The Ghost of a Chance (16 page)

I glance down at my tiles—X, W, G, Q, V, Z, O—and,
inhaling deeply, pour them down onto the floor.
 
They clink upon the wood planks and tumble in all directions,
setting the kittens to pouncing.
 
"You win, Alis Baker."
 
I cough into my hand; my voice is shaking.
 

"Well, you were a valiant opponent."

"Little did I know I was playing with a
shark…"

Alis folds the board and tilts it so that the used
tiles fall into the bag in her hand.
 
"Hey, it’s really all a matter of fate.
 
Chance.
 
Good tiles, bad
tiles."

"A killer vocabulary doesn’t hurt."
 
Coughing again, I manage a smile and begin
to count off on my fingers.
 
"LOVESICKNESSES, RECONTEXTUALIZE, VERTICALITIES—"

"Don’t forget CAMPANOLOGIST.
 
I was pretty proud of that one."

"What does it even mean?"

She feigns shock.
 
"Turn in your librarian license, madam.
 
A campanologist is—
of course—
a person who studies and/or
casts bells."

"
Bells
?
 
Like…ring-a-ding-ding bells?"

She holds up a finger, pointing her nose snootily in
the air.
 
"Precisely."

I smile at her as I stretch my arms over my head,
standing up.
 
"Well, I bow to your
superior wordsmithery and will relinquish my library license at dawn.
 
But right now…I’m beat.
 
Want to head back to the house?"

"Sure.
 
Let me just clean up a little first.
 
Hey, Darcy?"

"Yeah?"

Alis drops the Scrabble bag and board and rises to
stand beside me, nudging the game box with her fidgeting toes.
 
"This has turned out to be a really
nice Christmas, despite—you know.
 
I
mean, I loved spending the day with you."

I take a deep breath, hands in pockets, thinking of
the spelled-out message on my tray…and I step a little nearer to Alis,
searching her unreadable eyes.
 
Then,
with a small sigh, she throws her arms around my shoulders and buries her face
against my neck, lips parted, her warm breath teasing my skin.
 

"Thank you," she whispers into my ear,
"for everything.
 
You’re the best
friend I’ve ever had."

"Yeah, you, too."
 
I draw away, laughing softly, though that
word—
friend—
sank my heart like a stone.
 
"I’m not sure I’ve been the best friend to you, honestly, but I
appreciate the sentiment.
 
And I had fun
today with you, despite—"

"Yeah."
 
Alis smiles sadly and then returns to putting away the Scrabble game
pieces.
       

"Be right back."
 
Hurriedly, I step into the bathroom, closing the door behind me,
resting my forehead against the cool silver surface of the mirror over the sink
and breathing slowly, in and out.
 
The
words—KISS HER—disappeared the moment that Alis looked at them, but they were
there, clearly there.

I don’t think I’m crazy, don’t think I’m seeing
things, but I can’t make sense of the strange occurrences since Catherine’s
death.
 
I don’t know why she’s still
here.
 
Is she trapped, lost,
afraid?
 
Does she want something from
me?
 
I thought she was lingering because
her play was unfinished, but I don’t know.
 
I don’t know anything.
 

Maybe it’s time that I made a more determined effort
to figure things out.

I gaze at my reflection in the mirror and watch,
biting my lip so hard that I taste the metallic tang of blood, as a large heart
slowly forms in the steamy film my breath left on the mirror’s surface.
 
The heart is large and round, and its point
is open at the bottom—an exact copy of the hearts Catherine always drew on her
love notes to me.

I raise my shaking hand and draw my own heart,
interconnected with the first one.
 

Maybe it’s time for a séance.

Chapter Sixteen

"Do anything awesome for New Year’s?"
Annabelle asks, placing another science fiction hardcover on the top of the
heavy pile in my arms.
 

I groan beneath the weight of the nose-high stack
and shuffle over to the bookshelves labeled SF/FAN.
 
With a mighty shove, I push the books onto the middle shelf and
then begin the task of organizing them alphabetically.
 
"Not really," I say, smiling
through gritted teeth.
 
I’ve spent the
past three hours sorting discards and donations for the library sale next week
in Annabelle’s prodding company and am approaching my breaking point.
 
"It was very low key, just a friend and
me and the electric apple on TV."
 
I don’t mention the tense kiss-on-the-cheek moment between Alis and
myself at midnight.
 
"You?"

"Some of my girlfriends and I—Oh…"
 
Pouting disingenuously, Annabelle places her
hand over her mouth and then bows her head, pretending at embarrassment.
 
"I don’t mean
girlfriends,
like"—she
lowers her voice—"
lesbians.
 
Just
friends who are girls."

"Gotcha," I growl, jamming an Asimov in
place.
 
"Thanks for the
clarification."

"Sure!
 
Well, anyway, we went to that new club that opened up downtown.
 
You know, the one with the fluorescent
martini glass in the window?"

"No, but do go on."

"Well, let me just say this—that place is cuh-ray-zee!
 
Like, so OTT, you wouldn’t believe it…"

I tune out Annabelle’s ramblings for a blissful
moment, entertaining myself by considering her context-less acronym.
 
What might OTT stand for?
 
Outstandingly Tacky Time?
 
Objectionably Tiresome Talk?
 
Ostentatiously Toffee-Nosed Twittering?

It’s probably Over the Top, but I prefer
Ostentatiously Toffee-Nosed Twittering—and suspect it’s much more
applicable.
 
"Sounds like an
IOE," I tell her, smiling so brightly that my eyes burn, though Inane
Obnoxious Experience might be a better descriptor for working with Annabelle
than spending a night in an overcrowded dance club.

Annabelle screws up her face, trying to interpret my
meaning, but then she shrugs and heaps another stack of titles into my waiting
arms.
 

"Annabelle, Darcy," Marjorie greets us as
she enters the book sale room, hands poised on her hips, gazing about and
sizing up our work progress.
 
"Think we’ll be ready by Monday, ladies?"

With a longsuffering sigh, Annabelle frowns, letting
a book fall from her fingertips to the metal pushcart, clanging.
 
"This is like slave labor or
something.
 
Are you sure we can’t get
paid overtime for this?"

"No," Marjorie begins, her voice edged
with impatience.
 
Obviously she’s been
forced to endure this particular discussion with Annabelle before.
 
"You aren’t working overtime, only your
regular working hours."

"I
know
, but I never signed up for heavy
lifting or
cashier
duties.
 
I’m a
librarian, not a shop girl."

Straightening her shoulders and raising herself to
her full height, Marjorie steps before Annabelle and glowers down at her.
 
Marjorie is a softie and a sweetheart, but
she can be fierce when the occasion calls for it.
 
"The funds acquired from the annual book sale help keep this
library in operation.
 
Without
these
funds, our finances would be severely compromised, the result of which might
be…
 
Well, we may be forced to
let go
some of our staff, beginning with the most recent hires."
 
She pauses, reflecting thoughtfully for a
moment.
 
"Tell me—how long have you
been here, Annabelle, dear?"

Annabelle purses her lips disdainfully.
 
"Eleven months," she murmurs.

"Eleven months.
 
Oh, my, then I’m afraid you would be—"

"I get it," Annabelle says, sweetening her
bitter words with a smile.

"Oh, good.
 
Because, you know, I was a
shop girl
once myself and took a lot
of pride in my work.
 
It’s always
important to take pride in one’s work, no matter the mode of employment.
 
Wouldn’t you agree, Darcy?"

"Completely."
 
I suppress a laugh, pretending to be absorbed in a copy of
A
Stranger in a Strange Land,
lifting the book up to conceal my grin.
 

"Excellent.
 
Well, since we’re all on the same page now…" Marjorie moves over to
me with a clip-clop of her heels and threads her arm through mine.
 
"I’d like to talk to you in my office,
Darcy, if you don’t mind.
 
I’m sure
Annabelle can handle things by herself for a while."

"It would be my pleasure," Annabelle lilts
through clenched teeth.

"Come along, Darcy."

Marjorie and I leave the room and walk the length of
the library in companionable silence, aiming for the back of the building,
where Marjorie’s cozy office is located.
 
It’s a Thursday afternoon, and few patrons occupy the tables and
aisles.
 
I recognize some regulars and
nod at them, smiling.
 
It feels good to
be here again, to have responsibilities and a routine again.
 
Catherine was a free spirit and disdained
routine, but I thrive on schedules, detail work, focused tasks.
 
The past several months of miserable
aimlessness have reinforced this truth more than ever before.

I trail my hand along a row of classics: Austen and
Bronte and Colette and Dumas.
 
The
books’ presence is a tangible thing: I feel it like an embrace from friends
after a long absence.
 
I’ve missed these
books, deeply.
 
I’ve missed this place.

"I’ve missed you, Marjorie," I tell my
boss once I’m seated in her office, the door closed behind us, the blinds
drawn.
 
"Thank you for encouraging
me to come back to work.
 
I know it’s
only been a couple of days, but I feel lighter and happier already.
 
Rejuvenated."

"You look rejuvenated."
 
Marjorie sits down behind her desk and
reaches for my hand, squeezing lightly.
 
"There’s color in your cheeks!
 
Light in your eyes!
 
You’re Mary
Lennox blooming in the garden!"

I laugh, reminded of Alis’ Christmas gift.
 
"Well, maybe I’m not
that
rejuvenated,
not yet, but I’m getting there, I think."
 
I let go of Marjorie’s hand and lean back in the chair with a sigh.
 
"Every day is still so hard, but
stalling out my life,
hiding
from life, only made things worse.
 
This jumpstart may be exactly what I
needed.
 
I hope so."

"I hope so, too.
 
We have certainly missed your expertise around here.
 
Not to mention the delight of witnessing
your tête-à-têtes with Annabelle."

"Well, I aim to entertain."
 
My mouth tilts sardonically.
 
"There’s one person who’s disappointed
to have me back."

"She won’t have to work half as much with you
around, so I think she appreciates you—in her own special, Annabelle way."

"But not in a
lesbian
way, she would
hasten to point out."

"Right."
 
Marjorie’s eyes sparkle behind her glasses, and she leans forward over
the desk, her hands clasped together.
 
"
Speaking
of which, how are things between you and
Alis?"

"Me and…Alis?"
 
Heat rushes to my face, and a blush, scorching as sunburn, creeps
over my cheeks.
 
"There isn’t
anything between—"

"All right, all right."
 
Marjorie waves her hands in the universal
gesture of surrender, though her eyes are still twinkling at me, as if they’ve
divined my deepest secrets and find them enormously amusing.
 
"It’s none of my business.
 
I’m just a nosy old woman and would like to
see my dear, sad friend happy in love again."

"Marjorie, I like Alis.
 
I mean, I really—I
do—
" Sighing,
I stare down into my lap and bite my lip.
 
"It’s just so confusing, so complicated.
 
I…I called your friend, you know, Genevieve?"

Marjorie nods encouragingly.

"She sensed Catherine’s presence in the cabin
but couldn’t tell me much more than that.
 
So I called her again just after Christmas and set up another
appointment.
 
She’s returning next
weekend."
 
I take a deep
breath.
 
"To do a séance."

After my announcement, I expect sensible Marjorie to
gasp or recoil or at least summon a frown.
 
I watch her carefully to gauge her reaction, but her expression remains
the same: serene, listening, compassionate.