The Ghost of a Chance (7 page)

My breast grows deliciously sore at the whims of her
passion: massaging, pinching, twisting. If she had teeth, she would bite.
Instead, under her command, my own nails dig into sensitive flesh, and my hips
jerk with longing, causing water to splash out of the tub, onto the floor.

"Catherine..." The word contains all of my
desires, and she hears them, guiding my hand lower, lower.

Her stroke is light, exploring, a feather's touch.
Fingers move over my inner thigh, soft and tickling. Torturing... Following the
contours of my hips, now hot and rhythmic with need. At last, she abandons
foreplay, expertly finds my ache and fills it.

I arch, water sloshing everywhere. My legs,
quivering, spread still wider. "Oh, please..."

My right hand slips, losing its grip, and reaches
vainly for something to hold onto, something solid, something safe. I want to
hold Catherine... I want to touch her again. I want—

My head slides deep beneath the water, and I hold my
breath with a gasp but keep my eyes open. A fine stream of bubbles has formed
out of nothing, circling around my torso, then crawling, slow and searching, in
all directions over and under my skin. I watch, mesmerized, heart still. Just
when I fear I can contain my lungs no longer, the bubbles coalesce into one
watery figure: legs first, then hips...breasts, arms, face...

Catherine.

I feel a pressure like skin on skin but smoother,
and slippery. Our nipples touch, her lips crash against mine, and a tsunami
force sends me up, out from under the water, sitting in the tub with a hand on
my heaving chest as I cough and swallow gulps of air.

When my breathing regulates and my heart starts
beating again, I drop my head into my hands (both mine again) and sob into the
placid bathwater.

I've broken the spell. It's over.

Her scent lingers, but the atmosphere of the room is
changed. It's flatter. Dull. The steam has evaporated, and my shoulders
involuntarily shiver, naked in the cold, unheated cabin. I raise my eyes to
survey the tiny room and watch as one large, curved stroke appears over the
foggy surface of the medicine cabinet mirror hanging over the sink. A
"C." I get out of the tub, sopping, freezing, and walk to the sink,
my hands on the edges of the porcelain basin. I lean forward and press my lips
against the damp mirror. It's a hard, desperate, pathetic kiss. I open my eyes
to see nothing but my own reflection and, heartsick, pull back, flinging hot,
desperate tears from my face. No longer shivering, I curl up on the floor, my
body a bare, vulnerable container of desire. My skin burns like fire.

Either I'm going mad, or I've just had sex with a
ghost. With Catherine. Catherine's ghost. It makes no difference to me. Crazy
or sane, I am certain of one thing.

I want more.

Chapter Nine

I cringe as I approach the front desk. Annabelle is
seated behind it, and the look of shock on her face when she sees me—obviously
surprised by my appearance; I've lost weight—makes me want to turn around and
walk out of the library immediately. But I resist the urge and manage a small
smile as I hand her Catherine's books.

"These are overdue," I say, trying to
sound pleasant as I remove a few dollar bills from the pocket of my jeans.
"How much do I owe?"

"Darcy!" She claps her hands in front of
her face, like a child. "Oh, how have you been? We've all been so worried
about you. I keep meaning to stop by the house, to say hello, but..." The
absence of honesty behind her statement is obvious but expected. Annabelle is a
professional people pleaser: fake, two-faced, manipulative. I never met anyone
so petty and juvenile—sometimes she holds entire conversations in
text-speak—over the age of thirty and try my hardest to avoid her as much as
possible during work shifts.

"Well, that's kind of you, Annabelle, but I'm
not really ready for visitors yet."

"Obviously! I mean, well, no one would expect
you to be, after such a tragic, untimely—" She gasps and covers her mouth,
then purses her pink lips. "I'm so sorry! I shouldn't bring it up.
Naturally, I don't want to upset you."

"It's fine." I grit my teeth, sliding the
books closer to her. "Could you just check these in for me?"

"Certainly. In a hurry, are you?" she
asks, picking up the books and eyeing them thoughtfully.

"Oh—yes. I've been...very busy."

"Mm, of course, of course." She scans the
books and then types rapidly, staring at the computer screen. "Oh, but
these two—they aren't registered to your account."

My heartbeat quickens.

"They're listed under 'Corde, Catherine.' Is
she a friend—oh!" Again, the hand flies to her mouth. It's almost comical,
and I want to laugh at her, but I can't. I can't even sneer.

"My bad!" she exclaims, mocking
embarrassment. "I am such a featherhead today! Please forgive me,
Darcy." She reaches for my hand, which is lying on the desk, but I quickly
remove it to my jacket pocket. I count to ten and insist, without any pretense
of politeness, "What is the fine?"

Brow furrowed, Annabelle glances at the computer
screen again. "$2.45. If you'd like, I could call Marjorie over the
loudspeaker and ask her if the fee can be waived, given the circumstance—"

"No, no. Here's $3.00. Never mind the
change."

"Oh, well, if you're sure..."

"Positive." I stand before her awkwardly,
longing to escape. "I should get back to the house now, so—"

She takes the bills and inserts them into a zippered
pouch in the drawer at her left. "All right, Darcy. Take care, then."
Her smile is tight, plastic; only her eyes—cold, as always—speak the truth.

"Good-bye, Annabelle."

With an exasperated sigh, I turn away and head
toward the door. There's a display of new paperback releases just in front of
the security desk. I pause for a moment to scan the titles. It's been weeks
since I've had an attention span suitable for reading, but I miss the escapism
of a good book. I finger a Maeve Binchy novel, considering.

"I highly recommend that one."

Marjorie comes up beside me, her glasses on a purple
cord around her neck, her grey hair twisted into a loose topknot on her head,
and nods toward the display. "The Jeannette Winterson is excellent, too. I
think you'd enjoy it immensely."

I smile at my boss, genuinely smile. She holds her
arms wide, and I walk into them, grateful for the simple human contact.
"How are you doing, Darcy?"

"Oh, you know..." My lower lip trembles
despite my best efforts, and my chest begins to heave with swallowed sobs.

"You've got to let it out, dear. You've got to
let it hurt, or you'll never heal." She pulls back from me with a tender
look and sweeps my hair from my eyes. "I'm speaking from experience. The
best advice I can give you? Cry. Cry until you can't cry any more. You have to
grieve
."

"I'm sure you're right, Marjorie. I've been so
tense—"

"You look tense!" She squeezes both of my
hands. "Have you been taking care of yourself? Getting enough rest?"

I shrug noncommittally and take the Jeannette
Winterson novel from the rack. "Is this as good as her last one?"

The elderly woman regards me with a disapproving
frown. "Why don't you join me for dinner tonight? We'll go somewhere nice,
my treat. I'd love to catch you up on all of the library gossip." She
winks.

"That's a sweet offer, but I don't know if it
would be a good idea. I mean, not right now. I have to get some things in order
at home—"

"Well, it's only nine o’clock." Marjorie
gestures at the big round clock on the wall behind us. "You've got plenty
of time to take care of chores and errands. What do you say we meet up at The
Poseidon on Elizabeth Street around five o’clock?"

"But—"

"Consider it a favor. To me. Come on."

When I applied for the librarian position, Marjorie
interviewed me, hired me, and welcomed me, a novice, with open arms. She spent
weeks teaching me the ins and outs of the library and proved herself, again and
again, a constant solace whenever the hours seemed too long and the patrons
more difficult than usual. She's my friend, and I realize with a little
surprise that I would enjoy a hour or two's worth of dinner conversation in her
company.

"All right. Five o’clock."

"Great!" She squeezes my hands once more.
"Let's get these books checked out for you, then. I'll take care of it. I
think Annabelle's gone on her break—"

"Thank God for small blessings." I find my
wallet in my purse and search its pockets for my library card.

---

Catherine and I dined at The Poseidon only once, for
our three-year anniversary. The restaurant is pricey and impressive, with four
thick white columns marking the entrance and a mural painted all over the
outside walls: an ocean scene, populated by sea life and mermaids with starfish
pinned in their long blonde hair.

I approach one of the mermaids and lay my hand flat
on the wall. "This one reminds me of you," I told Catherine, pointing
at the woman lying on a rock at the bottom of the sea.

"Darcy?" Marjorie startles me, coming up
from behind to clutch my elbow. "Lovely painting, isn't it? Done by a
local artist, you know. Woman by the name of Alice. She's a nurse at the
hospital, very sweet girl. Always helpful and kind."

I examine the mermaid again, more intently. "I
have a friend named Alis. A nurse. I wonder if you mean her. She never
mentioned that she paints, though."

Marjorie shrugs. "Could be."

"Hmm, I'll have to ask her about it. She might
be moving in with me soon, actually."

"Oh?" My boss's brows lift, questioning.

I smile at her insinuation and shake my head.
"We're just friends. She's going through a rough spot and needs a place to
stay. That's all."

"Well, it would be nice for you to have someone
around. Not many of us are suited to a solitary life."

"No," I agree, glancing at the mermaid
once more before allowing Marjorie to lead me through the restaurant doors. A
waitress dressed in blue seats us at a mosaic-inlaid table next to the
angelfish aquarium.

"A bottle of your best red wine, please."
Marjorie thanks the waitress, who hurries off, and lays her napkin across her
lap. She smiles brightly at me. "So, tell me what you've been doing with
yourself, Darcy."

I shift my gaze and watch the fish, thinking hard.
How much should I tell Marjorie? Anything? Nothing? Can I confide in her? I
don't doubt her discretion, but it might be a bit uncomfortable to continue
working at the library if she thought I was certifiably insane.

"Oh... I've just been staying busy. I don't
want to bore you with a play-by-play." I attempt a grin. "I'd much
rather hear about the latest library drama. Who has Annabelle offended this
week?"

"Who hasn't she offended?" Marjorie
gestures helplessly with her hands. "I think even the library ghost is
annoyed with her at this point."

The waitress returns with our wine and pours two
glassfuls. I sip mine, savoring the bittersweet flavor on my tongue. Marjorie
orders salmon, and I opt for the only vegetarian dish on the menu, a portabella
and pasta salad. My empty stomach growls in anticipation of food. I haven't
eaten yet today. I spent the afternoon trying, in vain, to read and eventually
just fell asleep on the living room sofa. No dreams.

"Marjorie..." I toy with the silverware,
weighing my next words. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

She tilts her head, wine glass in hand. "Why do
you ask?"

"Well, you mentioned the library ghost, and I
just wondered... I mean, have you ever
seen
a ghost?"

"No, no, I haven't seen a ghost. But I've heard
footsteps in the children's wing—fast, clicking footsteps, like a little girl
running in her Mary Janes. I suppose I believe ghosts
could
exist."
She watches the fish in the aquarium for a moment, her eyes faraway. "When
my husband Lloyd died, sometimes I smelled his cologne—"

"You
did
?"

She waves a hand dismissively. "He wore so much
of the stuff, it probably seeped into the mattress and carpets. I doubt there
was anything supernatural going on. But...I remember wishing that his spirit
really was with me, watching over me. All I wanted was one word, one touch from
him. Just one more. Of course that was impossible." She downs the rest of
her wine and refills the glass, before topping off mine, as well.

"Thank you." I rotate the glass stem in my
fingers, chewing on my lip. "What if it was possible?"

"What do you mean?"

"I just... I've felt Catherine's presence,
Marjorie."

"Felt? As in a physical sensation? Or some sort
of sixth sense?"

Grateful that she didn't laugh at my admission, I
decide to be cautiously honest. "Both, I guess. I... I smell her perfume.
That was the first thing I noticed after she died, her scent. She always wore
the same one. If you put a thousand perfume bottles under my nose, I could
recognize hers. And...every once in awhile, especially—" I hesitate,
taking another drink before continuing. "It's strongest at our cabin. She
always wrote there."

Marjorie temples her fingers beneath her chin. The
silence worries me. What is she thinking? Finally, with an exhalation of
breath, she shrugs her shoulders. "Sounds like a haunting to me. I know
you aren't one for making up stories. You say it's true, so it must be."

"Then...then you believe me? You believe that
Catherine has become a ghost?"

She screws her mouth up sideways, thinking.
"Well, I don't know what ghosts are, whether they're a deceased person's
spirit or just a remnant, a memory... Like an imprint, a stain. But Lord knows
I've read enough books about them. All fiction, of course. I do have a friend,
though..."