The Ghost of a Chance (17 page)

Again, she takes my hand and offers a reassuring
squeeze.
 
"I hope you find the
answers you’re seeking, Darcy.
 
I truly
do."

Touched by her simple kindness, tears form in the
corners of my eyes, stinging.
 
I blink,
swallowing hard, and murmur, voice gruff with emotion, "Thank you."

Marjorie pats my hand three times before letting it
go to begin rummaging through the top drawer of her desk.
 
She produces a tin of peppermint candies—her
sugary addiction—and offers me one; I decline.

"I asked you back here for a reason,
Darcy."
 
Her voice has a serious
edge to it now, an inflection of foreboding.
 
I lean forward involuntarily, suddenly nervous.
 
"Someone’s been asking about you."

"What do you mean?"

"A man—tall, dark hair, fancy suit."

My heart plummets to the floor, buries itself in the
earth.
 
"Is his name Jason?" I
whisper, clenching my fists.

Marjorie shrugs slightly, stuffing a few loose
strands of gray hair into her bun and then unwrapping one of the candies.
 
"He never gives a name.
 
But he’s been coming here for some time,
weeks before you returned to work.
 
Now
that you’re back, I thought it wise to tell you about it.
 
He seems harmless, asks whether or not
you’ll be in…
 
I thought he was just a
patron who missed seeing you at the library.
 
Is he a friend?"

I laugh hoarsely.
 
"No."

"I was afraid of that."
 

"Well, I appreciate the warning."
 
I cough into my hand to clear my throat; my
words sound thick and broken.
 
"If
you see him in here again, just…
 
Please
don’t give him my schedule."

"Darcy, what’s going on?"

I shake my head and rise, striding over to the
window.
 
My heart is a mad, knocking
thing inside my chest.
 
I separate the
blinds to peer through the glass at the parking lot, scanning for Jason’s
truck, but there’s no sign of it.
 
"He’s Alis’ ex.
 
The divorce
papers are still in process, but their relationship is over.
 
Definitely over.
 
And he’s threatened her.
 
And me."

"Not…violently?"

When I turn to glance back at Marjorie, her face is
ashen, creased with worry.
 
"We
have a restraining order.
 
The police
know what’s been going on.
 
And he’s
left us alone since Christmas—"

"He came on Christmas?"

"Yeah.
 
That was the last time we saw him."

She leans back in her chair, stunned.
 
"I had no idea this was going on.
 
I’m so sorry.
 
That poor woman.
 
I’d seen
her in the library a few times but never met her before the party, and she
seems so—"

"Sweet," I breathe, falling back into the
chair and cradling my throbbing head in my hand.
 
"She’s sweet.
 
Alis
is…amazing.
 
She was Catherine’s nurse
for a while, you know, before the remission.
 
But I didn’t get to know her until after…"

Marjorie moves from behind her desk to approach me
and rests a soft hand on my shoulder.
 
I
lean toward it; her thin skin is warm against my cheek.
 
"Perhaps you and Alis might join me for
dinner sometime.
 
I’d love to cook for
you, spoil you a bit."

"Oh, Marjorie—"

"And I’ve been told my pasta alfredo is worthy
of five stars."

Despite the anxiety gnawing at my inner workings, I
smile and gaze up into my boss’s sympathetic eyes.
 
"How about we schedule it for Scarlett’s release day?
 
I’ll bring you your kitten, and you fill my
belly with five-star food."

At the mere mention of Scarlett, Marjorie’s face
smoothes: she looks twenty years younger—no, forty.
 
Her expression glows with excitement.
 
"I’ve been ready for her for weeks: litter boxes, fluffy cat
beds in every room of the house, a toy box full of crinkly balls and bouncy
balls and plastic whirlygigs—"

"She won the jackpot with you," I
laugh.
 

Marjorie squeezes my shoulder gently, laughing,
too.
 
"It’s only natural.
 
Librarians and cats go together
like…"
 
She gazes up at the
ceiling, thinking.
 
"Medieval monks
and illuminated manuscripts?"

"Hmm," I say, one eyebrow raised
dubiously.

"Bad simile?
 
Okay, how about…Marie Antoinette and those dainty little cakes?"

I lift the other brow.

Marjorie sighs, resigned.
 
"Sometimes you’ve just got to give in to clichés.
 
Let’s go with the old faithful: peanut
butter and jelly."

I grin, standing up from my chair to wrap Marjorie
in a quick hug.
 
"Thanks for being
the most OTT boss ever."

"OTT?"

I draw back, jamming my hands into my pants pockets
as I edge toward the door.
 
"Sure,
you know…"
 
I wink.
 
"All the cool kids are using acronyms
these days."

"But what does it
mean
?"

"Overpoweringly Thoughtful Tome-lover, of
course."

"
Tome-
lover?
 
That’s a new one."

"Well..."
 
I pretend to shine my knuckles on my collar, tilting my head back
boastfully.
 
"I’m
allergic
to clichés myself."

"Oh, words, words, words," Marjorie
mutters, shoving me playfully through the now-open doorway.
 
"Get thee to the
book sale room
."

"You got it, boss."
 
I salute and stride away, bracing myself for
another round of Annabellian assaults.

---

The house is quiet when I step into the entryway,
hanging up my coat on the wall hook and slinging my handbag to the floor.
 
I free my feet from the snow boots with a
heavy sigh and sit down on the low bench adjacent to the staircase, shivering,
though the room is warm.

"Darcy, is that you?"

"It’s me, Alis," I call back, raking a hand
through my snow-flecked hair and leaning back against the wall.

Worse than straining to remember the lilt of her
laugh or the precise color of her eyes is the realization that I’m losing the
habits I had fallen into when Catherine was alive.
 
I’ve stopped expecting her eager embrace when I come home from
working at the library.
 
I would often
arrive toting stacks of books for her: classics, biographies, academic works of
literary criticism.
 
Catherine would
sink onto this very bench and begin to pore through the books right away, her
eyes bright with curiosity as she leaned near to chatter to me about this
important illustration or that rare photograph.
 

I loved her enthusiasm, her energy.
 
She made me feel vital, in every sense of
the word.

"Bad day?
 
I assume Annabelle was her usual charming self?"

I lift my gaze to greet Alis, and my mouth moves
into an easy smile at the simple, sweet sight of her.
 
She tilts against the doorframe leading into the living room,
wringing her hands on a stained towel, dressed in her paint-spattered artist’s
smock with her black hair knotted messily atop her head, the bun poked through
with a paintbrush.

"Work was fine.
 
Just indulging in a little self-pity."
 
I press my hands on my knees and shrug my
shoulders at her before rising.
 
"Thank you for coming in.
 
I
was
this
close to penning a terrible poem of woe."

"I’d love to read that poem.
 
I’m sure it would be very insightful."

"Oh, God, no," I laugh, stepping before
her and tucking a stray lock behind her ear.
 
"Why do you think I became a librarian?
 
You know what they say: those who can’t write…"

"I don’t believe that for a second."
               

"Remind me to show you some of my haikus
someday.
 
Wait—scratch that.
 
Don’t.
 
I’d prefer to hold onto some measure of respect in this
relationship."

Alis smiles admonishingly, her fingers trailing over
my arm for a long, still moment, drawing reassuring circles upon the skin below
my rolled-up sleeve.
 
"I have
nothing but respect for you, Darcy.
 
You
inspire me."

"Well…
 
I’m afraid my poems would only inspire nausea," I tell her softly,
with a fainter smile.
 
My eyes follow
the movements of her fingers, pulse stuttering.
 
I’m so terribly confused in Alis’ presence.
 
Since Christmas and those blunt,
inexplicable Scrabble tiles…all I can think about when I’m near her is kissing
her.
 
I
want
to kiss her.
 
And sometimes I think she wants me to,
too—like now: she’s gazing up at me with her full lips parted, her fingers
forming mysterious patterns on my arm.
 
Her lips curve for me, half-smiling, but her hooded blue eyes are full
of shadows, depths I can’t begin to plumb…

I brush my thumb over her cheek, swallowing.
 
"You’ve smeared your face with purple,
you know.
 
What were you painting, a
still life of eggplants?"
 
I show
her my paint-stained thumbnail, and she grins, reaching for my hand and tugging
coyly.

"Come with me.
 
I want to show you what I’ve done."

Alis set up her easel in the living room several
days ago, before the bare bow windows, expounding about the subtle slant of the
light there.
 
But she hasn’t shown me
any of her work yet.
 
The only evidence
I have seen of her talent to date is the mermaid mural painted on The
Poseidon’s exterior.
 
Living with
Catherine taught me to respect the necessary privacy of artistic souls.
 

My heart beats fast within me now at the thought of
glimpsing Alis’ painting.

"Close your eyes," she bids me seriously,
though her blue gaze teases.

I press my free hand over my eyes, allowing myself
to be pulled nearer to the easel.
 
Biting my lip with curiosity, I venture a peek between my fingers, only
to find Alis’ face inches from mine—her mouth pursed in a disapproving frown.

"No peeking, Darcy!"

"Sorry.
 
This is why no one ever wanted to play hide-and-seek with me when I was
a kid."

"I would have played with you, anyway, you
know.
 
I was terrible at hiding and
couldn’t wait to be found."
 
She
sighs pseudo-dramatically before releasing my hand and lightly touching my
back.
 
"Well, all right, cheater,
have a look—and please be gentle."

I open my eyes.
 
"Always."
 
Arching a
brow in Alis’ direction, I move around the easel to fully face the large
stretched canvas, inhaling the scent of wet oil paint.
 
My eyes still, stunned, and for an
immeasurable moment, my senses leave me: I can’t see, can’t smell, can’t even
hear Alis speaking to me until her breath warms my ear, and I become aware of
her hip pressed against my hip, her arm wrapped delicately around my own.
    

"Darcy?"

"Yeah."

She draws in a deep, shaky breath.
 
"Is it—"

"Yeah."
 
I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry; my tongue moistens my
lips.
 
Still wondering over the
painting, I reach for Alis’ hand beside my leg, and she weaves her fingers
naturally with my own.

"I thought," I begin, as my wide eyes
cherish every brushstroke, "that you’d show me a mermaid, or a centaur, or
a dragon flying through a fantastic sky."
 

"I’m a portrait artist at heart, though I’m a
little out of practice.
 
Is it all
right?
 
I just… I wanted to paint
something for you, something lovely, to show you how much I…how much…
 
I mean," she sighs, her gaze lingering
on the rainbow-hued palette resting on the windowsill, "to thank you.
 
And to…help you.
 
Art is incredible therapy, you know."
 
She clears her throat, and when she speaks
again, she sounds more certain, bolder.
 
"Not only the creation of it, but the viewing of it, as well.
 
We have art therapists at the hospital.
 
I’ve spoken with them a lot, and the
responses they get from the patients with their treatments—"
 
She squeezes my hand tightly.
 
"Art transforms."

I smile, nodding my head faintly.
 
"Catherine used to put on puppet shows
for the kids in the cancer ward when she was stuck there for treatments.
 
No script.
 
She’d wing it.
 
She firmly
believed that art led to healing."
 
I blink fast, eyes stinging as I stare at the painting.
 
"Even when she was at her sickest, she
insisted on having a notebook nearby—to ‘release the words,’ should inspiration
strike her.
 
She told me that she felt
better after she wrote.
 
Physically
better."