The Book Charmer
Page 36
Jake wasn’t surprised by any of this. He’d known his relationship with Heather wasn’t good, but somehow, even knowing that, he’d found himself unable to move on. To let go. To start over. Somehow, in living with the demanding and dramatic Heather, he’d lost some part of himself, and he couldn’t seem to find it, whatever “it” was.
And so he’d retreated into his own safe world. He used his sleepless nights to focus on his work, going from nine-hour days to fifteen-hour days. In doing so, he cut himself off from his parents and his friends and their perpetual and unwanted advice and sank deeper into his own world, where things were calm and orderly and made sense.
For eight months, it was just him and Peppermint, Heather’s fat, sleepy bulldog that she’d left behind. Despite what she’d said, Jake hadn’t expected her to return for the mutt. She’d paid a fortune for the animal—or rather, Jake had paid a fortune for it during one of Heather’s depressed spells. She’d fawned over Peppermint when he’d been an adorable, wrinkly-faced velvet puppy, overfeeding him and spoiling him rotten. But as soon as Peppermint lost his puppy cuteness and entered his teenage stage of shoe chewing, trash eating, and face burping, Heather’s affections had cooled. Jake supposed that he should have seen that as a sign, but at the time, he’d been too mesmerized by the astonishing ups and horrible downs of their relationship to see much of anything.
So now, here he and Peppermint were, alone together and just as lost as ever. Or they had been alone until Doyle’s ghost had shown up in Jake’s tub a few weeks ago. Of course, Doyle didn’t stay there all day, every day. Ghosts tended to wander in and out, and Doyle was no exception. The only difference was that he kept coming back.
Repeatedly.
Over. And over. And over.
So much so that it was beginning to get annoying.
“I didn’t ask to come here!” Doyle yelled from the tub, his deep, gravelly voice rumbling down the hallway from the guest bath to where Jake sat at his desk in the corner of the living room.
He’s back. Great. Jake ignored Doyle, refusing to get up from his computer. He was neck-deep in developing a new game, a fast-paced battle-royale game called Strategy X, and the deadline to deliver it to his publisher was looming.
“He can wait,” Doyle announced loudly, as if that settled everything.
Jake sat back, trying to remember the line of code he’d been getting ready to enter before Doyle interrupted. But for the life of him, Jake couldn’t remember it. Why, oh why, does he keep coming back?
“Ha!” Doyle hollered. “I don’t come for the fascinating conversation, that’s for sure!”
Peppermint, woken from where he’d been sleeping under the desk, snorted noisily. Jake, who’d grown to love the bulldog since Heather’s dramatic exit, reached under the desk and tucked Peppermint back into his bed with his special blanket. The dog gave Jake’s hand a fond sniff and then snuggled deeper into his bed.
“You know you can’t ignore me!” Doyle’s gravelly voice cracked through the silence once more.
Jake rubbed his forehead, where an ache was beginning to grow, and leaned back in his chair, staring out his window. Not that he could see much because of the thick leaves that blocked most of the late-afternoon sunlight.
When Heather had first moved in, she’d announced that she loved roses and wanted the yard full of them. He’d protested, because he liked his simple, Craftsman-style home and its large, square yard the way it was—neat, clean, and uncluttered. Of course, that had led to a scene that had begun when Heather’d claimed he didn’t care about her and then ended when she’d looked at him with tears in her eyes, her lips quivering as if he’d yanked out her heart and stomped on it.
He’d never been able to say no to a crying woman and so he’d lost the argument. Over the ten months he and Heather lived together, he’d lost a lot of arguments.
All of them, in fact.
After Heather left, his peace still shattered, he’d decided to hack down the roses and burn them in a pile in the backyard. But they’d seemed to realize his intent and had fought back, scratching viciously and ripping at his clothes. After a two-hour battle, which had left him bleeding and his clothing in shreds, he’d left them alone, thinking they’d die over time without any care. But, as if they were determined to thwart his dark wishes, the roses instead began to grow at a shocking, unfathomable rate. Over the course of the past few months, they’d grown into a thorny thicket, surrounding his house, climbing up the walls and covering the windows, nearly cutting him off from the world in general.
As much as Jake hated the roses, he liked that a shield now grew between him and the rest of the world. In fact, he’d decided that his mower would remain in his garage forever, unused and unneeded. Let everyone pass him by. He and Peppermint didn’t need people. They were fine where they were, as they were.
The sound of water splashing made him glare in the direction of the bathroom. Doyle always appeared in the tub, and while the water he sat in might look ephemeral, somehow it still soaked the floor.
The splashing sound increased, and Peppermint, stirring under the desk, snorted in his sleep.
Damn it. Jake got up and went to the bathroom, stopping at the door. “What do you want?”
From where he sat in the tub, Doyle said, “A good steak would be a nice start. I miss food.”
The ghost was a sight to behold. When he’d been alive, Doyle had never been what one would call a physically fit specimen. The best one could say was that he was taller than he was wide. But that was about it. Added to his roundness and the accompanying folds, he was as hairy as a chimp and, except for his wig, every bit as naked. Every time Jake saw the old man in the tub, he gave a little prayer of thanks for the small washcloth and puddles of bubbles that floated on the water and hid the worst parts from view.
Doyle propped his foot on the side of the tub. “You’re lucky I can swim. I could have drowned in the time it took you to get here from the living room.”
“You’re already dead. Besides, I have a job. You remember those, don’t you?”
“I try not to, but yes, I do. I daresay you need a break, so come on in and sit down a bit.” He nodded toward the wicker hamper that sat in one corner. “Take a seat and let’s chat.”
“I have to finish coding this section. I’m on deadline.” Besides, the last thing Jake felt like doing was talking, now or ever.
“Come on. You can take a break.” Doyle sent Jake a sly look from under his shaggy gray brows, where the fringed bangs of his blond wig rested. “Or should I say another break? What was that YouTube video you watched about an hour ago? Something about Batman, I think.”
“It was an exposé on superhero origins,” Jake said stiffly. “And yes, Batman was included. I was stuck on something, and it helps if I do something distracting, like watch a video.”
“Or have a chat with your neighbor.”
“Ex-neighbor, who is now a ghost hanging out in my tub while wearing a ridiculous blond wig.” Jake eyed the wig now. The ends of it clung to Doyle’s hairy shoulders, a few curls floating on top of the water. “Do you have to wear that thing?”
Doyle grinned. “Why? Are you jealous?”
“Hardly.” Jake sighed, his shoulders aching. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m really busy and I need to work. Can you keep the splashing down to a minimum?”
Doyle tucked a strand of his wig behind one ear. “Nope.”
“You—” Jake clamped his mouth over the rest of his sentence. “I don’t understand. I’ve had ghosts visit me since I could remember. Some stayed a few days, sure, but none of them ever returned like this.”
Doyle leaned back against the tiled wall and nodded thoughtfully. “It is different, isn’t it?”
“Very. And I want to know why.”
“Don’t look at me.” Doyle rubbed his chin, where gray stubble grew. “I just do what I’m told.”
“By whom?”
Doyle arched a heavy brow at Jake.
“I don’t think there are any no-nos.”
“Really? You guys don’t have rules?” Jake’s programming soul was rightly outraged. Rules were everything.
“Not that I can tell, but then again, I’m new to this whole ghost business. I’m learning the ropes, you might say.”
“New? I hate to tell you this, but it’s been over five years since you kicked the bucket.”
“What?” Doyle looked shocked. “Five years? Are you serious?” At Jake’s nod, Doyle shook his head. “Huh. Doesn’t seem like it. Wait until I tell Barbara about that.”
That caught Jake’s attention. He wanted to ask so many questions, but the last thing he wanted to do was encourage Doyle.
Jake’s curiosity won. “You get to see Barbara?”
“When she’s not busy, sure.” Doyle twisted a strand of blond hair around his finger. “She never liked you, you know. Said you were odd.”
That stung a little. Everyone liked Barbara, including Jake.
“But,” Doyle added, “I told her you were a good neighbor for me once she’d gone. Quiet, kept to yourself, didn’t cause any harm, and you were very sympathetic.”
That made Jake feel a little guilty. “We didn’t speak often.”
“No, but after she died, you got my newspaper every day after and put it on my porch.”
Jake shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I didn’t think you’d noticed. I made sure you weren’t up yet.”
“Oh, I saw all sorts of things. I don’t know much, but I do know that these other ghosts you’ve seen wandering through, they’re on their way somewhere else, so they don’t stay. But me? I’m here because I’m supposed to be.” Doyle lifted his feet out of the water, crossed them, and rested them on one corner of the tub, water dripping on the floor. “I’m just guessing here, but I think I’m here because I’m to make sure that something that might happen does happen.”
That was alarming. “Like what?”
“Lord, I wish I knew. I haven’t figured all of this”—Doyle waved his hand in a vague circle—“out. But I will.” He settled down a bit and closed his eyes, the wig slipping to one side as he rested his head against the wall. “Barbara says it takes a little getting used to, having an assignment. And you’re my first.”
“I’m your assignment? Are you kidding me?”
Doyle opened one eye. “Why would I do that? Do I look like I like being here?”
Nate eyed the steaming coming up from the water. “You don’t look like you hate it.”
Doyle sighed and opened both eyes, but he didn’t sit up. “I suppose it could be worse. I could be sent off to someone I don’t know. At least we know one another, although I knew your dad better.”
“He said you guys used to work together.”
“A long, long time ago.” Doyle raised one eyebrow. “How are your parents, by the way? You should visit them more.”
“I see them plenty when they’re not out RV’ing around. They don’t stay in one place long, now that Dad’s retired.”
“Rick always had an itch to travel.” Doyle eyed Jake sourly. “I guess I should be grateful I got you and wasn’t assigned a total idiot. It’s a plus that you can see me and we can talk. Barbara says that’s unusual. Apparently not many people can do that.”
“Great.” The last thing he needed right now was a ghost “assigned” to him.
“Yeah, and about that girlfriend of yours.”
“Fiancée,” Jake corrected absently.
“Whatever. What was her name again? Pester?”
“Heather. ‘Pester’ isn’t even close.”
“It’s a better name for her than Heather.” Doyle made a face. “I don’t know what you saw in that one. I mean, she had a nice ass, I’ll give you that, but she talked a blue streak and made no sense at all. I don’t get it.”
Jake’s face heated, and the familiar lost feeling weighted down his shoulders. “I don’t want to talk about it. I need to get back to work.” To prove it, he turned on his heel to leave.
“You do that,” Doyle called after him. “And say hello to those new neighbors of yours, too, while you’re at it.”
Jake stopped and turned around. “New neighbors?”
Doyle’s thick brows rose, disappearing behind his blond bangs. “You didn’t know? Ava Dove rented my old house, so you have new neighbors. A woman and a kid.”
Ava Dove was one of seven daughters of the family that had founded the town of Dove Pond a long, long time ago. After Doyle’s death, Ava had bought his house and two acres for her landscaping and herbal tea business. She’d turned the small house into an office and had built two huge greenhouses out back, which meant cars and trucks came and went all day long. Jake hated that. Even worse, the smell of her herbs drifted into his house every time he opened a window.
It wasn’t a bad smell, even he had to admit that. But it was different and thus irritating, and Jake hated change. About a year ago, flush with success, Ava had purchased a larger tract of land on the other side of town, where she planned to grow even more herbs. The new place had a bigger house on it, so she’d moved her office there and had put Doyle’s old house up for rent, although there were no takers, which had suited Jake just fine. He didn’t need annoying neighbors, especially one with a kid.
He realized Doyle was waiting for a reaction, so Jake hid his irritation behind a shrug. “They’re quiet, I’ll give them that. I didn’t even know they were there.”
“They’ve been there for two whole weeks and you didn’t even notice.” Doyle shook his head. “You’ve become a hermit, you know that?”
Two weeks? Doyle must be mistaken. “Are you sure it was two weeks ago?”
“Hell yes, I’m sure. You know that, too, but you can’t see outside your own windows because of those damned rosebushes. You’re like Sleeping Beauty in here, surrounded by a thorny wall and waiting for your princess to come. Well, she ain’t coming, and you need to get a grip, boy, and move on.”
Jake’s jaw ached from clenching it. It stung to be ordered to “move on” when he’d been trying to do just that.
Doyle’s gaze suddenly moved past Jake, and the ghost tilted his head, one end of a long tress of golden wig dipping into the water. “Oho! That’s unexpected.”
“What’s unexpected?”
Doyle looked back at Jake and grinned. “Sorry, kid. But whether you want to or not, it looks like you’re about to meet your neighbors.”
Continue Reading…
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MICHAEL CAIRNS
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author KAREN HAWKINS writes novels that have been praised as touching, witty, charming, and heartwarming. A native southerner who grew up in the mountains of East Tennessee, where storytelling is a way of life, Karen recently moved to frosty New England with her beloved husband and multiple foster dogs. The Dove Pond series is a nod to the thousands of books that opened doors for her to more adventures, places, and discoveries than she ever imagined possible. To find out more about Karen, check in with her at Facebook.com/KarenHawkinsWriter, @KarenHawkinsAuthor on Instagram, and at her website, KarenHawkins.com.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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