“You shoulda let me call my guy,” Pop said, jabbing his sandwich at Jake. A caper fell out and rolled onto his place.
Jake knew all about his father’s “guys” back in Grand Rapids and was very glad he’d declined. He might’ve ended up with the tile on time, but someone could’ve also been stuffed in a trunk getting it here. “Anyway, Mom would be proud of you, eating seeds in your bread and all.”
Pop snorted. “She’d have just found something else to nag at me about. Never stopped—even to her dying day, she nagged at me to pick up my socks and eat healthy. Nothing wrong with a good pasta and some white bread to sop it up with, but she’d get on me about that too! Well, my poppa and my nonno both lived over ninety and ate as much damned pasta as they wanted every day of their lives!”
Jake merely nodded. This was an old refrain, a familiar argument. Pop made it sound like he and Mom were at each other’s throats all the time—and though they often were, they’d also loved each other well enough to stay married for over fifty years and raise four children.
“I know you miss her,” he said after a few minutes of Pop grumbling about how his wife had cut back on the amount of red meat he’d eaten (“You can’t have Bolognese without any damned veal! And it has to be soaked in whole milk—none of that two-percent crap.”). “I know I do.”
“It’s been over a year, Elwood. I’m old, she was old, all our friends are old—and we’re used to it. Gets so I don’t even want to look at the newspaper from up in Grand Rapids anymore to see all the obituaries.” Beneath his orneriness was a layer of grief, though, and Jake felt another little stab of his own.
“Well, don’t look at the paper, then,” he responded tartly to cover the moment.
“Well, how’m I supposed to know if I gotta go to a funeral if I don’t know who ate it?”
“Well, if you hadn’t moved away seven years ago, you could just go to church and ask Father Stan who died,” Jake said with a grin.
“Your mom wanted to live away from the city and by the water,” grumbled Pop. “Got half of it right—no city—and close enough to walk to the lake on a good day.”
Jake smiled, even though his eyes stung a little. “You always gave her whatever she wanted.”
“I did—and so why did she always want to take away my beef and bread and cheese? At least she let me keep my Chianti and olive oil.”
“There are a lot of studies about how one glass of red wine a day is healthy.”
“So speaks the doctor,” said Pop—but the jest was said with a layer of pride.
“Right. So you should listen to me when I tell you not to climb on the damned roof. That’s why I moved back here, Pop, remember? So I can help you with some of that stuff? And you stay away from that beehive I saw—all right? I’ll take care of it.”
“Don’t need your help,” he snapped. “I’m not an invalid.”
“You’re almost seventy-eight years old. You have no business crawling on the roof—or climbing on a ladder for any reason. All right?”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me I can’t mow my own lawn now, aren’t you? You better not try and take away my car keys, sonny, or—”
“So tell me about this play you’re doing,” Jake interrupted quickly. He didn’t need to hear that lecture again.
And fortunately, he didn’t need to have the battle about car keys yet. His dad could keep them so long as he didn’t drive at night.
“I told you already. That damned Juanita Acerita bullied me into agreeing to play some guy named Gibbs. I didn’t know he was a damned Presbyterian.” He shook his head woefully, staring at the single caper on his plate. “She and Maxine are two giant boils on my ass.”
“What? The great Ricky DeRiccio is afraid of two old ladies?”
“You haven’t met them yet, have you?” retorted his pop. “Just you wait, Elwood. That Maxine Took—she’ll chew you up and spit you out if you don’t give her enough respect. And Juanita is just as bad. Everyone thinks she’s so nice and sweet—well, compared to Maxine, I suppose she is—but she’s got this little dog she likes to sic on people, and—”
“So, Pops, about this play you’re going to be in— Oh, here we go.” His phone alerting with the special chime from work cut him off. “I’ve got to get my laptop and take care of this.”
“Just like always—when it’s time to do the cleaning up, you’ve always got something to do,” said Pop, pursing his lips and pretending to be annoyed.
Jake ignored the familiar teasing and went out to grab his laptop, which he’d left in the car when he’d been trying to save his dad from falling off the damned roof. Fortunately, the little one-story cottage Pop and Mom had bought ten years ago was on a small side street just off the main drag of Wicks Hollow. It had a narrow view of Lake Michigan between trees and a couple of buildings, and there was a mile-long path that led to the lakeshore. Fortunately, their quiet residential street didn’t have a lot of tourists coming through, so the laptop was safe in his unlocked car. Whew.
“Don’t know how you can be a doctor without ever going into the hospital,” Pop was grumbling when Jake came back in. “All that money and schooling on a medical degree and you don’t ever go in to the office or visit the hospital. Are you sure you’re not just a quack?”
“Might I remind you that working remotely is what enabled me to move here to be near you,” Jake shot back as he flipped open the laptop. With HIPAA, he had to make certain no one could see anything on the screen—which, even though his dad would have absolutely no clue about how to read an X-ray image, and nor could Pop even read the notes without his thick bifocals—Jake still had to maintain privacy standards. So he sat in the corner with the computer screen facing the wall and logged in to the highly secure VPN for his radiology group.
“What do ya know—this one’s from Sydney,” he said when the patient info came up on the screen.
“You’re looking at an X-ray from a guy from Sydney? As in Australia?” Pops turned from the sink—whoa, he was wearing pink elbow-length dishwashing gloves!—and stared at him. “Why the hell they want to send their X-rays all the way here?”
“A female,” Jake said absently as he read the notes from the emergency physician before opening the image so he could read the film. “Hmm? Just a minute, Pops, I need to take care of this first…”
He carefully examined the image, made his assessment, typed up detailed notes, then sent everything back—a total of twelve minutes after the alert came in. Just as he did, another notification chimed and he had a second film to read and interpret. That one took longer because he had to hunt down previous X-rays from a different system so he could compare the baseline to the new images.
Forty minutes later, he closed the laptop and looked at his dad, who’d taken a seat at the table across from him and was eyeing Jake with an unreadable expression.
“What?” Jake asked.
“Were you really looking at X-rays from Australia?” His dad appeared both skeptical and fascinated.
“I was. It’s one in the morning there, you know, and sometimes they don’t have radiologists on staff at the smaller hospitals or care centers—or they’re unavailable—and so my group is on call for some of the hospitals in Sydney. That way, the Australian radiologists can sleep through the night.” He grinned.
Pop shook his head, scratching at the thick, wavy hair that still grew there. “You can really do all that just on your computer?”
Jake nodded. “Yes. I really can. It’s pretty common for radiologists to work remotely nowadays. There’s usually no reason for us to be on site.”
Working from home most of the time made for an interesting lifestyle. It allowed him to be flexible and comfortable—hell, he worked in his boxers sometimes and had stopped shaving daily three years ago—but it also could be pretty lonely, not leaving the house regularly and having few human interactions. And since his relationship with Mandy had gone south, his social life had been even worse.
He�
��d spent a lot of time making bread.
Which was one of the reasons he hadn’t minded moving permanently to Wicks Hollow. And why he’d bought his own place instead of living with Dad, because the two months he’d bunked here in this twelve-hundred-square-foot cottage had been enough to turn his own thick head of hair gray. And Jake wasn’t about to go salt-and-pepper at thirty-four.
“That just means I have more time to help you with things around here,” Jake went on. “So no more climbing on the roof, please? I don’t want to be looking at your X-rays someday when you fall off and break your damned neck.”
His dad snorted. “Fine. But I’m still mowing the lawn, and I’m going to finish painting the living room.”
“Only if you don’t have to stand on a ladder to do it. I’ll get the ceiling, all right? And the beehive I saw out there. So, when do rehearsals start for this play of yours?”
“I don’t know,” Pop responded. Then he gave Jake a sharp look. “Why are you so interested in the play?”
“I… Well, I was just curious. After all, rehearsals will be cutting into your lawn-mowing time, and that might mean I’ll have to come over here and do more of the yard work. I’ve got my own place to take care of, you know.”
And he did—he’d managed to snag an unusual but promising house on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. It needed quite a bit of updating (something he could do while waiting for his pager to go off or his dough to rise), so he’d snagged it for a sweet deal. That was because it had been in the dead of a lake-effect January winter in the middle of a blizzard and subsequent snow-in that the house had gone on the market. It had to sell quickly—and he’d been here to snatch it up. He owed his realtor big time, even though he’d had to remove a freaking tree from the middle of the living room.
“I told you I don’t need your help around here. All that much,” his dad added quickly. “I won’t climb on the roof again, all right?”
“No climbing anything but the stairs—you hear me? Pop, I’m not kidding,” Jake said.
“Don’t take that tone with me, sonny. I’m still your father.”
“Yes, and I want you to stay that way.”
“I don’t know when those rehearsals start, but they want me to come in and help with the set.” This bit of information was obviously his father’s version of a peace offering—maybe an acknowledgment of Jake’s concerns.
“You mean building the set?”
“Yes, and painting it and things. I hope Maxine’s not there. Last thing I want is to see that woman running around with a goddamned saw. Or an electric screwdriver.”
Jake shook his head. “I don’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved I haven’t met her yet.”
“Be glad. Be very glad. Maxine Took makes your mother look like a kitten.”
“Don’t tell me you have a crush on this Maxine person,” Jake teased.
“Hell no! What the hell is wrong with you, boy? That Maxine makes my balls wanna shrink way up inside.”
Jake grimaced. “Thanks for that image, Pops.”
His dad shrugged, but Jake caught a glimpse of his lips as they twitched beneath his thick mustache. “So what’re you doing hanging around here, Elwood? Get on home and make your pop some more of that rosemary and olive focaccia. I don’t want to eat any more bread with damned seeds in it. They get all up inside my stupid dentures.”
The next morning, Vivien arrived at the soon-to-be-christened Olivia Dee Theater a little after ten o’clock.
She and Helga hadn’t ended up coming here last night once they finished dinner at Trib’s—after several glasses of wine, neither of them had any business driving. So they’d strolled around town before walking back to Helga’s apartment and hanging out there for the rest of the night, and she’d told Helga not to bother to come by in the morning, since all of the other people would be there.
Vivien was glad to have an excuse not to go back to the theater last night—although she wouldn’t have admitted it. And if pressed, she would have gone back. Especially with Helga (who was, as one might expect, a bit of a badass). But she’d been just fine delaying her return.
Now, Vivien couldn’t help but glance around as she fitted the key into the front door’s lock. The last thing she wanted was Jake DeRiccio showing up again, all sweaty and in those tight running shorts.
But the parking lot was empty, and so was the little street in front of it. She wondered where he’d come from that he’d been jogging down this road outside of town. There were a few houses nearby, but they didn’t seem the type for a doctor and his possible family.
She wondered if he’d ended up with Lissa Kirkland.
The very thought of the bitch whose bed Jake had dived into about ten seconds after Vivien and he semi-broke up made her stomach churn and the fury come roaring back all over again.
Put it away.
It’s over. It’s done. It was a long time ago.
Distracted by the memories and emotions attached to Jake and that upsetting time of her life made it easier for Vivien to walk through the entrance into the lobby.
To her relief, nothing seemed out of place. There were no strange lights or sounds, and the air was still and quiet.
“I’m back,” she called to the ghosts lingering from shows past. “And I’m not leaving,” she added for whoever thought they could chase her away from her dream.
As if in answer, a soft shift in the air—very, very cold—buffeted her skin, and she thought she heard the faintest whisper of a sigh—relieved, relaxed—from deep inside the building.
“That’s right,” she said, the sound of her voice giving her comfort as she walked in and looked around. “I’m here, and here I’ll stay.”
She had a real flashlight this time, but didn’t turn it on yet and instead relied on the same dismal collection of light bulbs as before. The teen volunteers would be here in less than an hour, and she wanted to have a defined list of tasks for them before the hordes (she hoped there was a horde) descended.
But before that, she needed a moment of her own to do what she’d meant to do when she came in on Tuesday.
Once more, she walked down the center aisle from the lobby through the house to the stage. And once again, she felt the presence of those who’d come before—who’d entertained and danced and sang and soliloquized—and whose spirits remained.
They were ghosts of solidarity, phantoms of familiarity, spirits of tradition and memory…nonthreatening and benign, yet insistent that they be acknowledged.
And acknowledge them she would.
This time, nothing interrupted her as she approached the front. The orchestra pit located down and in front of the stage was small but functional and required her to veer to the left in order to ascend the five steps that brought her onto the stage.
For some reason, her palms felt damp and her heart was beating hard as she walked onstage and stood, facing the house…just as she and her twin had done twenty-some years ago.
She looked out over the empty seats, the rows where faces would be, the place that she would fill with people—she would—and remembered: the heat of the lights, the energy pushing at her, the music surrounding her, the excitement, the exhaustion, the triumph.
Memories flitted through her mind: pieces of dialogue, measures of song, steps of a routine…and then, when they began to overwhelm her, when her eyes filled with tears and her heart squeezed and hurt, she sank to sit cross-legged on the dusty wooden floor.
Liv.
“I wish you were here with me, Liv,” she said—but in a low voice. Just for her twin to hear. The other spirits didn’t need to eavesdrop. “I mean, I know you’re with me, but I wish you were corporeal, you know?” A skitter of sensation brushed over Vivien’s left arm—Olivia always stood on her left side—lifting the hair gently.
Tears stung her eyes, and she dashed them away with the palm of her hand. “It would be so much better if we were doing this together. You know?”
Silence. But she di
dn’t need to hear or feel an acknowledgment. She knew Liv was there, and that she heard her.
This is for you, Liv.
A rush of warmth and the glitter of energy surrounded her, gently buffeting her, filling her, comforting her. Her sister was near.
Then something caught her attention. A movement, from the corner of her eye.
She turned, heart lurching into her throat, and saw a shadow—what she thought was a shadow—move.
Tall, long, it spilled across stage left…dark and obvious even in the poor light. It wasn’t the shape of a person—no, it was angular and smooth…except for the top, where its rectangular shape distorted into something that wasn’t human.
The hair on the back of her neck shot to attention, prickling and tense, and Vivien felt goosebumps erupt all over her arms and legs. Her breath came out in short, hard pants, and it was visible, little foggy clouds of white.
The shadow slid silently across the stage—dark, slick, and amorphous—rippling over the slats in the stage, dipping off the edge until it came so close that it nearly brushed over her feet and arm…
And then it was gone.
It happened so quickly, smoothly, silently…the shadow was there and then it was gone.
And everything was still.
And Vivien was alone once more.
Chapter Six
The Scouts and high school volunteers brought much-needed life and energy into the theater. Vivien freely admitted it was a relief to have so much activity—normal activity—going on in the abandoned building, especially after what had happened just a short while ago.
She’d looked around backstage and found nothing that could have created that eerie, long shadow…and the realization made her stomach more than a little queasy.
The teens were loud and rambunctious, calling out to each other, laughing, and—since someone had brought a speaker—blasting music that was, surprisingly, from artists she recognized.
She could feel the place waking up.
She wanted to stand out there on the stage and sing “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” or “Defying Gravity”—something bold and anthemic.
Sinister Stage: A Ghost Story Romance and Mystery (Wicks Hollow Book 5) Page 6