Ghost Times Two (2 page)

I shaded my eyes and saw the exception to the rule. At the end of the pier, a tall young man, his posture forlorn, stared toward shore. His droopy seersucker suit clung to him, damp with sweat.
He held up his right arm, looked down at a wristwatch, the age-old gesture of someone waiting. Why would anyone arrange a meeting on the pier with the temperature nudging a hundred?

A red Dodge squealed into the graveled lot near the pier, slid to a stop next to a very old yellow Thunderbird. The driver's door slammed. A small young woman bolted forward. Her high heels clattered on the steps to the pier. She hurried toward him on the wooden deck, almost running. I liked her rose linen suit, a three-button front jacket, and a short straight skirt with tiny bows embroidered above the side slits. Very high pink heels.

The Civilian Conservation Corps dammed a stream to form a lake in the '30s. (1930s.) The young men built a pier into the lake, used local stone to create an amphitheater on a natural slope. The outdoor venue provided a site for plays and concerts and on sunny days a fun place for children to clamber.
Last one up is a monkey's tail.
A carousel offered sweet tinny music. On the carousel, a majestic dark brown wooden buffalo, Oklahoma proud, was the prized perch. A muscular catfish, of course with whiskers, was next most popular.

I felt a catch at my heart as the young woman ran toward the end of the pier. How many times had Bobby Mac and I come to the park and walked hand in hand in the moonlight to the end of the pier? I remembered a spring evening in 1942. Bobby Mac was in uniform and I held tight to him. I was a high school senior, wildly in love. I wanted us to marry before he left, but Bobby Mac, cocky as always, said he'd come marching home as long as I was there waiting for him. He shipped out with the 45th Division to North Africa and on to Italy and Germany. He came home from the war as he'd promised. I was waiting as I'd promised. In June of '46 in a sunset ceremony at
the amphitheater, I became Mrs. Robert MacNeil Raeburn. We've been hand in hand ever since.

I brought my attention back to the young couple at the end of the pier in the blazing summer heat.

She skidded to a stop, dropped her cotton handbag to the surface of the pier. She moved closer to him, trying to catch her breath. She spoke unevenly, “I'm sorry I'm late.”

I dropped down beside them.

“Something came up at the office.” Her voice was still breathless.

His lopsided, quick grin was engaging. “Goes with the territory. I'd have been glad to pick you up.”

“Then my car would be at the office.” She looked out across the lake, then back at him. “I love the smell of the water.”

It takes only a heartbeat to sense whether there is a magical connection—or the beginning of one—between a man and a woman.

They faced each other, not touching, but he was intensely aware of her and she of him.

Tall and lanky, in his late twenties, he was fair skinned with big freckles, dark brown eyes, and features too uneven in a long face to qualify as handsome. Short-cut, straw-colored hair resisted taming, unruly sprigs hinting at clipped curls. His two-button blue and white striped seersucker suit was wilted, no surprise. Bony wrists jutted from the sleeves of a coat a shade short for him. The droop I'd seen when I arrived was gone. His expression was jaunty, eager. “I'm glad you're here.”

“I love to come to the park.” Her voice was unusually deep for a woman, especially such a small woman. Curly dark hair framed a heart-shaped face. She placed small hands on the railing, looked
out at the sun-sheened water. “My uncle planned a treasure hunt here for my sixteenth birthday and he rigged the clues. I was the one who found the keys to a car. A car for me, a shabby, secondhand Dodge, but she was red and she was mine.” A quick wry smile. “I'm still driving her. On a good day, her name's Dancing Queen. On a bad day, she's Witch of the West. But she's always Dancing Queen when we come to the park.”

“And here”—he knocked on the wooden railing—“is where my dad proposed to my mom. And”—his voice was fairly deep, too, resonant, and now he boomed—“I have a proposal for you.”

She swung a startled face toward him.

He stammered, “I mean, not that kind of proposal.”

Her eyes widened for an instant, then she laughed, a lively, throaty, happy laugh. “Blaine, that sounds somewhat compromising.”

His fair skin flushed bright red. “Be my partner,” he blurted. “The office . . .” He was clearly struggling to get back on track, be dignified. “I've rented an old house two blocks off Main, not very big but the bottom floor living room can be the reception area and there's a study and a downstairs bedroom to convert to offices.”

She listened gravely. Petite and slender, she was perhaps an inch or so over five feet in height. Her face was distinctive with deep-set gray eyes, high cheekbones, straight nose, and generous mouth. She gazed at him with a depth of intensity. There was intelligence here, quickness, and perception. And, at the moment, great focus.

His words rushed out. “I'm fixing the place up. I refinished a white desk and painted the bedroom walls pale green. You wear a lot of green. . . .” He trailed off.

“Partner?” She spoke steadily enough, but her eyes were luminous.

“Smith and Wynn, PC, attorneys-at-law.” His sandy brows drew down. “I put my name first since I rented the place but—”

“Of course your name would be first. You've worked hard to build up a practice.” She was emphatic. Her lips spread in a delighted smile. “You're asking me to go in with you?”

He gave a quick nod, then stared out at the water. “I know you're with an established firm. Lots of clients. A great future. I can't offer anything solid like that. I guess maybe I shouldn't even think about it.”

He didn't see her face, a wash of excitement but something more, intense and emotional. Relief? Deliverance? An odd reaction.

He rubbed knuckles along his right jaw. “I don't guess you'd want to take that kind of chance since you already have a good job.”

“Want to?” A huge breath. “Blaine, how wonderful. Yes, yes, yes. I can't tell you how—” She came to an abrupt stop.

I felt I could finish the sentence that she'd begun: . . .
awful it is where I am . . . much I want out of there . . .
Not . . .
how exciting to be on my own . . . how wonderful it will be to work with you . . .

He was oblivious to that truncated sentence. He swung toward her, eager, excited, amazed. “You'll do it?” He reached down, and his large knobby hand closed over her small hand. “We can make a go of it.” Now he was on top of the world, rushing to a future festooned with ribbons, heralded by trumpets. “You're first-rate. I've seen you in court.” And his eyes told her that she was lovely and desirable.

“I'd love to be with you.” It was her turn to flush, say hurriedly, “In an office.”

“I know you'll have to think about it. There's no rush. That space is for you.”
And so is my heart
, his eyes said.

“I'll give notice tomorrow.”

Had he been less excited by her acceptance of the offer, he might have realized—and wondered at—her heartfelt relief at the prospect of exiting her current job. Instead he was triumphant, “Hey, that's great. That's wonderful. Megan, you're wonderful. We'll build a great firm, you and me. Together.” Now his left hand caught her free hand. He pulled her near, looked down, slowly bent to kiss her.

Megan's large tote bag, bright cotton with peonies and violets and dandelions, rested on a wooden plank a few feet away. A slight movement caught my eye. My gaze settled on an outside pocket. A cell phone rose an inch or two, the screen flashed on. Music blasted, a high, sweet male voice and guitars.

Megan gasped and jumped. She flung a panicked look at her purse.

Blaine looked from her to the purse.

The forlorn song continued at a decibel level that made me wince.

Megan bolted toward the purse and blaring cell phone with an expression of fury. “Stop it. Stop it now.” She reached down, grabbed the cotton handles. The cell phone, still playing, bounced from the pocket, landed on the pier. Megan's breaths came in quick spurts. She bent to grab the phone, lifted it, pressed down to turn it off. She straightened, phone firmly gripped in one hand, and looked frantically about, her face set in tight lines of irritation.

Blaine Smith watched with an odd look of confusion.

I imagined he was trying to make sense of what he'd hoped to be a sweetly romantic moment, standing at the end of the pier, partnership offered and accepted, a winsome face upturned, bending toward Megan, then the abrupt, stunning blare of music where
there should be no music, and Megan stalking toward her purse with the intensity of a hunter sighting a marauding wolf.

“Megan—”

She stood a few feet away, still breathing quickly, cheeks flushed, the now mute cell phone clutched in one hand, her purse in the other. “Blaine—sorry—have to go—I'll give notice tomorrow—talk to you later.” She whirled and clattered toward shore.

“I thought we'd have dinner—”

“I'll call you,” she flung over her shoulder.

He stared after her, puzzled and disappointed.

She walked swiftly, head down, reached the path, strode to the parking area. She flung open the driver's door of her car, slid behind the wheel, plopped the purse onto the passenger seat. Her face set in grim lines, she turned on the motor. She backed up and glared again at her purse. “Jimmy, you are a louse.”

No answer.

“How could you do that to me?”

No answer.

Megan drove at a furious pace, jolted to a stop at Reverie Lane, the main entrance to White Deer Park. I always loved the name. Reverie suggests tranquillity, a Zen delight in a moment fully realized whether in pleasure at the past or anticipation of the future.

The small bundle of fury crouched behind the wheel emanated no such tranquillity. She started to turn right, shook those dark curls vehemently, turned left.

I gave a small murmur, but she was too engrossed in her thoughts, thankfully, to hear me. I cautiously edged the tote bag nearer the center console to afford myself a small space on the seat.

As the Dodge picked up speed, Megan continued to speak. “I've
reached the breaking point. This has to stop. Who knows if I'm ever alone?” She glowered at the passenger seat, twisted to look in back. “Jimmy, you know where I'm taking you. And I want you to
stay
there.”

We rode in silence then turned onto a familiar road. We passed St. Mildred's and suddenly I, too, knew where we were going. We passed through open bronze gates to the lovely old cemetery adjacent to the church. It seemed an odd destination for an angry woman on a hot summer evening. Not that I don't enjoy the cemetery. Some graves date back to the early nineteen hundreds with dull gray granite stones tilted to one side. Mausoleums mark the final resting places for a family of means. Much more modest was the cheerful memorial our daughter, Dil, erected for Bobby Mac and me.

The Dodge picked up speed, rather too much for a cemetery. As the car curved around a hill, I knew Megan was heading for the more recent grave sites. I took an instant to visit the Prichard mausoleum, gleaming in the late slanting sun. The Prichard mausoleum was a favorite spot for Adelaideans down on their luck. At the head of Maurice Prichard's tomb a carved greyhound stares forever ahead. A carved Abyssinian cat curls atop Hannah's tomb. Legend has it that stroking the greyhound and the Abyssinian with proper reverence, noble dog, regal cat, will right foundering lives in a flash and good fortune is sure to follow.

I ducked inside, respectfully patted the greyhound's head, slid my hand across the back of the stone cat.

Tires screeched outside.

I popped into the sunshine.

In a plume of dust, the Dodge pulled up to a gentle slope with
shining urns and bright granite stones. Several Bradford pear trees, their leaves deep green, offered a smidgeon of shade.

Megan jumped out, slammed the car door, marched, I can only describe her progress as a march—shoulders forward, hands clenched—up a slight incline to a grave site. She looked over her shoulder at the car. “Get out, Jimmy. I know you were on the pier and rode here with me even if you wouldn't say a word. You're always where I am, and right now I'm where you should be.” She pointed at the headstone. Her curly black hair quivered with fury.

I dropped down beside her. I was reminded of a small black cat who came to our house as a stray. In peril or anger, her fur increased her stature from the size of folded socks to a ferocious miniature hedgehog.

“Jimmy, you've got to stop.” Her deep voice seemed too large for her height, possibly five-two. She stood taller on those pink stiletto heels.

“Jimmy, please!”

She stared straight at a white headstone.

JAMES NICHOLAS TAYLOR

July 4, 1990–July 4, 2014

To the next great adventure . . .

“Jimmy, how could you do it?” She stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at the stone.

“You can do better than that dweeb.” The voice was undeniably male and young, a warm tenor with charm.

No one stood near us. A male voice, the girl in the pink suit, and, unknown to her, me. No one else. I looked at the stone. James Taylor. Jimmy?

“Blaine is not a dweeb.” Her deep voice was adamant.

“Blaine is a pain. In the rain. Or sun. Or whatever.”

She stamped a foot. “You made me look like an idiot. I freaked out. I couldn't believe that song started. I knew it was you.”

“Yeah, well, kind of rude to act nuts.” His voice exuded hurt. “That was our song.”

“He starts to kiss me and all of a sudden my cell phone blares Sam Smith singing ‘Stay with Me.'” A pause. “Jimmy, how'd you do that?”