Maybe This Time (19 page)

“This is too fast,” Carter said, and Andie shook herself out of the past and said, “No it isn't. Just follow the beat,” and to her surprise, he did, finding the music almost immediately.

“That's it,” she said, “that's great!” She leaned into his arm, and he automatically led. “You're a good dancer,” she told him, “you're a natural,” and he shook his head, but she saw him start to smile, not broadly but a real smile. Alice danced around them, finally yelling, “Me! Me!” Carter let go as Andie twirled under his arm, and Alice grabbed Carter's hand to finish out the song, and Andie watched them and remembered North singing, “I want the whole world to know,” at the top of his lungs. They'd danced to this in the attic, too. The man had hips, she remembered, closing her eyes and seeing him again with one hand on his longneck beer and the other on her ass, laughing off the workday . . .

I'd give anything to have that back,
she thought, and then the song stopped and she kicked herself because it wasn't coming back. Keep the good memories but let the past go, that was the key.

Maybe that was the key to May, too. If May could let the past go and move on—

Alice said, “Wait a minute,” and hit rewind on the boom box, and Jackson Browne began to sing again. Alice grabbed Carter's hand and said, “I like
this
one,” and he smiled back, amazingly, he really smiled, and they started their own kind of box step, as Alice belted out, “Gonna shine tonight!”

And Andie leaned against the wall and replayed that first night again, how gorgeous North had been with his tie loosened, looking at her like she was the only woman in the room, sliding his arm around her waist when she met him halfway, rocking her to the music while he looked in her eyes, twirling her, then pulling her back to all his heat, and she'd laughed, completely free, warmed by the music and the movement and the light in his eyes even though she didn't know who he was.

And when the music stopped, he'd said, “I'm North Archer, and
I think we should leave,” and she'd thought if he didn't kiss her right there, she'd die, and he'd pulled her out into the dark street—

“Are you okay?” Carter said, looking concerned.

“Yes,” Andie said, straightening, and thought,
No, I haven't been okay since I saw him again,
and all the pent-up need for the only man she'd ever loved swept over her. She was in a haunted house with two lonely kids who needed her and she wanted him there with her, to help her save them and to hold her and to make love to her until they were themselves again, until they'd found everything they'd lost again.
Maybe this time we could make it work,
she thought, but even as she thought it, she knew she'd go crazy again when he forgot she existed. She was high maintenance, that's all there was to it.

Move on,
she thought.
May and I have to move on.

She watched Alice boss Carter through the box step again, but when “Man in Love” came back on, they deserted the box step and just danced, and Andie went to join them because she couldn't help it, they were so happy. It wouldn't last, but for right now, they were dancing.
At least I got this part right,
she thought, and raised her arms above her head to do a hip bop, and Alice saw her and raised her arms, too, then “Layla” came on, the old hard-rock version, and Andie shut off the treacherous tape and said, “Bedtime,” over Alice's wail, shutting off, too, all the memories that had come with it.

She had a ghost to talk to.

 

Andie sat up in her bed until past midnight waiting for May, but she never came. There were no voices on Alice's baby monitor, either, so evidently the undead were taking the night off. Or she'd hallucinated everything. That theory appealed to her, and the next day was normal, too, or as normal as anything ever was at Archer House. It was spoiled only by a heaviness in the air and early darkness from thick cloud cover, a big storm brewing up, the radio said.
Just what I need,
Andie thought,
a dark and stormy night.
Still, the ghost was
delightfully unpresent, so when the doorknocker sounded at close to five that evening, she made the trek down the long, dim stone entry hall without foreboding. Ghosts didn't knock on doors.

Outside, thunder rolled, and she thought,
Cut me a break here,
and opened the door.

Southie's handsome face beamed at her. “
Andie! Wonderful
to see you again.”

“Southie,” she said, glad to see him because he was Southie, but also suspicious because he was Southie. “What are you doing here?”

“We've come to help!”

“We?” Andie said, looking around for North, but there were strangers coming up the path instead: a bespectacled, worried-looking, middle-aged man in a green argyle cardigan, his basset-hound eyes darting to take in the bleak landscape as it began to rain; a much younger, surly guy in jeans striding past him with a long silver bag, and then pushing past the young guy as if she were speed-walking, a pixieish blonde with the eyes of a hawk, her face set in killer determination . . .

“Kelly O'Keefe?” Andie said to Southie.

“Yes,” Southie said, and then she was on them, talking over him.

“My
God,
this place is
remote,
” she said, stopping in front of Andie. She barely came up to Andie's shoulder, which may have contributed to her hectic enthusiasm. “
Tell me
you have indoor plumbing.”

“We have indoor plumbing,” Andie told her. “Would you like to use it before you go back where you came from?”

“This is Andie,” Southie said to Kelly, and the little blonde blinked as if recalculating, and then smiled, all white teeth. Hundreds of them.

“
Hello,
Andie!”

“Hello.” Andie looked back at Southie. “Why?”

“I was with North when he got your phone call,” Southie said, “and I knew you were out here alone with two kids and could use some help—”

“North sent you?”
Why didn't he come?

“He didn't exactly
send
me,” Southie said. “I just got the feeling you needed me.”

“So you brought me a TV reporter?”

“Broadcast journalist,” Kelly said crisply, and followed it up with another blinding smile. “It's
raining
. Could we come
in
?”

Andie looked at the younger guy with the silver bag. “And you are?”

“Cameraman,” he said, bored by the conversation already. “Bill. I drove the truck.”

Andie craned her neck to see a red Miata that had to be Kelly O'Keefe's parked just this side of the bridge beside a huge satellite truck that said
NEWS4
on the side. She spared a moment to wonder how the hell they'd gotten that truck down the drive and how the hell they were going to get it back up again now that the rain was turning dirt to mud, and then she looked at Southie. “A TV reporter, a cameraman, and a . . .” She smiled at the baggy-eyed man, not sure what he was, but he was glancing around again, his face practically twitching with suspicion over his truly ugly argyle cardigan.

“Professor,” Southie said. “Professor Dennis Graff.”

Andie nodded at the professor and then turned back to Southie. “And again, why?”

“He's bringing you . . .
the chance of a lifetime,
” Kelly said, practically singing the words.

“No, thank you.” Andie stared at Southie, still waiting for an explanation.

Southie tried another smile. “Let's go inside and—”

“You are not filming anything here,” Andie told him. “Especially not my ki . . . these kids. Forget it.”

Dennis looked from Andie to Southie and back again. “Weren't we invited? I thought we were expected.”

“
Honestly,
Sullivan,” Kelly said, giving him a playful little push. “You mean you didn't
call
? You didn't ask about the
séance
?”

“Séance?” Andie said.

“It'll be
wonderful,
” Kelly enthused. “I've hired
the best
medium in Ohio—Isolde Hammersmith, she's coming later—and Dennis is here to provide the counterpoint! Could we come
in
? It's
raining
.”

“Counterpoint?” Andie said. “What counterpoint? What the hell, Southie?”

“We can talk about all that later,” Southie said hastily. “But now we should go inside because you want to hear everything Dennis has to say.” He clapped the professor on the back and made him stumble forward a little bit. “Sorry, Dennis.”

“Wait a minute—” Andie said.

“Who are they?” Alice said from behind her.

Andie sighed. “Hello, Alice. This is your uncle Southie.”

“Hi, Alice,” Southie said, with that smile that had charmed thousands of females. “What's new?”

Alice considered it. “I like nuts now.”

“So do I,” Southie said, evidently willing to bond over damn near anything.

“
Hey,
there, honey.” Kelly crouched down in front of Alice in faux-equality. “I'm
Kelly
.”

“You have a lot of teeth,” Alice said.

“Aren't you just
precious
?” Kelly said, her smile fixed in place.

“No,” Alice said, and looked past her. “Who are they?”

“This is
Bill,
” Kelly said, gesturing to the younger guy as she stood up again, still in that too bright voice. “He's a
cameraman
!”

Alice and Bill looked at each other with an equal lack of enthusiasm.

“I'll get the pizzas,” Bill said, and went back to the truck, ignoring the rain.

“Pizza?” Alice said, perking up.

“And this is
Dennis
. He knows about
ghosts
!”

Alice froze.

“Hello,” Dennis said to Alice, politely but with no enthusiasm.

Alice moved closer to Andie. “Why is he here?”

“I don't know,” Andie said, looking at Southie, now really alert. “Why is he here?”

“Because he's an
expert,
” Southie said, leaning on the last word so hard it almost broke. “Tell her, Dennis.”

“I'm a parapsychologist.” Dennis frowned as Bill came back up the walk with four pizzas. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Archer, I thought we were expected here.”

“Wait, you actually, academically, know about ghosts?” Andie said to him, and then the name finally registered. “You're Dennis Graff? From Cleveland? Professor Dennis Graff?”
The buzzkill from the panel who doesn't believe in ghosts?

He nodded, taken aback.

Thunder rolled again and Andie opened the door wide.

“Come on in, Dennis,” she said. “We need to talk.”

They'd filed into the entrance hall and then into the Great Hall—“This is
amazing,
” Kelly had said, beaming at Andie as she shook the rain off her coat; “Terrible light,” Bill groused, shaking his head at the mullioned windows in front; “Early seventeenth century,” the professor said, gazing at the gallery—and Andie led them into the dining room, directed them to chairs, called on a hostile Mrs. Crumb to leave her gin rummy game and bring paper plates and sodas. She put the professor at one end of the long dining room table and Kelly at the other end, while Kelly tried to give Andie forty reasons why it was her duty to invite the undead to dinner or at least to a séance the next day.

“Not now,” Andie said to her, and when Southie called the little blonde back down to the other end of the table, Andie sat the professor down on her right and Alice on her left, put pizza in front of both of them, made sure Alice's was cut into smaller pieces, that her jewelry and the front of her already grubby black T-shirt were covered with a paper napkin, and that her stocking-tied hair wasn't
flopping in her face or her dinner, checked to make sure that Carter had pizza and wasn't sitting next to Kelly-the-child-interviewer, and sat down beside her ticket to enlightenment.

“So, Dr. Graff,” she said. “You're a parapsychologist.”

“Uh, yes. Yes. I am.” He raised the pizza to his mouth and then stopped and said, “You can call me Dennis. It's, well, you know. No classroom.” He laughed for a second—a reserved little
heh-heh
sound that was almost spooky in its weirdness—and then frowned and bit into his pizza, dripping tomato sauce onto his green argyle cardigan.

“Right,” Andie said, thinking,
Well, the normal ones probably don't go into parapsychology.
She resisted the urge to wipe the sauce off him as if he were Alice and bit into her pizza, savoring the spices and the crunch of the crust, but keeping her eyes on the prize. “I've read about you. You're a ghost expert.”

Dennis shook his head, trying to chew the gluey cheese and wipe the tomato sauce from his mouth at the same time. “No,” he said, when he'd swallowed. “I study ESP, telepathy, remote viewing, that kind of thing, which is how I got into poltergeists. Well, not into . . .” He shook his head, did that little insane laugh thing, and bit into his pizza again.

“So you don't do ghosts,” Andie said.
Damn.

“I'm well versed in general psychic phenomena.” Dennis reached for his Coke and noticed the sauce on his sweater. He dabbed at it with a napkin, making the spot bigger and the sweater uglier. “I have not, however, personally seen any kind of supernatural apparition, nor have I seen any irrefutable documentation.”

“That must be disappointing. I—”

“Not really. It stands to reason. Dr. Gertrude Schmeidler showed that skepticism suppresses psychic abilities.” Dennis gave up on the tomato sauce spot and went back to his pizza. “The very fact that I'm a scientist makes it impossible for me to see that which I most wish to study.”