A Date With the Other Side (7 page)

“My mom doesn’t know. My grandparents brought me.” He jerked his thumb back to a couple in their sixties, who had been hanging on her every word since go.

“You know, I just think some things we have to accept we can’t explain and move on.” Like her lunatic lust for Boston Macnamara. “If ghosts are real or not, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Except that it was her chosen profession to march people around and tell them they were and where to find them.

“I just think you have to say that so you can take our money.” Mr. Wise-beyond-his-years turned and went back to his grandparents.

Shelby herded the group of six back toward the road and fought a sigh. Suddenly what she’d done for the past two years for kicks and to keep herself fed seemed frivolous at best, violating at worst. If there was no such thing as a ghost, then she was fleecing folks, even if they left her tour entertained. And if there were ghosts, well, parading people past them seemed rude. If she were dead and forced to hang around wearing the same clothes for hundreds of years, she wouldn’t want anybody staring at her.

Especially the clothes she was wearing now. Glancing down at her khaki shorts, with a stain of unknown origin on the cuff, and her brown tank top, she realized her wardrobe was downright sad. But there was no money to buy anything new, especially not if she was going to start worrying about the ethics of interpersonal relations between the living and the dead.

Who knows, maybe Red-Eyed Rachel had been trying to take a nap or something and there she was with her tour group. That would make anybody cranky.

Though maybe it didn’t have anything to do with spirits, but with her, Shelby Tucker, twenty-six years old and no future other than hanging out at the Busy Bee and scraping enough money together every month to eat artery-clogging food. She did not even own a car, and her seventy-year-old grandmother was housing her.

She hadn’t meant to be quite so aimless. When she was a little girl, her visions of the future had alternated between being a wife and mother, Wonder Woman with a less slutty outfit, and a vet. The vet would have been the smartest route to take, but she had told Boston the truth when he had questioned why she didn’t get a better-paying job.

While she was great with animals and could memorize things, she had been lousy at schoolwork growing up. Sucked raw eggs kind of lousy. By sixth grade they had figured out she was dyslexic, but it had been too hard to catch up, too difficult to retrain her brain to the extent that was required for higher learning. Now she wished she would have tried harder, as she walked the group to the Bigleys’ barn, where a ghost cow was known to moo for grass he could no longer chew.

Boston was impressed with the Samson Plastics plant.

It was clean, efficient, and appeared to be producing at peak productivity right there in the middle of nowhere, sandwiched between a dilapidated barn and a cornfield. Sure, there was a bit of a twang in the voices of the employees, but their T-shirts and jeans looked the same as any of the workers in the Chicago plant, and there was the same level of separation between management and workers on the line.

Unlike back in Chicago, though, he felt no sense of competition. Here, he was clearly top dog, the first VP from Samson ever to do more than pop in for a random visit. It had Bob and Phil spinning in circles trying to alternate between kissing his ass and pumping him for information.

Which he didn’t have.

Bob seemed a little more willing to speak frankly, so after milling around the plant introducing himself, studying some output reports, and checking out the makeshift office the guys had created for him in a storage closet, he sought out Bob.

“Hey, Bob, how’s it going?” Boston strode into his office and took a seat without waiting for an invitation.

Bob looked up from his computer and shot him a nervous glance. Boston could practically see the sweat forming and pushing out Bob’s busy glands. In the past, Boston had always enjoyed moments like this, when he knew that he was in control, that the meeting was his to manipulate however he intended. But watching Bob, Boston felt no such thrill. In fact, he felt something that might be… guilt.

Guilt? He straightened his spine. He had no reason to feel guilty. Who gave a shit if he wasn’t being completely honest with these guys? This was
business
, and he needed to protect himself, watch his back.

“I realize you weren’t expecting me, but the office you’ve given me doesn’t have an outlet. It’s a little difficult to conduct business without phone or Internet access.”

Bob swallowed. “Sorry, Boston, I didn’t notice that, but we’ll work something out, don’t you worry. If this is going to be long term, we can rearrange some staff.”

Boston heard the question in his voice, and he was about to imply that he was going to be watching Bob’s and Phil’s backs for quite a while, when his gaze fell across a picture on Bob’s desk.

It was Bob and a cute, round brunette with their hands on the shoulders of two Bob-looking boys, somewhere in that hazy age range of four to eight. Boston wasn’t around kids enough to pin it any closer, but the happy smiles of the family as they posed with a guy in a striped cat costume got to him.

“This your family?” He lifted the wood frame and studied them closer. The whole concept of happily ever after and family vacations was foreign to him and it made him curious.

Was it all an act? Or did people actually enjoy raising their children together? His parents certainly hadn’t. When they hadn’t been winging Wedgwood china at each other, they had been releasing their frustration in the beds of a staggering array of nannies and tennis coaches.

“Oh, yeah.” Bob relaxed a little. “That was this past April. We went to Disney World for a week. We had a great time. My boys, Bryan and James, they’re four and six, and they just loved every minute of it.”

“Who’s the cat?” Boston pointed to the picture before setting it back on the desk.

“It’s Tigger.” Bob looked at him like he was missing a majority of his brain cells.

“Tigger?” It sounded vaguely familiar but he was having trouble placing it.

“The bouncing tiger from
Winnie the Pooh
.”

Boston shook his head. It wasn’t ringing any bells.

Bob started moving his finger around and around. “You know, ‘Bouncy trouncy flouncy pouncy fun, fun, fun, fun, fun’… no? Must be a parent thing, you get to know all that stuff.”

Boston had the annoying feeling that he had missed out on something, and given the look of concern—okay, pity—in Bob’s eyes, he thought so too.

Boston was starving, but he couldn’t take another red meat-emphasized meal at the Busy Bee. He hadn’t seen that much grease since his mother had brought home her latest boyfriend, Fred, the casino owner.

So he entered the back door of the White House, off the gravel driveway where he had been parking his car, anticipating eating an apple for dinner. Despite Shelby’s intrusions and getting locked in the parlor on his second day as a renter, he kind of liked the fussy hominess of the house. It wasn’t modern or manly, which dominated his apartment back in Chicago, and there was no wine rack, but it was warm and friendly and big, with large rooms, high ceilings, and detailed woodwork that didn’t exist anymore.

The kitchen was yellow, which he suspected wasn’t an authentic Victorian color, but he didn’t care. Especially not when the smell of roasted chicken greeted him.

For a microsecond he wondered if he was in the wrong house. He wasn’t, and the chicken wasn’t a hallucination.

Neither was it Shelby standing in front of his stove, which he had to admit he had expected for a second. Probably because he didn’t know any women in town except for Shelby and Mrs. Stritmeyer and he had a hard time visualizing Jessie slaving over a hot stove in June. Not that he could really picture Shelby doing that either, but it was nice visual wish, her in those denim shorts and the fantasy heels cooking him chicken.

The kitchen was hotter than he had realized. He pulled at his tie a little.

“Hello,” he said to the matronly woman in a shapeless dress working vigorously with a whisk. Definitely not as appealing as Shelby in short shorts, but the woman had cooked chicken, and for that she was his new best friend.

She turned, dark hair pulled back off her face, a kind smile tugging her mouth upward. “You must be Boston.”

Wiping her hands on her apron—good God, aprons still existed?—she held her hand out to him. “I’m Mary, your housekeeper. Your supper is almost ready.”

Boston found he could love certain things about Cuttersville. The housekeeper who fixed him food was one of them. “You cooked for me?” He wanted to be perfectly clear on that point, because if she removed that chicken and left with it, he was going to cry Mary nodded. “I hope you like roasted chicken with lemon sauce, baby potatoes, and fresh-baked bread. And there’s an apple pie for dessert.”

Jackpot. His stomach growled. “It sounds wonderful.”

“Well, I can’t be here every night.” Mary turned and adjusted the heat on the stove. “But I’ll come by once or twice a week and clean the house for you.”

Yes
. “I appreciate it.”

“And just a little advice… you might want to pick up your undergarments in the mornings, since Shelby brings a tour through at eleven.”

Oh, nice. He had left his boxers on the floor for Shelby and her tourists to snicker at. Of course, Shelby had already seen him naked with an eyelet spread capping him, so underwear was really incidental in comparison.

“Uh, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“The chicken will be ready in five minutes and there’s extra sauce here in the bowl.” Then Mary gave him a wave and opened the back door. “See you in a few days, Boston.”

“Bye, Mary.” He watched the door close behind her, then grabbed the potholders she’d left on the counter and opened the oven, just intending to smell it.

Two minutes later, he was sitting at the table and gorging himself, heartily enjoying the chicken and potatoes.

And if he heard an occasional creaking sound from the parlor directly in front of the kitchen, he convinced himself the house was settling. It definitely wasn’t Red-Eyed Rachel’s footsteps because ghosts didn’t exist.

Five days of traipsing through the man’s bedroom and never seeing him was getting to Shelby.

So when she ran into him on the square in front of Hair by Harriet, she couldn’t stop a cheesy grin from sliding across her face. “Hey there, Boston Macnamara. What are you up to?”

Boston pushed his sunglasses up his nose with one finger and gave what could pass for a smile or a twitch. “Shelby Tucker. I’m getting a haircut.”

Shelby took in his neat black hair, short and trim. “Are you done already?”

“No.” He frowned. “I was just about to go in.” He threw his thumb toward Harriet’s.

Momentarily distracted by the fine picture he made standing on the sidewalk in a gray suit, she didn’t take the time to soften her response. “You’re going to Harriet’s? For a haircut?”

He sighed. “It does say Hair by Harriet. And I see people in there, so it’s not a pet-grooming store. What’s the problem?”

“Uh…” Shelby wasn’t quite sure how to tell him that the only men to step foot in Harriet’s were Clyde, who was married to Harriet and got his hair cut for free, and Shelby’s cousin Brady, who had to go to Harriet to acquire sapphire highlights. “Nothing.”

She thought to suggest the barber, but then worried that he would give Boston an army flattop, which would be a damn shame. He looked too good the way he was to ruin himself with acclimation to Cuttersville.

“You between tours?” Boston didn’t look in any hurry, despite his hair needs and the oppressive afternoon heat. He leaned against the glass pane of Harriet’s front window, not looking the least bit sweaty.

Shelby felt like a goat, sticky and dirty.

“Actually, it’s a slow day. No tours at all.”

“Maybe you could give me the Haunted Cuttersville Tour sometime.”

“Really?” she asked in surprise.

“Sure. A private tour.”

The words weren’t exactly suggestive, and he wasn’t smiling, but Shelby felt the force of his presence clear down to her inner thighs.

“You never did tell me the rest of the story, you know. Like what happened to Rachel’s maid and who is the Blond Man.”

Not that she thought he gave a hoot about what had happened to the maid, but she nodded slowly. “The maid was smart and took advantage of the situation. She cried that she had been forced by the fiancé, and went on to marry a local lawyer and have three sons.”

Boston smiled, though it was distracted. “Everyone’s out for what they can get, huh?”

“Not everyone.”

“No?”

He studied her, making her once again self-conscious of her raggedy clothes. She had never given a rat’s hooey about her clothes before, and here the man had her so tied up in knots she wanted to put a skirt on for him. It was embarrassing.

“And I’d be happy to give you a private tour.” Of her naked body.

Shelby was appalled with herself. Never, not once, since puberty had kicked in had she lusted after a man like this, plain and simple.

The door to the salon went flying open and slammed Boston on the shoulder. He gave a grunt and turned. Shelby sighed. The fat was in the fire now. Harriet was descending on them in full fuchsia sail, a smile on her round face.

“Shelby, honey, you coming in for a cut? I’ve been dying to get my hands on your mop for years now.”

Oh, thank you. Blowing her bangs out of her eyes, Shelby glared at Harriet. She and Boston had been connecting, reaching for that precarious sultry moment in the White House parlor when she had been sure he was going to kiss her, and here was Harriet pointing out that Shelby wasn’t exactly a man’s wet dream.

“I don’t want a haircut, Harriet.”

“But you could be a pretty girl if you just took care of yourself.” Harriet was all clucking concern, even as the talons dug in.

“Shelby’s pretty the way she is.”

Shelby wasn’t sure who was more surprised, her or Boston. He looked like he’d been flattened with a tractor. She just felt like she had been squashed. But in a good squashed way.