Critique partners? What could he write that would mesh with Susan's work? "Not to pry, but what do you write? I mean, besides plays?"
His teeth flashed white against his naturally tanned skin. "I'm a romance writer, too, though I'm not nearly as well known as Susan was. I write under the name of Andrea Martin."
Romances? The man wrote romance novels? Intrigued, I almost forgot why I was there but what he said next brought me back into focus.
"I think Walter would have objected to our partnership. He didn't appreciate the work she put into her books."
I stared at the floor. He had given me the perfect opening, but I didn't know quite how to proceed. I didn't want to come off like some yellow journalist, scrounging for dirty laundry. But I needed to know. I searched his face. "You were close to her, weren't you?"
He paused for a moment, and when he spoke, it sounded as if he had chosen each word precisely. "She was a good friend. I'm going to miss her."
"I'm sorry." I sat there for another moment, feeling like I should say more. Here he was, hurting over the death of his friend, and all I could manage was vague sentiment. Finally I blurted out, "I'm no good at sympathy—I never know what to say. My ex used to complain about how blunt I was, and I guess he had a point."
Andrew relaxed. He leaned closer as the noise from the crowd got louder. He said something I couldn't hear and I shook my head, so he leaned over, his lips near my ear. "Do you really want to go to dinner with Harl and James?"
I gave him a half-cocked grin and shook my head. His eyes lit up again, and I realized how much they sparkled. "Not really," I confessed. "I want to get out of this crowd, out of these boots, and I'd prefer a bowl of soup instead of a fancy dinner."
"C'mon!" He jumped up, grabbed my hand, and headed for the door. I barely had time to grab my coat and purse as I struggled to keep up. Harlow turned in time to laugh and wave us on. I could have killed her for the knowing wink she sent my way as Andrew dragged me out into the cold.
The streets were beginning to freeze when we stumbled out into the frosty night. I loved the squeak of new snow under my boots—it made me think of northern nights and the aurora borealis—a clean, clear feeling. We only had a few inches of snow so far, but my breath left puffs of ice crystals in front of my face, and I glanced at the sky. The clouds had parted, and a shimmering expanse of stars twinkled overhead. The temperature was going to plummet.
"So, where do you want to go for that bowl of soup? Forest's End is still open, it's a good diner." Andrew let go of my hand and fumbled in his pockets for his gloves. I pulled mine out of my purse and slid them on, holding one hand over my nose and mouth so the chill air didn't bite into my lungs.
A glance at my watch told me that it was almost nine. "Not to be forward, but what about my place? I have turkey soup in the refrigerator. I also have two children who I need to get home to. Otherwise, I'm going to have to take a rain check."
"Sounds good to me. I'll follow you in my car." He waited until I was safely in my Cherokee. We crept out of the parking lot onto roads glistening with black ice.
Once home, I slammed the car door and motioned for Andrew to follow me up the stairs to the front porch. The light in Miranda's room was on, but the window was closed. For once, it was too cold for her to perch on the roof. Andrew followed my gaze and looked curiously at the railing. I could see the question in his eyes.
"My daughter is studying astronomy; she likes to sit on the roof, so I built her a guardrail." I waited for the usual reaction that I got when people realized I let my daughter hide out on the roof at night with a telescope, but he grinned.
"Better than having her roaming the streets. Now, you said something about turkey soup?"
One of Kip's video games echoed from the living room—a series of ughs and crashes and oofs. Mario Brothers maybe, or whatever he was playing nowadays. I couldn't keep up with all of them.
The scent of the rose-cinnamon potpourri drifted through the air. I loved my home. Comfort—we were all comfortable here. Flooded with a deep sense of satisfaction, I shook off my coat and hung it in the closet. Andrew handed me his, and we sat on the bench that stretched along the wall of the foyer to take off our boots.
Miranda came galloping down the stairs. She stopped short at the sight of the strange man in our hallway. I introduced them. Andrew waited for her to extend her hand first. I liked that—I would never bring a man into my home whom I felt might disturb my children in any way. She gave him the once-over, then turned to me. "What show did you see?"
I planted a quick kiss on her forehead. "We were at a play, not the movies. In fact, Andrew wrote the show—it's called Obsidian."
"Jenny's mom is in that… Mrs. Dillon." She led the way into the living room, where Kip gave us a dazed nod. He got so caught up in his games that I could probably waltz around naked and he'd never notice. But at Andrew's appearance, he let go of the mouse and asked, "Who's this?"
Andrew leaned over to look at the computer game that Kip was involved in. "Andrew Martinez is the name. Hope you guys don't mind, but your mother invited me over for a bowl of soup, and frankly, I'm starved. What are you playing?" I watched them interact, joking around at the computer. Kip missed having a man around the house, and I always kept an eye on him with male friends so he wouldn't get too attached.
"Who wants soup?" Everybody did, and so I stabbed my thumb toward the kitchen. They dutifully trooped in, and I put Miranda to work making toast while Kip set the table. Andrew got stuck with making hot cocoa. He wrinkled his nose at the Swiss Mix box.
"I don't think so. Do you have sugar, milk, and cocoa powder?"
I grinned. "Why? Don't you like my easy-does-it shortcut?"
He laughed and tossed the box of cocoa mix back on the counter. "Homemade soup deserves real hot cocoa. Kip, why don't you show me where to find a heavy pan and we'll make it up right."
Miranda poked me in the ribs and I decided to interpret her jab as approval. Andrew whisked cocoa and sugar together, and added milk he steamed using my espresso machine. He finished with a drop of peppermint extract and set Kip to searching for the bag of marshmallows I had tucked away from Thanksgiving. The soup was hot, the toast was brown and crunchy, and we all sat down at the table.
I tasted the chocolate and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Heavenly. I have to make this for the shop sometime. Can I have the recipe?"
"Recipe? It's simple enough, but sure, I'll write it out for you. The trick is in getting the proportions right. As for the soup, this is the best meal I've had in days."
"You're joking." I bit into the toast. While the others dipped their bread in their soup, I preferred mine with a crunch—I never crumbled crackers into soup, either.
Kip spoke up. "Mom is a really good cook when she's got the time. She's teaching me. She wanted to teach Randa, but Ran didn't want to learn." Miranda reached over and flicked Kip on the nose, but instead of hitting her back, he snorted. "It's true! You told Mom you'd rather eat out all the time than have to learn to cook."
"At least I'm doing something important with my time instead of playing stupid games." Miranda sniffed and went back to her soup. "You're such a baby."
Kip grinned. "I like being a kid, I get away with more. Sly gets away with everything."
I sighed. "We're really going to have to have a talk about that kid one of these days. I hope you know that what works on his folks is not going to work with me."
My son scooped another spoonful of carrots and turkey and noodles into his mouth. "I know."
"Don't talk with your mouth full," I said automatically. I turned to Andrew. His bowl was almost empty. "More?"
He pushed back his chair. "Yes, but I'll get it." He brought the pan back to the table and served both of us.
The kids were full. Either that, or their curiosity had worn thin. I excused them and they ran off into the other room, Miranda stopping to slap a paper in front of me. "You need to sign this and drop it off at the sc
hool."
"What is it?" I glanced over the slip.
"It says you give me permission to take the scholarship test. Remember, for Space Camp? Without your signature, they won't let me in the door."
And if she didn't win that scholarship, we couldn't afford to send Randa to Space Camp. "Take this and put it on my desk, please. I'll sign it later." I handed her the slip and she sighed, grabbed it back, and ran off with a half wave. Chiqetaw Middle School insisted on knowing that all permission slips were actually signed by the parents, not by enterprising young forgers.
Andrew watched as she darted out of the room. "Great kids. Do they ever give you any trouble?"
I almost choked on my soup. "That's a good one. Smart and funny do not preclude annoying and downright sneaky." Chuckling, I shook my head. "You should see them when they aren't on their best for company. Actually, though, they are good kids, and I'm proud of both of them. It hasn't been easy the past couple years, raising them alone, but I think we've done okay."
Andrew leaned back in his chair and contemplated me with a soft look. His eyes were gentle, and as he held my gaze, butterflies tickled my stomach. "I enjoyed tonight, Emerald. I'd like to see you again. I'm not seeing anyone right now, and if you aren't…"
He wanted to date me? I hadn't expected this. "Andrew," I said slowly, "I would love to see you again, but I have to be honest about something first."
A worried look crossed his face, and he leaned forward. "Did I say something wrong? Don't be afraid to be blunt. My ego isn't that fragile." He was joking, but I could tell that like most men, he didn't want me to turn him down.
"No, no. You didn't say anything wrong."
"It's the fact that I write romance novels, isn't it? You think it's unmanly?" He gave me a cornball look. "If you agree to go out with me, I promise that I won't show up in a ruffled shirt open to my waist."
I laughed. The man was not only gorgeous, but he also had a sense of humor. I took a deep breath. If nothing else, I owed him the truth. "When Harlow invited me to your play tonight, it was as a favor to me. I'm trying to gather some information, and she said you might be able to help. I didn't expect you'd end up asking me out. You need to know this because I don't want you thinking I'd go out with you just to pick your brain. I really would like to see you again."
What was he going to think when I tried to explain why I wanted information on Susan? I had enough skeletons in my closet to qualify for a first-class ticket to La-La Land. This ghost business was a whole 'nother category of weird.
He looked at me with those dark eyes, and I could sense both curiosity and a certain wariness hiding behind his stare. "Information? I see. Well, why don't you tell me what you want to know?",
"To do that, I'm going to have to tell you why, and I guarantee you'll think I'm nuts." Okay. Here went nothing. "I need to know some things about Susan Mitchell."
"Susan?" He shifted in his chair. I had the feeling he hadn't been totally honest with me about their relationship but couldn't put my finger on what he'd left out.
"Did Harlow by chance tell you I'm a tarot reader? A lot of folks also consider me the town witch."
He coughed but covered it up as quickly as he could. "Well, no. That didn't come up. Are you? The town witch, I mean."
"Not exactly. Well, close enough so—yeah, I guess I am. So anyway. Does that bother you?"
His lips spread out in a big smile. "Bother me? I grew up Catholic but left the church years ago. So long as you don't go all Blair Witch on me, I don't care what you believe. Is that all? How does this relate to Susan?"
So far, so good. Here came the hard part. "You see, over the years I've dealt with more than my share of spirits."
His smile began to fade. "Spirits? As in ghosts?"
"Yes, as in ghosts." I could tell that he was pulling back. Most people were fine with the idea of alternative beliefs until we tossed actual magic and mysticism in their face. Once faced with the reality, they backtracked fast. Like the first black family on the block or a new Jewish neighbor, everything seemed safe enough as long as it was theoretical. The old "not in my neighborhood" attitude still prevailed.
I decided to spill it. "Last night, the spirit of Susan Mitchell appeared in my bedroom. There has to be some reason why she approached me, so I'm trying to find out more about her." Might as well keep it general; the last thing I needed was for her husband to slap a lawsuit for slander on me, should Andrew decide I was deranged and go blabbing about what I told him.
He edged out of his chair. "Let me get this straight. Susan's ghost appeared in your bedroom last night?"
I nodded.
"How do you know it was her?" There was an odd inflection in his voice, and I knew that I'd hit a nerve.
"She told me," I said. Not quite a lie. He didn't need to see the papers with the spirit writing on them yet.
He cocked his head and frowned. "Susan's spirit not only appeared in your room, but she talked to you? What did she have to say?"
I sighed. This was going just about like I'd expected. He wouldn't believe me, and I'd never get him to talk about her. And after this, I sincerely doubted if he'd want to date me, either. "She has some unfinished business, and I wanted to help her out. Is this bothering you? Should I just drop the subject?"
He carried the dishes over to the sink. "I just don't know what to believe. I mean, a good friend of mine dies, and then some stranger tells me that she saw my friend's ghost—it's a lot to take in. I'm not sure what I think." He seemed antsy, and I waited for him to make a mad dash for the door, but after pouring himself a glass of water, he sat down at the table again. "Have you always seen spirits?"
Had I? When I thought about it, the answer was yes—ever since I was a little girl. It had gotten so bad that I developed a pattern of insomnia that never quite left. "Yeah, actually. It used to scare the hell out of me; when I saw The Sixth Sense, the movie struck home so much it freaked me out. When my Nanna came to live with us, she taught me to handle having the sight. She taught me a lot of things."
He played with the salt and pepper shakers. After a moment he asked, "How often does this happen? I mean, do you hear voices in your head? Do you talk with spirit guides? I guess what I'm asking…"
I exhaled slowly. "What you're asking is if I'm nuts. No, I'm not. I don't hear voices in my head. I usually rely on common sense more than spirit guides, though I do pay attention to my intuition. Spirits show up in my house once in a while, but not on a regular basis."
"You're sure it was Susan?" He pressed his lips together. I had the feeling that if it had been any other spirit, he wouldn't be so freaked.
"When I saw the article in the paper this morning, I recognized her right away. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought this up." It had been a long day, and all I wanted to do was to snuggle up in my bathrobe and crash out on the sofa with the kids.
He must have sensed my mood, because he glanced at the clock. It was ten-thirty. "It's late and I'd better go home. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"
There wasn't much left to say, so I escorted him to the door, where he slipped on his boots and coat and headed down the sidewalk. He turned back briefly, as if he were going to say something, then shook his head and waved a tight little wave and continued to his car. I shut the door and locked it behind me.
Great, another guy who thought I was nuts. Life sucked sometimes.
Chapter Four
TAP, TAP, TAP. Tap, tap, tap. The noises started around midnight, waking me out of a nightmare. Worn out from the roller-coaster day, I lurched out of bed as a knock ricocheted across the ceiling. Did it come from my dream, or was it real? I listened, squinting into the darkness. No, there it was, and another, deep, as if embedded within the wooden beams overhead. The only thing above the ceiling was crawl space and roof. Squirrels, maybe? They were all over the trees, the little buggers. Remembering Nanna's advice, I searched for the obvious. Play the skeptic, I could hear my grandmother saying, until you can no longer dism
iss what you've seen.
My door flew open, and Kip came running in. "S-s-s-s-omething's in my room!" Something must have scared him—he was stuttering, an old problem that surfaced only when he was afraid.
My son had never suffered from "monster under the bed" syndrome; if he said something was in his room, something was. I'd chased away more than one creepy-crawly that decided to hang out in his closet. Lost souls flocked to bright young spirits like moths to a flame. I managed to keep the house warded, but once in awhile, things still got past my guard. He crawled into my arms and leaned against my chest as I sat down on the bed and stroked his hair. The sounds on the ceiling continued, though fainter. I asked him what he had seen.
"A lady. I woke up because I thought I heard you crying. She was leaning over my bed and she seemed pretty upset. She was trying to tell me something. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. I saw something big and bad in back of her, like a shadow. When I turned on my light, they both disappeared." He shivered. "Was she the reason you couldn't sleep last night?"
He knew, he always knew. I tried to avoid lying to my children. I wanted them to trust me. "I saw her for the first time last night. She asked me to help her. I guess I'm not acting fast enough to make her happy."
"Is she lost?" He knew all about wandering spirits. I trained him young, so he wouldn't be frightened of his abilities as he grew up. "I think she might be."
"Lost? No. I don't think so. But she has a problem that wasn't cleared up before she died, and she wants my help. Trouble is, I don't know if I can help her. That's all you need to know for now, kiddo. But we'll do something to keep her out of your room."
He hesitated as if there was something more he wanted to say.
"What is it? Is there something else I should know?" I waited, but after a few seconds he shook his head. The poor kid was probably scared out of his wits but didn't want to admit it. I grabbed my robe and, Kip's hand safely tucked into mine, we went to inspect his room.