Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story

by Glover, Sarah M.

  “He’s gone to Vermont with his colleagues, won’t be back until Sunday night. You must remember, it’s their annual male bonding pilgrimage, off to re-connect with their cave dweller in a sweat lodge somewhere or some such nonsense. God knows what they really do up there.”

  “Crap, I really wanted to talk to him.”

  “Language, Emily.”

  Emily wondered how her mother could imply her father was off buggering his work buddies and she couldn’t even swear.

  “Listen, sweetie, I have to go, they’re waiting for me.”

  “Hold on, Mom! I need you to ask Dad…No wait, write this down, please.”

  “Emily, this is a tremendous imposition.”

  “Please.”

  “Fine, what is it?”

  She hadn’t thought through how to phrase it without arousing her parents’ suspicions. And she was out of practice on how to properly lie to them.

  “Ask Dad if he had any relatives, it’d be a great- or great-great-aunt, maybe, that was named Noreen Thomas.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes. And tell him I ran into Anthony Obester at the grocery store the other day. He’s a son of a friend of Dad’s from NYU. He works out here now.” There, that might cover her if word ever got back to her father.

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes. And Mom, I love you.”

  Emily’s voice broke a little when she said it. She missed her mother, and she wished she could explain everything and have her rationalize away her fears like she always did, but she didn’t want her to worry.

  “Emily, is everything fine? Are you in trouble?”

  “No, Mom, everything is great. I bet the forsythia is blooming in the front yard, right? Or did Dad manage to cut it down?”

  “No. I will never let him touch the hedge clippers again without my direct supervision. Emily, really, I have to get going. We can chat later.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got to run myself, I’ve got a date—”

  “With a man?” Long pause. “Just two questions: are you graduating on time and does he have a job?”

  “Thanks for putting it in that order. And the answer is yes. To both.”

  “Good. Because I’m too young to be a grandmother.”

  With an aggravated sigh Emily ended the call and set herself to conquer the last stack of school papers, thinking that once she finished them she could concentrate on Nora, devote all her attention to finding Nick’s remains, and hope that she could create one happy ending in this world.

  Somewhere around two, Margot and Zoey tumbled in the door laughing, and the sound was heaven to Emily’s ears. They found her drowning under the weight of notebooks, her laptop, and reams of paper sprawled out around her on the dining room table, not to mention her own growing glumness.

  Margot wore a rare smile on her face. “I’m done with my hopeless students. Finals. What a lovely word. Say it with me, Emily. Finals.”

  Emily glared at her. Zoey rubbed her shoulders, and her head slowly hit the table. “Why is she smiling?” Emily muttered out of the side of her mouth while Zoey’s hands continued to knead her tight muscles, causing her to puddle underneath her fingertips.

  “Simon is taking her to a baseball game,” Zoey teased.

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No, he’s taking her to a baseball game on their first date. Can you believe it? A baseball game!”

  “What I want to know is where in the How to Get a Girl to Fuck You manual are athletic events listed?” Margot muttered.

  “Right next to hunting and bowling.” Zoey laughed.

  “And it’s not a date. I want to go on record about that. It’s two adults paying their own way to sit in a freezing cold stadium and watch grown men stand around on the grass and scratch themselves.”

  “So what are you wearing to ‘watch grown men stand around on the grass’?” Emily asked.

  “Clothes that absorb beer and spit,” Zoey suggested. “I can’t believe you’re really going on a date with him.”

  “I repeat, it’s not a date.”

  “Why don’t you wear a Giants T-shirt and jeans?”

  Margot frowned at Emily. “What? And look like I’m selling churros? No way in hell. Speaking of which, tonight is your first official date with Prince Charming, isn’t it, as I’m sure the dinner on the roof and the crypt didn’t count.”

  “No, they don’t. Not even the crypt.”

  “Where is he taking you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I love that restaurant. I’ve been there a thousand times, very French, very romantic. Where are you going after dinner?”

  “The same place. All I know is he wants me to wear something old.”

  “Wear that pale pink dress, the sleeveless one with the beads, the one that makes you look like a flapper. Virginal, yet adequate access to the neck and breasts,” Zoey told her. “Practical and efficient.”

  “And what about your date with Christian?”

  “He won’t care. I’ll be out of whatever I wear quick enough.”

  At precisely seven p.m., a knock came from the door.

  “Good evening.” Andrew stood there wearing a pair of tailored navy pants and a starched white dress shirt; his coat was draped over one arm while the other was held behind his back. A boyish smirk played across his features as he looked into her eyes, and then his gaze halted as though he had caught himself, as though he was seeing her for the first time. “Christ, you are beautiful, aren’t you?”

  She wanted to look away but she couldn’t. He hadn’t bothered to shave after all; the roughness of his jaw stood out in stark contrast to the smooth, naked skin visible from his open collar. His hair was slicked back, but, as always, only barely contained.

  “Here.” Andrew handed her a simple bouquet of wildflowers. “It comes from my private stock.”

  Her heart melted. She took the bouquet from him and raised it to her face. “The back garden?”

  “I would have emptied every florist in town, if I had my way.”

  “No. They’re perfect. Thank you for the restraint.”

  He smiled and reached out for her hand, kissing her knuckles fervently. “Finally. Jesus, Emily, I’ve been waiting all day. It’s been killing me. I’ve got so much to tell you.”

  Downstairs a taxi was waiting. The evening was cool and foggy. The street lamps cast oval puddles of light along the sidewalks. People hurried along, zipping their coats and shoving their hands deep into their pockets, their faces hunkering down against the wind.

  As they drove, she tried to nestle closer to him as best she could, reveling in the warmth of him. His body felt excited, like a spring next to hers; his left hand was drumming a chord on his knee while his eyes darted about taking in the scenes of the night.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, unable to stop herself from placing her fingers over his.

  He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “’Tis a secret.”

  “Your accent gets broader when you’re excited, you know that?”

  “Then it’s a miracle you can even understand me tonight,” he murmured.

  She blushed and laughed. “What’s going on? You look like you’re about to explode. When are you going to tell me what happened today?”

  He didn’t answer her. Instead, he pulled her to him and kissed her. His fingers ran through her hair and lingered on her neck. With a deep sigh, he drew away and kissed the tip of her nose before he sat back, satisfied.

  “You don’t play fair,” she managed to say.

  “I wasn’t playing.”

  They drove a little farther, and Emily knew whatever trepidations she had about this man and about their future crumbled in his presence. He was too full of life, too charismatic, and his high spirits rendered him unspeakably sexy. She felt what all his fans must feel being near him—the need for more.

  “Here’s fine,” Andrew told the taxi driver, who pulled the car over at the end of a dark alley. Emily looked around. I
t was eerily lit by only a single gas-lamp style street light, but before she could register where they were, he was at her side, his arm around her waist.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as they walked onto the avenue. He didn’t say a word; his arm merely pulled her closer to warm her from the chill.

  They stopped a block farther up, near a row of darkened doors. A sign hung above:

  Anti-Saloon League, San Francisco Branch, Est. 1920

  Andrew rang what appeared to be a buzzer. She frowned at him, but he merely cocked an eyebrow and smiled, only adding to the mystery.

  A long rectangular slit in one of the doors opened, revealing a pair of eyes.

  “Password?” a gravelly voice requested.

  “Books,” replied Andrew.

  Several locks unfastened with a series of clicks on the other side. Andrew cast her a conspiratorial glance and squeezed her hand.

  The large door creaked open, inviting them into a foyer. The walls were lined with a lush maroon, brocade wallpaper, and candlelit sconces reflected across the dark wooden floors and the pressed-tin ceiling. Her eyes widened in disbelief. They had stepped back in time to the 1920s.

  A man in a bowtie and suspenders met them. Andrew whispered something to him to which he replied with a discreet nod before escorting them down a long hallway. The smell of cigars and leather bound books hung rich in the air. At any moment she expected to see Al Capone or John Dillinger pass by with a dew-eyed starlet on their arm.

  “Right this way.”

  They entered a grand room buzzing with subdued conversation, not a vacant seat to be had. A beautiful mahogany bar dominated the room. High-backed booths filled the remainder, all occupied with high-toned people intent on inhabiting their own worlds. Above their heads a tremendous chandelier warmed the room in amber. Somewhere nearby a piano swooned jazz.

  A maître d’ materialized out of nowhere, nodded to the tuxedoed man in somber thanks, and escorted them to a booth in the corner.

  “Would you like me to take your coat, Miss?” he asked.

  Before she knew it, Andrew’s hands grasped her shoulders instead. The coat slipped off the beads of the dress like water. She heard him catch his breath. He deposited her coat in the outstretched hand of the maître d’. “Here is the libations list, Mr. Hayes,” he said, and glancing at Emily’s newly exposed arms a trifle longer than necessary, he added, “Enjoy.” Then he returned toward the door.

  Her eyes drank in the Prohibition splendor of the place. She felt like someone who had stepped out of time in her flapper dress, its pink beads draping her body like countless strings of pearls. Smiling madly, she turned to face Andrew, her long earrings brushing against her bare collarbone, a spot on which Andrew’s eyes were now fixed.

  “You need to speak easy to me now,” Emily said.

  His eyes flashed back up to her face. A most dangerous look darkened his features, yet he said nothing.

  Discomfited by his continued muteness, she bristled and said, “I had to wear the dress. I’m a girl, you know.”

  Andrew reached across the table and draped his warm hand over hers. “That is a fact every man in this establishment is now painfully aware of.”

  “Well then, I should warn you that I’m wearing a garter belt. I’m not exactly sure I have it on right, so if I start fidgeting, I have an excuse.”

  A flame of something wicked passed through his hooded eyes. “I’d be happy to lend a hand in that department.”

  “With the garter or the fidgeting?”

  “Tell me about your day, or we’re never going to get past the first drink.”

  She told him of the basic details, school work, and the phone call with her mother. She sighed as the warmth of close-gathered bodies and the rich commotion of conversation hummed about them. Candles glowed on each table, reflecting the patrons’ eyes and casting their silhouettes against the brick walls. He gazed at her as she leaned back into the corner of the booth, both of them suffused in the deep contentment that permeates two people aware of themselves and no one else.

  Then she told of him of her conversation with Anthony Obester.

  “He gave you his personal cell phone? Is that normal procedure?”

  “He thought it would be best, and I think it’s a bit overprotective, but he is a friend of the family.”

  “You know him?”

  She watched his eyes narrow, his lips purse just a tad. Tickled by his jealousy, she could not pass up the opportunity to tease him.

  “Your drink selections?”

  Andrew’s eyes didn’t release hers as he addressed the waiter. “The Pol Roger Brut, thank you.”

  “About this detective…”

  “Anthony and I were very close. We spent a lot of time together.”

  His lips pursed harder. “Really.”

  “He took me out on a lot of dates. I may have broken his heart.”

  “Poor him.”

  “But it’s hard to remember. I was four, I think.”

  A smile slowly creased the side of his mouth. “Detective Obester had excellent taste, even then. I won’t have to kill him now. Though, seriously, what he said makes sense. Vandin is unstable—you shouldn’t be near him.”

  “So noted. I’ll be careful.”

  Moments passed. Andrew had begun to run his fingers around her wrist, studying the small bones in careful attention.

  “Tell me about what happened today now, please.”

  Blinking at her as though he was unaware exactly what she had asked him, he smiled and laughed as if remembering a joke. “Christ, where to start?”

  “Why not start after you snuck out of my bedroom.”

  “I found your trunk, by the way,” he told her and released her wrist, his tone oddly contained, but he went on to tell her about the letters. She sat transfixed as he related the nature of the correspondence. “And I had a run in with Nick.”

  “Seriously? He actually spoke to you? What did he say?”

  He found her eyes and told her.

  “Died on their way to get married? God, that’s horrible. But what was that about ‘saving you’? Why do you need to be saved?”

  “I wish I knew. He’s not the world’s most straightforward kind of a ghost, I’m afraid. He seems to think I know what to do, whom to contact to help us, and whom to trust, even. Plus, did I forget to mention, he had one mother of a mother. Evidently, she was big into spiritualism, and whatever she believed, he disliked her intensely for it. Maybe she tried to drive a wedge between Nora and him, who knows? But the more I think about it, the more I think she’s definitely involved in this somehow. I hate to add one more thing to the search, but I think we might need to find out whatever happened to Mother Chamberlain. Have you had any luck with opening the box?”

  Emily shook her head. “I’m about ready to pry the thing open with my bare hands, but I’m just afraid it might destroy something inside. You know, I think we should have that séance Dwayne suggested, whether we want to or not.”

  Andrew laughed. Perhaps he was envisioning Simon communicating with the great beyond, or Margot, for that matter. The champagne arrived too elegant to swallow.

  “So Simon wore a tuxedo to a baseball game?” Emily asked. The Irishman had shown up for his date with Margot wearing a full-fledged, cuff-linked, sharp pressed, bow-tied tuxedo that left her roommate speechless. Home run, Simon, Emily had thought. The drummer had knocked the ball out of the park before he’d even left the house.

  “I couldn’t restrain him. He felt the need to celebrate.”

  “Okay. What’s up with you guys—what aren’t you telling me?”

  “Wait, don’t drink yet, I want to propose a toast.” He lifted his glass, eyes sparkling. “Here’s to the next band, the brilliant, most bloody talented band, I might add, to be featured on the cover of Rolling Stone. The Lost Boys.”

  Emily’s jaw dropped; she blinked repeatedly in utter amazement. Andrew’s smile beamed, lighting up their dark corner like fi
reworks, and without a thought she launched out of her seat and threw her arms around him, nearly crashing over their champagne.

  “It’s a photo shoot too.” His smile, if possible, became even more magnificent as he took a sip of his drink and grinned cockily. “Cover of Rolling Stone, hell, it sounds like the bloody Dr. Hook song. You know that went to number six on the U.S. charts in nineteen seventy-three? Boggles the mind.”

  “Andrew. Why didn’t you say something sooner? Andrew! Really? When are they going to do the article?”

  He went on to explain their meeting with Neil. Emily had to continually goad him into telling all the details; he was barely able to control his excitement.

  “It’s great that this S.J. person wants to help you.”

  “She wants to do more than that—she wants to sign us, take us on as clients.”

  “And that’s a good thing, right?”

  “I honestly don’t know. She represents some incredible groups, but there’s something that doesn’t sit right, especially between her and Neil. There’s a tension there you can cut with a knife. But you never know with Neil. My guess is that they’re old lovers. He seems rather bitter, and she was goading him on something fierce. I’ve never seen Neil put in his place like that. You should have seen her. It was refreshing, to say the least.”

  Emily blinked twice at his choice of adjective. “Well…then do the photo shoot and don’t use her, trust your gut.”

  “Funny, that’s what Nick said to do.”

  “Then here’s to Nick.” They clinked glasses. He kissed her, only breaking off when they heard the discreet cough of the waiter.

  “Would you please follow me to dinner.”

  Andrew grabbed her hand. As they walked, her dress whispered as the beads clicked together. His fingers moved to smooth her back in a drumming a pattern, as though intrigued with the sensation. She glanced at him in question.

  “I’m composing.” His lips were near her neck, making the bare flesh on her arms tingle.

  They entered another room, an old private library from the looks of it, displaying brick walls filled with shelves of books. Over dim candlelight, they enjoyed what turned out to be an exquisite meal with wine that tasted like honey, although she noticed Andrew barely touched his entrée. And his hand was never still, like it had a life unto itself. All of this didn’t bode well for Emily. She could see the signs; he was distracted, his mind already a million miles from here and back with Rolling Stone, back out on the road. Finally, at the end of dinner, he caught her staring.