The Ghost of a Chance (12 page)

"I couldn’t imagine a better cat parent,"
I tell her, leaning over the desk to hug her lightly.
 
"You could meet all of the kittens during the Christmas
party on Saturday, if you’d like, and pick your favorite."

"That would be charming."
 
Marjorie beams.
 
"You know, I’m excited!
 
I haven’t been this excited since…"
 
She tilts her head, thinking hard, before laughing with a shrug
of her shoulders.
 
"Well, not since
the latest Janet Evanovich came out."

I laugh and glance at the shelves all around us,
teeming with mysteries and biographies, romance novels and science
journals.
 
And, when my eyes fall upon
the rows of poetry, skim over the spines that I know include several volumes of
Shakespeare’s work, something seizes within me: an ache.
 
An awareness.

A longing.

"You have that look about you, Darcy,"
Marjorie says shrewdly, coming around the desk with the flyer in her hand.
 
"I
know
that look."

"What look?"
 
I tear my eyes from the shelves and regard her, confused.
 
"I was only—"

"You were only pining after the stories you
left behind.
 
Wishing to live between
the pages again.
 
Wishing to be a
librarian
again."

"No, I’m not ready—"

"Ready, shmeady."
 
Resting a hand on my shoulder, Marjorie
sighs softly and gazes at me with such a tender, sympathetic expression that I
feel my eyes begin to water.
 
"There’s no such thing as ready, not when it comes to the sort of
soul-deep grief you’re going through, honey.
 
I
know.
 
You’ll never be
ready.
 
You’ve just got to dive in and swish
your arms like crazy to keep your head above water.
 
And eventually…you’ll float."

I inhale deeply, shaking my head.
 
"I appreciate your concern, Marjorie,
but I just don’t think…
 
I don’t have
the will to swish my arms.
 
I’d rather
sink.
 
I’d rather just—"

"I know," she says again, more softly this
time, drawing me near for a quick, warm embrace.
 
"But think about it.
 
We’re all here, waiting for you—me and Cather and Twain and Austen and
Rowling and Koontz and Hemingway—"

"Ugh, not Hemingway."

"Okay, everyone except him."
 
She smiles broadly, threading her arm
through mine and leading me toward the vestibule at the front of the
building.
 
"Now, let’s tack up this
flyer, shall we?
 
I think there’s a nice
spot for it, right on top of the notice for that spaghetti dinner the
Republican Readers are putting on—"

"Marjorie…"

She winks.
 
"Just kidding.
 
We’ll only
cover up the bottom part, where it lists the location, date and time."

"You’re a wily lady, boss."

"’Course I am. I’m a librarian."

Chapter Fourteen

 
I bump open
the swinging dining room door, balancing a tray of hors d’oeurves on one hand
while gripping the neck of a chilled bottle of wine with the other.
 
"Alis, where should I put
these—"
 
The wine nearly slips from
my fingers and the tiny cucumber sandwiches slide all over the tray as my eyes
fasten to Alis standing beside the picture window, her hands clasped lightly
before her, her dark head piled with curls and tilted sweetly to the side.

The sight of her, for a measureless moment, stills
my heart.

"Do I look all right?" She tugs at the
narrow belt of her shimmering blue sheath, flicking uncertain glances in my
direction.
 
"I thought about buying
something new, but then I remembered this dress…
 
I got it years ago, for a party at Jason’s co-worker’s house, but
Jason made me take it off before we left home.
 
He said it looked cheap."

"Jason’s an idiot."
 
I swallow, meeting her questioning, hopeful
gaze.
 
"You look radiant,
Alis.
 
Beautiful."

She laughs nervously, crossing her arms and shaking
her head.
 
"Well, I’ve always loved
this color, but Jason—"

"Forget Jason."
 
I toss the tray to the sideboard beside the rest of the hors
d’oeuvres and put the wine bottle on the dining table.
 
The table looks festive, set with a white
tablecloth, white china, and gold napkins, lined down the center with squat
silver vases full of sumptuous red roses on a shimmering gold runner.
 
The chandelier above, the room’s only illumination,
throws flame-shaped, undulating shadows to the wine-colored walls.
 

I move toward Alis and, breathing deeply, reach for
her hands, my eyes lingering over the blue beauty of her curves.
 

"Is it too much?" she whispers, staring
down at our clasped fingers and anxiously stroking the back of my hand.
 
"Should I change—"

"Never change.
 
This dress was made for you."
 
My voice is low, and I try to smile at her, try to lighten the mood, but
my lips won’t cooperate: they part, longing…and I take small breaths, unable to
remove my gaze, unable to let go of her hands.
 

"Darcy..."

"Alis."

"That was the doorbell.
 
Just now.
 
I think a guest has arrived."

I blink, dazed, staring into her wide, bottomless
blue eyes.
 
"Doorbell?"

"Didn’t you hear it?"

I catch her scent in the space between us.
 
A lush floral perfume.
 
Jasmine, I think.
 
"No.
 
I didn’t—"

But the doorbell rings again, and, for better or for
worse, I
do
hear it this time.
 
Our hands fall away as we fall away from each other, our eyes roaming
the laden sideboard and the sparkling, expectant table, looking everywhere, at
everything, except at one another.

"I’ll get it," I say, gruff, turning to
leave the room.
 

"Darcy, wait."

I glance at Alis over my shoulder, heart skipping,
brain shrieking at me to go, to leave, to ignore my impulses and be rational,
to
remember Catherine
.

Alis smiles softly, shyly.
 
"I just wanted to say—you look beautiful, too."

I stare at her for a moment longer before flicking
my gaze to my A-line dress—the red dress that Alis found in my closet months
ago, the one I had refused to wear.
 
Its
neckline plunges daringly low, but I suppose I’m feeling daring tonight,
careless.
 
Reckless.
 
It’s Christmas Eve, and my life is a
ghostlike thing; none of this feels real, so I’ve begun to treat it all like a
dream.
 
In dreams, nothing matters.
 
Nothing lasts.
 
In dreams, the whole world vanishes the moment you open your
eyes, and all that’s left is a weak remembrance of something once known, now forever
lost.
  

I breathe out, catching Alis’ eyes and smiling
faintly.
 
"Thank you."

She ducks her head, returning my smile.
 

"Hello!
 
Darcy?
 
Hope you don’t mind I let
myself in."
 
Marjorie’s voice
slices the tension, echoing throughout the entryway.
 
"I’ve brought some champagne!
 
Good stuff!
 
None of that
bargain swill!"
 
As one, Alis and I
sigh, then laugh.

"Time to put on our hostess hats," Alis
says, smoothing her dress and moving toward the doorway, toward me.

"We don’t
literally
have to wear hats,
do we?"

She laughs.
 
"No."
 
But then she
places a finger to her chin, considering.

"What?"

"I’m just thinking…
 
You’d look really cute in a beret."

I can’t help but laugh, even as the blood heats up
in my veins in response to her voice, her scent, her nearness.
 
"Next time, then.
 
A beret for me and a cloche for you."

"Oh, yes!
 
I love vintage fashion.
 
I used
to be really into fashion, you know, before Jason— I mean…"
 
She looks thoughtful for a moment.
 
Then her brow arches up, and she gives me a
mischievous look.
 
"Never
mind.
 
As a wise woman once said,
forget
Jason
."

"Da-a-arcy!"

"Coming, Marjorie."
 
I grin at Alis and offer her my arm.
 
"All right, then.
 
Let’s hostess this thing."

---

Marjorie, slouching in the chair next to me, sloshes
more champagne into my glass.
 
"Told you this stuff was good, didn’t I?"

"It’s great, Marjorie, but I think I’ve had
enough—"

"Not on Christmas Eve, you haven’t!
 
Look!"
 
She waggles the bottle in front of my eyes.
 
"Still plenty left.
 
I’m determined to polish it all off before I go home."

"Why don’t you stay the night?
 
I don’t think you should drive,
Marjorie."

She purses her lips, placing the bottle precariously
on the edge of the table.
 
I nudge it
away from the edge with a shaky hand.
 
I’ve
definitely
had enough…
 

"Well, I may take you up on that, Darcy, if you
have a room to spare.
 
It’s snowing
pretty hard out there, and, truth be told, I think I’m
drunk
.
 
Imagine, an old woman like me!"

I laugh, patting her shoulder as she begins to lean
toward me.
 
"There’s room.
 
I’ll find a comfortable place for you.
 
And we’ll go out to visit the kittens
tomorrow morning."
 

Her eyes grow wide with a sudden thought.
 
"But tomorrow’s Christmas!"

"Do you have plans?
 
If you do, I could find someone to take you
home—maybe…"
 
I glance doubtfully
at the assembled guests, nearly all of them invited by Alis, though a few of my
co-workers from the library are here, too.
 
But everyone is red-eyed and slouchy, spilling liquor on the tablecloth
and laughing a little too loudly for a formal dinner party.
 

It doesn’t seem to me as if
anyone
here is
fit to drive.

Marjorie sags a little.
 
Slowly, her head moves from side to side, and she picks up her
fork, watching the firelight play against the silver.
 
"No.
 
No, Darcy.
 
I don’t have any plans for Christmas."

"Well…"
 
I wrap an arm around my tipsy boss and hug her quickly.
 
"Then we’ll have a lovely kitten-filled
morning.
 
What better way to spend a
holiday?" I push my full glass away and lift my woozy gaze to again survey
the crowded, candlelit dining room.
 
Across the table, Alis is holding court with several of her nurse
friends from the hospital.
 
Blessedly,
Caroline is not among them.
 
I watch,
smiling softly, as Alis laughs at something one of the women said.
 
Then, noticing my gaze, Alis looks at me,
and her mouth curves slyly, as if we’re sharing a secret.

Maybe it’s the champagne…or the many, many glasses
of wine, but I’m seized by an almost irresistible urge to rise up from the
table and kiss Alis, right in front of everyone.
 
Which would be not only mad but madly selfish.
 
I don’t know if Alis—"not straight"
but still-married Alis—has any desire at all to be kissed by me.
 
The kiss we shared when she first moved
in…
 
It seems so long ago now, and so
hazy, that I’m not convinced it ever happened at all.
 
And my response to it was hardly encouraging.

My response was appropriately
dis
couraging.

It’s the wine, must be the wine, making my thoughts
wild, smudging my inhibitions.
 
Catherine and I rarely drank because we both became drunk too easily,
and we preferred to remember every precious moment that we spent together.
 
New Year’s Eve was our one exception.
 
My stomach sours at the thought of yet
another holiday to survive without Catherine, another holiday rich with
memories.

Feeling ill and uneasy, I cast my gaze toward the
window and the trees beyond, sighting the beginning of the path toward
Catherine’s cabin.
 
Suddenly I want
nothing more than to go there, to escape from this domestic charade and lose
myself to remembrances of Christmases past, kisses past…and rest for a very
long while.
 

If I could sleep through Christmas, I would.
 
But I can’t let Alis spend the day alone,
and she’s excited about exchanging gifts.
 
I begged her not to get me anything, but she put her white-sneakered
nurse’s foot down and insisted that
gifts are mandatory
, and she looked
so sweet, so determined, with her arms crossed and her brows raised, her mouth
firm but teasing, that I could only give in…