My Way to Hell (38 page)

“You mean the way two
normal human
people do it?” Marcella couldn’t even imagine it, but she was willing to try. Willing, willing, willing.

“Yep. All normal-like.”

“I’m down. Sooo down.”

“Good to know. So, Marcell . . . uh, Solana Ramirez, I’m Kellen Markham. I think you’re hot. Wanna grab a burger? Maybe catch a movie? Make out?”

There was nothing—nothing that sounded more heavenly. Giggling, Marcella gathered Carlos in her arms and rose. She kissed Kellen on the lips she hoped to kiss for as long as she had life in her. “That’s so average. Is this how you plan to wow me, ghost whisperer?”

Rubbing his nose against hers, he chuckled. “Do you think you can forgo floating and possession in favor of average?”

Eyeing him, she said, “Have I told you how much I love a big juicy hamburger with onions?”

“That’s a pretty average thing to like,” he teased with a husky chuckle.

“Well, I’m a pretty average girl.”

“You’re anything but average,” he murmured, taking her lips in a possessive kiss she returned, but had to reluctantly pull away from if they were going to get the average-dating thing right.

“So tomorrow night at seven?”

“Can I bring Carlos?”

He grinned. Delicious, wide, heart stopping. “You’d disappoint me if you didn’t.”

“Then tomorrow at seven. I’ll pencil you in.” With the heavy weight of Carlos in her arms, Marcella turned to head up the stairs. To her new surroundings.

To her family.

To her new life.

Marcella Acosta Solana Ramirez sat on the bench of the playground, keeping a watchful eye on the most precious gift she’d ever been given while she waited to share a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, her specialty, with her other precious gift. Delaney sat beside her, enjoying the cool, early fall afternoon. As a pair, they sat in quiet harmony. To this day, every now and again, they’d glance at each other—sharing the knowledge of just how precious this gift they’d both been given was.

It had been over six months since that night on the playground. Six months filled with so many wonderfully rich, utterly normal events they’d be countless if Marcella didn’t purposefully count every last one of them.

These past few months had been an adjustment period. A time that involved Marcella stumbling around in the dark while she parented Carlos (and he sometimes parented her) and learned how not to burn a box of good macaroni and cheese, to throw a baseball, do fourth-grade math, and play video games. It had been a time of quiet evenings on the front stoop, coffee in hand, with her son, David, who filled her with stories of her sister, Isabella, and his life as a young boy, completing the pictures Marcella had created in her mind, bringing them to life with colorful words.

It had been a time of much laughter, the kind that made tears stream from your eyes and your stomach hurt, such as when Mrs. Ramirez, uh, her mother, had attempted to teach her how to make tamales. It had been a time of bittersweet irony, such as finding out that Solana’s middle name was Marcella due to Isabella’s mysterious insistence. There’d also been the relief when Kellen explained he loved the name Marcella so much, he was going to call her that from now on because he secretly kept screwing it up.

And there was Kellen, who indeed took things slowly, courting her the way any respectful suitor would. With flowers, with a box of those chocolate-covered cherries she loved so much, with nights filled with predictable things like dinner at six, and the weekly TV shows they watched like clockwork—holding hands on the couch cuddled under a blanket. The long, smoldering kisses good night on her front stoop while they waited the proper amount of time to consummate their relationship.

Which had ended up feeling like forevah, but was in reality only two months.

They’d found a routine—a niche—a joy in the simple things life had to offer.

And it was bliss. The kind of bliss Marcella had once thought involved only jet-setting and shopping.

“Hey, Aunt D?”

Delaney looked up with a warm smile from the stroller she rocked with a lazy foot that held her and Clyde’s newly adopted little girl from China. “What’s up, little man?”

Carlos held a cat in his arms, scraggly and matted. “I found him over by the lady with the poodle from, uh . . . France. The fluffy white one who comes here every day. He says he knows you guys. His name’s Darwin. Can we keep him, Mom?” He grinned.

Marcella’s heart heaved, not quite as sharply as it once had when she’d first heard her new official title, but it still shivered with love. She cocked her head. “Did you say Darwin?” No. No way.

Carlos nodded his dark head, running his chin over the top of the stray cat’s ears and giggling. “Uh-huh. He said he knows you and Aunt D from a long time ago and that”—he paused for a moment, clearly struggling to get the words right—“he’s done the most hey-nus thing in order to be with his family. Then he said something about trading Mr. Peabody in, but I can’t remember the rest. It didn’t make sense.” He wrinkled his young brow, trying to piece together the message from the great beyond until one of his friends called him from the monkey bars. “So I think we should keep him.”

He dropped the cat in Marcella’s lap in an unceremonious heap, giving it an errant scratch on its multicolored head before running off to play on the monkey bars with his new friends—of which he now had many. With the help of Delaney, Marcella, and mostly Kellen, Carlos was coming to grips with his gift of sight. He’d learned to cross souls with expertise, and he’d taught Kellen the kind of patience and sensitivity only a child can bring when handling an angry spirit. Though Kellen was still a work in progress, he was back doing what he loved, while her mother, Mrs. Ramirez, tended the store, and he’d learned to keep the spirits calm and cooperative during school hours.

Marcella scooped the cat up, her heart chugging at an alarming rate, tears filling her eyes.
Mr. Peabody . . .
was it really even possible?

“No way,” Delaney muttered, her eyes wide when she exchanged surprised looks with Marcella.

“Uriel said I’d see him again. But this”—she held him up in the air to examine him—“had to be the ultimate sacrifice for him. He was a Rottweiler, for God’s sake, D—a purebred. Now he’s some mixed-breed cat. And, from the looks of things, a
female
mixed breed. You must be devastated, huh, Kibble King? But look what you did in order to find us.” Marcella hugged him close while his legs dangled in midair. “Is that really you?” She sniffed his fur, wrinkling her nose. “You smell like the stench of a thousand rotting souls.” Scratching his ears, she looked into his deep green eyes. “Where have you been? How did you get into this body? Never mind. I don’t care. I’m sooo glad to see you!” She ran her fingers along the bones of his visible ribs. “You’re so skinny. Wait—I have food.”

Marcella handed Darwin to Delaney, who peered deeply into Darwin’s eyes. “Darwin, is that you in there?” The cat gave her a haughty glance, tilting his chin up and away from her prying eyes.

“Look, Darwin,” Marcella cooed, holding out her hand to him. “It’s Goldfish!” she said triumphantly, shuffling the crackers in her hand.

Darwin regarded them for a mere moment before tipping his chin back into the haughty position he’d given Delaney.

Marcella nodded with a grin. “That’s gotta be him. He was always such a food snob.”

“Who? You can’t mean me. I eat burned tamales every night for dinner and all for the sake of love,” Kellen teased, reaching around his sister to give Marcella a gentle kiss and a smile that never failed to warm her from head to toe. Carlos caught sight of him and ran up to knock knuckles with him, his lips spreading into a wide smile.

Kellen returned Carlos’s smile, a smile that was reserved especially for him and always tightened Marcella’s heart. “Hey, bud. What’s goin’ on? How was that math test?”

He scrunched his face up in dislike. Much like his great-grandmother, he hated math. “I
think
I did okay.”

Kellen ruffled his hair. “Good deal. Wanna hit the books tonight after some Rock Band?”

Carlos nodded and yelled, “Deal!” before heading back to his friends.

“So who’s this little critter?”

“Omigod, you’ll never believe it, honey! It’s Darwin.” Marcella held him up in the sunlight with a beaming smile. To which Darwin responded by hanging limp and boneless, giving Kellen a look of dry indifference.

Kellen sank down beside her, wrapping an arm around her and resting his head on top of hers. He scratched Darwin under the chin. “I thought you said Darwin was Delaney’s dead dog.”

Leaning into him, she nodded and whispered, “He was. But I think he managed to, you know, find a host. I’m betting one that was well, you know . . .” Marcella winked.

“Ah,” Kellen said, entwining his fingers with hers. “So I guess Vern and Shirley’ll have to move over on the couch?”

Marcella smiled up at him and his generosity. “If he’s anything like the dog Darwin, he’ll own the couch.” Leaning forward, stroking Darwin whether he liked it or not, she commented, “So I saw Catalina today. She came in to order bat shit.”

“She okay?” Kellen asked.

Marcella’s face expressed her worry. She and Catalina shared a tentative friendship that included nothing more than the occasional chat when Catalina came to pick up supplies from the store. They exchanged pleasantries, and not much else, leading Marcella to believe that Catalina felt just the way she had when she was a demon. She didn’t want to become attached to anything remotely human. And Marcella understood that better than anyone, but someday, when the time was right, she wanted Catalina to know she had an ear, if she wanted to bend one. “Ever since that night when she saw Dameal, I feel like she’s been hiding something. But I figure, when she’s ready, she’ll talk about it.”

Kellen smiled at her. “I hope so, honey. Until then, I’m starving. What delicacy have you brought me today, my pretty Betty Crocker? Is it some chunky flan maybe? That’s my total favorite. Wait, Hamburger Helper, right? Raw, I hope?”

Settling a reluctant and stiff Darwin on her lap, Marcella stuck her tongue out at him and reached into the portable cooler she’d brought and handed Kellen a sandwich. “Lunch,” she offered proudly.

He gave Delaney a hesitant look and whispered, “Did she make it or did you?”

Marcella swatted his shoulder. “Hey! I slaved over a hot jar of Skippy and walked a full mile to school to come see you on your lunch hour, and this is the thanks I get? I think I might have to reconsider that proposal, Mr. Markham,” she teased.

Delaney snarfed, scooping up little Ella and nibbling her chubby fist. “After what I went through, talking you out of that bridesmaid dress that was meant only to be worn by a full C cup and a size two who calls a breath mint a healthy meal? Uh, no. You marry him or I’ll drag you to that altar by your long legs and make you wear something frumpy when I do it.”

“Like she’d pass up the chance to bag
this
,” Kellen joked, taking a bite of his sandwich and making mock noises of gourmet pleasure.

“So, I have an announcement,” Marcella said with pride.

Kellen held up his sandwich and grinned. “You’re leaving me to compete on
Top Chef
?”

Marcella tweaked his chin, lovingly wiping away a drip of grape jelly. “Guess who’s going to be earning her keep starting next Monday?”

“Shut up, Kell,” Delaney chastised with a grin. “So, did you get it?” She gave Marcella a secretive glance.

Kellen cocked his head. “Get what, honey?”

“A job! Guess who’s Pier 1’s newest employee?” Her excitement about nabbing a real, live job was matched only by the joy that she was entitled to an employee discount.

Kellen’s groan was long. “Does this mean we’re going to have a bunch of those foofy pillows in ten different colors and beaded lampshades?” He followed it up with a grin, kissing her lips.

Marcella giggled—something she did often these days, girlishly and filled with carefree exuberance. “This means, cranky-pants, that your fiancée’s joining the workforce just like every other mortal. The whole nine-to-five thing. All normal and average.”

Kellen took her hand in his and squeezed it. “You know what, future wife of mine?”

“What’s that?”

“In the biggest of ways, I dig normal and average. They’re the two prettiest words in the dictionary. You wear them well.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

Smiling up at him, Marcella pressed her lips to his and kissed him with every ounce of love she had to offer.

The kind of love that was anything—
anything
but average.