As the afternoon wore on, she grew positive that in her bone-weary state, she had fallen asleep for a few minutes.
Standing up? In the kitchen? In broad daylight?
If only the scoffing inner voice would pick a side and stay on it.
One minute, she’s doing her best to convince herself that the call wasn’t real; the next, to convince herself that it must have been.
In any case, here she is, on her way to a catering job that, if nothing else, will result in money she desperately needs.
If nothing else. Yeah.
What else are you expecting, Annie?
Are you thinking Andre’s ghost will reveal itself to you at the snooty mansion?
Maybe.
Maybe, even if the paranormal telephone conversation was a dream or a hallucination, this was her subconsciousness’s way of sending her on a meaningful mission.
The meaningful mission being an actual glimpse of her dead husband.
And cash.
“You’re losing it, chick,” she mutters aloud. “You really are. You need to get a grip.”
Annie sighs, thrumming the fingertips of her left hand on the outside of the car door.
Driving with the window down in all but the stormiest weather is one of her quirkier habits. At least, Andre always thought so. But Annie isn’t a big fan of climate control, preferring fresh air and the wind in her hair.
She checks the directions again, glances at a street sign, turns another corner, and reaches for the radio dial. Music is what she needs. Something to take her mind off what happened today.
Or rather, what didn’t happen.
“. . . Think of me . . . you know that I’d be with you if I could . . .”
Annie reflexively hits the brakes so hard the tires screech.
Todd Rundgren is singing on the radio.
And the warm June breeze has gone arctic.
“Andre?” she whispers, her suddenly icy fingers clenching the steering wheel. She turns her head slowly, almost expecting to find her husband sitting beside her in the passenger’s seat.
It’s empty.
Of course it is.
The song is a coincidence.
They play it all the time on this station.
Still . . .
Everything happens for a reason, Annie.
Maybe this is why he wanted her to come tonight. So that she would be in the car, listening to the radio, hearing this song at this moment. Maybe the song is a message from him. His way of reaching out from beyond the grave. His way of telling her that the phone call was real; she didn’t imagine it.
Listening intently to the lyrics, Annie shivers.
She didn’t imagine the phone call, and she isn’t imagining the cold. It’s almost as if . . .
No. Glancing at the dashboard, she sees that the car’s air conditioner hasn’t suddenly kicked on. The window is still down, the early evening sun still perched well above the horizon.
Annie has read her share of ghost stories, seen her share of supernatural movies. Enough, certainly, to be aware that haunted places are supposed to be unnaturally cold.
“Andre . . . are you here?” she asks the empty passenger’s seat.
No response.
Yet she can feel him, just as she did earlier.
Overcome by an aura of utter well-being and the bizarre realization that she is no longer alone, Annie reaches a trembling hand toward the empty seat, almost expecting to encounter . . . something.
There is nothing. Nothing tangible, anyway.
“You’re here, aren’t you? You’re with me?”
She listens intently, hearing nothing but Todd Rundgren singing on the radio.
Then an abrupt blast of sound nearly sends Annie bolting from the car.
Gasping, she turns to see an SUV behind her. Its impatient driver honks again, gesturing for her to drive on.
Her right foot automatically shifts from the brake pedal to the gas.
The chill is gone, and so, all at once, is the comforting presence.
But he was here.
It wasn’t her imagination.
Or was it?
Tears pool in her eyes, nearly blinding her as she coasts to a STOP sign. She wipes them on the sleeve of her white blouse, belatedly grateful she didn’t have time to put on mascara.
Maybe it was her imagination. She sniffles.
You want so badly to believe that he isn’t gone . . .
Badly enough for her errant thoughts to conjure the voice of the man she loved, the ghost of the man she once loved.
No . . .
The man you love, Annie.
Present tense.
If I’m dead, you’d better not abandon me, Annie.
It was such an innocent, teasing thing for him to say at the time. Neither of them ever imagined it would happen so soon.
Well, it has. He’s dead.
But perhaps he hasn’t abandoned her after all. The phone call, the song on the radio . . .
He’s still with her. She believes it, right here, right now, deep in her heart, though the precious little comfort it brings does little to fill the yawning chasm he left there.
“I won’t abandon you, Andre. Not ever. I promise,” she whispers.
Coasting to the next STOP sign, Annie fights the impulse to turn the car around and head back home. Why should she go through with it now that the evening’s true purpose has been revealed to her?
Why, indeed.
She still needs the cash. That hasn’t changed. And the kids are fine. They seemed content to be spending the evening with Jonathan’s adorable and energetic teenage niece.
Who knows? It might do Annie some good to be out of the house, away from them for a few hours. Even if she’s merely going to be waiting on Merlin’s snooty client and his snooty friends.
So far, the soiree is going exactly as expected.
Which isn’t particularly a good thing, as far as Thom is concerned.
The guests are staid, familiar, resplendent in their required red, white, and blue dress. The food is divine, the backdrop breathtaking—the latter two elements courtesy of Merlin’s magic. Thom’s sloping seaside lawn has been transformed into a fairyland awash with thousands of candles and twinkly white lights draped in white canvas canopies: Merlin’s trademark, or so he claims.
The sun has disappeared beneath the sea and in the distance, Thom can hear the waves breaking as the tide comes in. He’d give anything to be out on the beach right now. Instead, he’s holding court beside a bower of fragrant white roses with Joyce at his side, in the midst of mind-numbing small talk with a Republican congresswoman and her stodgy husband.
“We’ve said that countless times ourselves, haven’t we, darling?” Joyce asks Thom, laughing at something the congresswoman apparently just said.
“We certainly have,” Thom replies, feigning both comprehension and amusement.
“We’ll need to do something about it then, shall we?”
“Oh, we’ll leave it up to the experts,” Joyce tells the congresswoman. “Won’t we, Thom?”
“Absolutely,” he agrees jovially, as though he has a clue what they’re talking about.
Joyce slips her hand into his. Her skin is surprisingly cool on such a warm night; her fingers resting delicately—almost limply—in his. She holds hands the way she dances, he notes, doing his best to fight his disdain. She’ll make the first move, but then as soon as he touches her, she seems to wilt. It’s almost as though she’s confused ladylike reserve with spiritless indifference.
As the conversation meanders onward, he finds himself wondering again why Joyce chose a flowing white dress to wear this evening. An elegant blue or vibrant red would have been far more flattering against her porcelain skin and flaxen hair. In white, she looks almost wraithlike.
Earlier, when she stepped out of her chauffeured town car and he paid her the obligatory compliment on her appearance, she smiled and informed him that she felt “positively bridal.”
br />
What was that supposed to mean?
The comment has been troubling Thom all evening.
It’s definitely time to put an end to this so-called relationship, even if it means opening himself up to Mother’s matchmaking once again.
Yes, first thing tomorrow, he’s got to tell Joyce he’s had a change of heart.
Or perhaps he shouldn’t say that.
Is it worse to imply that he was once in love with her and fell out of it? Or worse to admit the truth: that he never cared for her at all?
“Penny for your thoughts,” Joyce says, and he realizes that their companions have drifted away.
She’s watching him through narrowed slate-gray eyes, her tone light-hearted, her expression anything but.
“Only a penny?” he volleys expertly. “My thoughts are worth at least a dollar in today’s market.”
“Oh, what the hell. I’ll give you two dollars.” She chuckles, a mostly mirthless, practiced emission of staccato sounds he’s grown to loathe.
“Really. You must have high expectations, big spender.”
Thom marvels at the fact that he can stand here flirting with the woman whose future he’s about to shatter. That’s one of the things that bothers him most about himself: his ability to mask his true feelings so easily, to carry on the social charade with the smooth proficiency of a reality dating show contestant.
“One question before I pay up,” Joyce croons, leaning close enough for his nostrils to be inundated with the strong, spicy scent of her perfume. “Are those expensive thoughts about me?”
“Guess.” He flashes an evasive grin and excuses himself, saying he has to check something with the caterer.
“Don’t be long,” Joyce instructs as he turns toward the house.
“I won’t be.”
Again, he notices the sound of the surf in the darkness beyond the party’s glowing lights, and wishes he could escape to the beach instead of the house. But a host can’t very well disappear in the wrong direction in the midst of several hundred guests. People would notice. People would talk.
Who the hell cares what people think? Thom asks himself, stepping through the nearest set of French doors into the cool interior of the house.
Not me. Not anymore.
Yes, first thing tomorrow, he’ll break it off with Joyce. Then, for good measure, he’ll inform his mother that he has no interest in meeting other eligible women.
As if that will stop her. Thom shakes his head, thinking the only thing that could throw Mother off his bachelor trail would be if he were safely engaged . . . or uninterested in women, period.
He smiles, wondering if magical Merlin would be opposed to posing as his new love interest. He discards that idea promptly, thinking that under the best of circumstances, he would never manage to convince anyone that flamboyant Merlin is his type.
No, he thinks, rounding a corner toward the kitchen, his type would be more like—
“Oh, I’m sorry!”
“Sorry!”
Thom takes a step back from the woman he just slammed into, not accustomed to displaced strangers wandering the corridors of his house.
The first thing he notices is that she looks as though she’s seen a ghost.
The next thing he notices is that she’s beautiful.
Not the way Joyce and Susan and yes, even Mother, are beautiful. No, they work at it.
This pint-sized woman is a natural beauty, with sun-kissed cheeks, pale green eyes unenhanced by makeup, skin that’s a healthy, freckled tan against her white blouse, and a halo of dark curls determined to escape the simple ponytail at the nape of her neck.
“Can I help you find something?” she asks pleasantly, seeming to recover from her scare.
Thom, who is also unaccustomed to being shown around his own home, smiles at her. “Oh, I wasn’t lost. I was just on my way to the kitchen.”
“It’s that way.” She points in the opposite direction; the direction in which she was heading. That is, the wrong direction.
“Technically, you might eventually get there going that way,” he tells her, “but you can get there much faster going this way.”
“How do you—”
“Because I live here,” he informs her, and watches her face tint an attractive shade of pink.
For a moment, he’s certain she’s going to apologize or, at the very least, become even more flustered.
But a swift transformation takes place.
This woman, who is so obviously a hired member of the catering staff, doesn’t appear particularly intimidated by an unexpected tête-à-tête with the lord of this manor. In fact, if anything, she seems almost . . . perturbed?
“Can I help you find anything?” he asks politely, feeling oddly as though he’s invading her privacy.
“I was actually headed for the . . .”
“The kitchen?”
“Yes,” she admits reluctantly, and mutters, “This place is huge. I thought I was going the right way.”
“Follow me.” He starts walking, then stops, realizing she hasn’t budged. “Coming?”
“Yes,” she says reluctantly, and he gets the distinct sense this is a woman who isn’t particularly interested in playing Follow the Leader.
Nor is she interested in conversation.
Normally he isn’t, either. Not that he’s opposed to exchanging pleasantries with the hired help. In fact, on a night like this, given the choice, he’d much rather chat with the hired help than invited guests.
Still, he has no idea why, exactly, he finds himself asking her name as they walk along the corridor toward the back of the house.
“Anne,” is the straightforward reply, delivered sans the slightest turn of the head.
“With an ‘e,’ or without?”
“With.”
“Oh. Well, I’m Thom. With an ‘h.’”
Silence.
“The ‘h’ comes after the ‘t,’” he points out helpfully.
Silence, still.
He forges on, Lord help him, as haplessly as an adolescent on a first date. “It comes after the ‘t’ and before the—”
“‘O,’” she cuts in. “I know.”
“I wasn’t sure you . . .”
“What?” she asks when he trails off. “Knew how to spell ‘Tom’? Or ‘Thom’?”
“You don’t pronounce the ‘h,’” he tells her, before realizing that she knows damn well you don’t pronounce the “h.” She’s doing it to irk him.
So why the hell isn’t he irked? Why is he feeling infinitely more intrigued than irked?
If Joyce were half as mettlesome as this woman, he might be inclined to keep her around for a while. Certainly, he would never be bored.
He slides the invitingly pertinent Anne a sidelong glance in an attempt to catch her eye.
She promptly turns her head to examine a French Impressionist painting in an ornate gilt frame.
“That’s beautiful,” she murmurs, almost to herself.
“Yes.”
“I love the muted colors of the landscape.”
“Mmm.” He smiles to himself, admiring her coy attempt to appear fascinated by the artwork. Women do this sort of thing all the time.
Anne steps closer to the wall, peers at the canvas, and exclaims, “Look at what he’s done with the brush strokes in this corner. The way he’s used the texture to convey the subtlest change in light . . . it’s genius.”
Oh.
Perhaps she really is more interested in the oil painting than she is in Thom.
“It’s a Renoir, isn’t it?” she concludes, wearing a smug smile, glancing up at him at last.
“Yes.” He can’t help but be impressed that she recognized the artist—and that her smile reaches her eyes, wrinkling the corners. No frozen face muscles for her.
“I knew it!” She turns her attention appreciatively back to the Renoir.
“I’m surprised. It’s one of his lesser-known works.”
“Not if you know
art.”
“Which you obviously do. Are you an artist?”
“I majored in it.” She frowns at him. “Surprised I went to college?”
“No, but I’m surprised you were an art major. Since you’re so proficient at spelling and all. I thought you probably majored in that.”
“You thought I majored in spelling?”
“Relax. It was a joke. Forget it. It wasn’t funny.”
To his shock, she laughs. “Actually, it was funny.”
He gapes at her. “Who are you, and what have you done with Anne?”
She laughs again.
He can’t help comparing the spontaneous, merry ripple that spills from her lips to Joyce’s subpar imitation of genuine amusement.
For some reason, he finds himself glancing down at Anne’s hand. Specifically, her left hand. More specifically, the fourth finger of her left hand.
Pleased to see that it’s bare, Thom isn’t quite sure what to do with that information, other than file it away for future reference.
Yes, in case he feels compelled to date a waitress/art major in the near future.
Wouldn’t that get Mother’s goat? It would be almost as tantalizing as introducing Merlin around as his latest love interest.
Too bad he can’t just get Anne’s number and take her to dinner, preferably at Mother’s country club.
But no, he can’t do that.
Or rather, he won’t do it.
Not because he’s too good for Anne. Rather, just the opposite.
He would never stoop so low as to involve this spunky yet sincere female in an elaborate ruse to piss off his mother.
He’ll have to come up with some other tactic to put a kibosh on her matchmaking.
But for now, they’ve reached the end of the road: the kitchen, bustling with a dozen other waiters and waitresses dressed identically to Anne, in white shirts and navy pants with red cummerbunds.
“Here we are,” Thom says, wondering what she’d look like in something more flattering. Say, a flowing white dress . . .
Stop that, he scolds himself immediately on the heels of that bizarre thought. Women in white dresses are off limits to him, even as fantasies.
“Thank you for the escort,” Anne says politely. “Enjoy your party.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
She half smiles, and again he admires the way it crinkles the edges of her eyes. “Pardon?”