date, she had never offered him so much as even a one-page sample. He’d read chapters of other stories she was working on, but not this tome that was supposedly set around Mrs. Denver's house. He’d expressed to Ali multiple times that she could stay as long as she wanted, forever if that was required, but she never responded.
“Are you two . . .” Mrs. Beaty hesitated by the proverbial door that had been opened between them, afraid it would slam shut with her prying. “Are you . . . together?”
Sam looked up, his wide eyes meeting with hers, but at the moment she thought he might snap at her and tell her to mind her own beeswax, he just smiled softly and shook his head. “I’m not really looking for that kind of relationship just yet,” he confessed, but he also had to be honest about the fact that this was something more than a friendship to him. He had no idea how to categorize it, or how to understand what he felt for her. All he knew was that he didn’t want her to finish that novel because he didn’t want her to go. No matter whether that thought was wrong or right, no matter what it meant, that was how he felt and that was all the definition he could give it.
“Can I ask you about . . .” Mrs. Beaty began. “You told me a while back that you’d noticed things in the house . . .”
Sam nodded, catching her meaning. “I don’t notice it so much anymore.”
Neither one wanted to use the words ghost or paranormal activity, but Mrs. Beaty was glad to hear that perhaps the restless spirit of his poor wife had moved on. “Has Miss Ali seen anything odd?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed, rubbing his face as he leaned back in the chair. “Once, after dinner, I looked up from the dining room and thought I saw a… a figure in the kitchen. And Ali’s eyes widened when she looked that way, but she didn't say anything.”
“Perhaps she did see it; perhaps she didn’t. If it hasn't scared her off, I’d say you shouldn’t worry about what she might see.”
Sam laughed to himself. “She wants to see things. She loves it—uses it to fatten out her writing.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Beaty said affectionately.
“She lives to write. Takes every bad experience and makes into something for her books.”
“And do you mind if the ghosts of your past make it into her story?” Mrs. Beaty’s brow raised. “Because you understand that’s what writers do—”
“I know.” He nodded. “It wouldn't surprise me if she used the whole damn story—”
“But how would you feel?” Mrs. Beaty knew what Sam’s privacy meant to him. His answer would give her a greater understanding of how the boy felt about Miss Ali.
“I don’t know,’ he said. “I guess it would depend on how she told it.”
“As in . . .”
“She dated Grant,” he said. “God knows what he told her about me. She must have had a pretty raw opinion of the whole matter coming into it. So I can only image what she wrote.”
“And you think she’s penned you as the villain?”
He tried not to laugh, but for how Ali obviously felt when they first met, it wouldn't surprise him. “Yeah. Probably,” he said, and he wasn’t sure he would blame her either. Truth was, his wife had died because of him. He was the villain. Nothing would ever change that.
Sam got up and walked away. “I gotta finish stacking these shelves.”
“Let me help you,” Mrs. Beaty started, getting up.
“No, it’s okay. You go home. I’ll finish up.”
She’d worked with Sam, and his great-grandfather before him, long enough now to know when he needed space, so she nodded softly and gathered her things. “Night, Sam.”
“Night,” he said, standing idly on the spot.
***
November came around quickly, leaving Sam confused and disappointed in himself. He’d planned to be so much closer to Ali before she moved back to the hotel in the hopes that she might come visit him, maybe that they’d stay friends, but time passed in an odd way and there was a wall of social conventions between them so ironclad that neither ever crossed any boundaries, staying on the side of respectfully polite interactions. He knew where he stood with her. He wanted to stand closer one day, but not yet. So it wasn't worth making any admissions about future feelings he might like to have one day and risk ruining the friendship.
The day of Ali’s tentative hotel booking arrived and Sam happened to answer the phone call regarding it. He brought the phone to her and apologized for picking it up, and for disturbing her while she was writing, but the expression on his face didn't look to Ali like remorse. It looked like deep regret and maybe sadness. When she answered the phone and the man asked about her room, she understood that look. Sam hadn't actually asked her to stay but he’d made plenty of remarks about taking all the time she needs to finish her novel, saying endlessly that she was welcome here until she did. Which is why she felt comfortable to say what she said next.
“Sam?” she said, pressing the phone to her chest as he walked away.
; “Yeah?”
“Um, do you think . . .” She waited, hoping he’d just ask her to stay, but he didn’t. He was going to make her ask, which she knew was because he didn't want to put himself out there. “It’s the hotel. My room is ready but the novel isn’t done. Can I stay here just a little longer?”
Even though he tried to contain it, the relief was visible on his face. “Uh, yeah, I don't see why not.”
Ali grinned.
“But stop leaving your shoes in the middle of the foyer, okay?”
“Okay,” Ali agreed and promptly told the man on the phone she wouldn't need the room. After that, she decided someone else needed to know her plans. Mel picked up on the first ring.
“House of crazy. Momosaurus speaking.”
Ali laughed, taking in the background noise of screaming babies and loud music, and instantly placing Mel at her mom’s group. “Sounds like you’re having fun.”
“There’s no other word for it,” she said, exasperated. “How’s single life?”
“Quieter than yours.”
Mel laughed.
“I just wanted to let you know that my hotel became available.”
“Oh good. So you're finally moving away from your beloved?”
“I hope you mean my beloved house, Mel,” Ali demanded sweetly, and Mel laughed. “But, um, well . . .” Ali bit her lip.
“Oh, you’re not! Ali, tell me you're not staying there.”
“Well . . .”
“Ali, are you in love with this man?” The noise in the background stopped suddenly. Ali assumed Mel either left the room or stuck pacifiers in each kid’s mouth.
“No!” she said quickly, rethinking it after hearing herself say it aloud. “Okay, maybe it could go that way. But it’s only been a few months, Mel. I’m not sure what I feel.”
“What does he feel? Are you dating—”
“No. And I don’t know what he feels. He’s a cage of silence.”
“Then he’s probably not as in to you as you are to him.”
“I don't know.” Ali shrugged one shoulder, hoping Mel was wrong. But she was never wrong. “I want to get closer to him, but he’s so distant. We talk all night sometimes but he never lets me in, if you know what I mean.”
“Not really, no.”
Ali laughed softly to herself. “He lets me talk, but he never tells me anything about himself. Ever.”
Out in the hall, Sam’s shadow lingered along the floorboards. Ali knew he was listening in, but that seemed so out of character for Sam. He wasn’t the spying type as far as Ali knew. “Look, I gotta go, okay? Will I still see you guys for Christmas?”
“We’ll be there. And what about Thanksgiving? Are you coming home?”
Ali wanted to, but she really didn't want to leave Sam. Not because she was worried their friendship would die while she was gone, but because he seemed sadder lately, like he was struggling with something. “I want a leafy Thanksgiving. But you guys enjoy the beach, okay?”
Mel laughed. “Okay, fine. But you’ll miss Gina’s turkey.”
“Freeze some for me and bring it at Christmas.”
“No way. You miss the day, you miss the turkey. Too bad.”
“Aw.” Ali pouted, but Sam mattered more to her right now so she wasn’t too upset about the turkey. Something just felt . . . wrong. Something pleaded to her heart from deep inside, telling her not to go. “Well, I’ll just have to make my own turkey.”
“It won’t be as good,” Mel teased, saying good-bye one last time before hanging up.
Ali looked into the hall where Sam’s shadow was still lingering. What was he doing out there? Maybe he was inspecting the cornices for mold. Surely he wouldn't eavesdrop. Ali knew him well enough now to at least assume he was better than that. Still, it was the perfect opportunity to jump out and scare the pants off him.
Quiet as a mouse, she put the phone down and tiptoed to the door, watching as his shadow shifted slightly. Taking a huge gulp of air to support the roar, Ali jumped around the corner with her hands up and then coughed out all the air, stumbling forward into an empty space.
She stopped and looked around, puzzled. No Sam. No one at all.
With a bewildered frown, Ali searched the ground for the shadow, even stepped past where it had been to remove her own, but there was none. No object or piece of furniture could have made that shadow—there was a clear beam of light from the window above the stairs to the ground where she stood, no obstruction. And Sam was currently downstairs, whistling as he cooked. There’s no way he could have gotten down the stairs in that amount of time without Ali seeing him, but she had seen a shadow there as clear as she could see her own now, and yet there was no explanation for it.
Her blood ran cold and she walked down to the comfort of a human companion slowly, stiffly.
“Everything okay?” Sam said. “You look like you've seen a . . .” He stopped on that last word, realizing that was probably the case.
Ali snapped out of her stare as he came around the counter and cupped her arms gently, turning her to face him.
“What happened, Ali?”
“I saw a shadow in the hall,” she said. “But there was no one there.”
Sam didn’t shell out affection openly, especially not to a gorgeous woman living in his house, but she needed a hug. He could tell. So he pulled her to his chest and brushed her hair firmly to calm her.
Ali noted the way he held her; how some people would lean over to hug, giving you their body, but Sam pulled. He pulled a person in to his safe circle and gathered them there like everything would be okay. She liked that kind of hug.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly. “Do you want me to call the hotel and get your room back?”
Ali shook her head. “I don't know what I saw, Sam. Ghosts aren’t real.” She drew back and sat down on the stool, feeling weak and shaky, afraid that damsel in distress thing might push their relationship along before Sam was truly ready. She could feel a vibe in the way their bodies connected and if she had it her way, dinner would go on hold and they would go upstairs right now. But she knew neither of them was ready for that step. “I refuse to be chased away by a stupid childish superstition,” she finished, aiming that more at the ghost than Sam—if there had, in fact, been a ghost.
Sam swallowed hard and went back to the stove, but as he continued cooking, the pep in his step and the whistle in his breath was gone, leaving the house cold and kind of empty. Ali thought it was because of the ghost, but Sam was just hurt because his worries were confirmed. She pulled away from the hug—from the first openly expressed sign of affection between them. It was clear now to him what this was to her—that she obviously had no feelings for him outside of the borders of acquaintance.
He didn't feel like whistling anymore.
~12~
Old Wounds Tear Open
Ali could think of several things she’d rather be doing on Thanksgiving eve, and none of them involved sitting at a stall in the freezing cold. And, despite that, being there beside Sam, watching him smile and talk and interact with humans, she couldn’t think of anywhere she’d rather be.
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving tomorrow, petal?” Di asked, leaving her own stall for a moment.
“Um, I don’t know.” Ali looked at Sam, waiting for him to chime in. He noticed, but didn't say anything.
“Well, you’re welcome to come to my house. Both of you,” she added, including Sam.
“Thanks, Di,” Sam said, handing a customer his order. “But I’ve got a pretty big bird in the fridge and some new recipes I wanna try out. Maybe next time?”
“Sure.” She winked at Ali. “What about you, petal?”
Sam glanced back and actually stopped what he was doing for a moment, waiting for her response.
“Um.” Ali wanted to have dinner with Sam, but she wasn’t sure he wanted her to. He’d been distant since she saw the ghost—as if maybe the memory of his wife had surfaced now and he felt uncomfortable laugh
ing and talking with her if Sarah might see. Even as they baked cookies all yesterday and last night, Sam wasn’t as open and lighthearted as he usually was when they cooked together.
“It’s probably not as elaborate as Di’s dinner,” Sam finally chimed in, scratching the back of his neck, “but I’ll be making enough for two.”
Ali grinned, as did Di, both of them getting the exact answer they’d been hoping for.
“Well, you two kids have a good weekend then,” Di said, fighting hard to hide her joy. Even as she sat back down at her own stall across from theirs, the hope that Sam might finally be happy with this new girl filled out her smile. She waved at the pair and Ali waved back. Sam groaned and took another order.
“I think she thinks were a couple,” Ali offered, coming to stand uncomfortably close to Sam so she could whisper it.
“I’m starting to think everyone does.” He raised his brows, hinting with a nod, but Ali didn't catch on, so he grabbed her cheeks and turned her face the front of the stall. She noticed it then—how many heads parted from their whispered conversations.
“Oh.” She laughed. “We’re the talk of the town.”
Sam wiped his hands on a towel and threw it down on the counter. “Why can’t people just mind their own business?”
“I dunno.” Ali moved one shoulder up shyly. “I think it’s sweet.”
“It’s dangerous.” He turned away and sat down. “Gossip never leads to anything good.”
“I don't see how discussing the Town Cranky Pants and the Helpless Newcomer can end the world.”
He raised a brow at her, his face half lit with a smile. “Town Cranky Pants?”
Ali grinned. “You could stand to be a bit more approachable.”
Clearing his throat, he sat back and propped his feet up on her chair, making it impossible for her to sit down. “Well, since I’m so unapproachable, I suppose you should run to the store and get some garbage bags for the clean-up.”
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