What's a Ghoul to Do? (6 page)

"Okay," I said from my bedroom as I pulled the dress over the top of my head and shrugged back into my sweats. "So riddle me this: What if I meet this guy and I hate him? Then I will have just spent a fortune on a dress I'm never going to wear again."

There was an audible sigh from the hallway. "Don't you get that it's not about this one date?" Gil asked me.

"What do you mean?" I said, coming out of the bedroom.

"That dress is about you getting out of your comfort zone, which is what I've been trying to tell you to do for… like, ever."

"Ah," I said, pouring myself a glass of wine. "So why is it so important I come out of said comfort zone? I mean, I happen to like my zone."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you like to play it so safe all the time?"

I thought about that for a long, long moment. Finally I said, "Because it keeps things simple. All these years I've been happy hanging out with you and putting my energy into our business."

"Not buying it, M.J.," Gil said to me. "What I think is that you've been so afraid to reveal the real you—the one that, sure, talks to dead people—that you've locked yourself away from any chance of love. Your approach since high school, has been, 'I'm going to get rejected anyway, so why try?'"

"And if you'll remember high school, it was no picnic for either of us."

Gil beamed at me. "The thing is, sweetie, that we're no longer
in
high school. Grown-ups are usually a lot more open to and tolerant of folks like us."

I smiled at him. "Folks like us?"

"Quirky," he said, walking over to the stove to stir the plum sauce he was cooking.

"How did I end up such a mess, Gil?" I asked him.

"Well, it wasn't for lack of me trying to get you to do something different."

I looked at him just as Doc squawked, "Dr. Delicious!"

"I've been thinking about what you said to me this morning," I said thoughtfully.

"I can tell," he said, pointing to my bedroom, where I'd left the dress. "You've been soul-searching."

I smiled. "I guess I have. Anyway, I think you're right. Maybe I have been a little too rigid. Any chance you can call Dr. Sable and ask him for another interview?"

"I left him a voice mail this afternoon," Gilley said with a grin as he pulled a pork roast from the oven. "And by the way—tomorrow we are going shoe shopping, because you cannot wear Birkenstocks with that dress."

* * * *

The next evening I decided to walk the four blocks to Tango's, an Argentinean steakhouse that was a particular favorite of mine. By the time I was a block and a half into it I really wished I'd driven my car, because my feet were killing me in the three-inch heels Gilley had forced me to buy. And the skintight wowser of a dress kept riding up every time I took more than four steps.

By the time I reached the front of Tango's I had decided to splurge on a cab home. Walking into the restaurant I shook my head, allowing the many curls Gilley had put in my hair tonight to fluff out a little more, and unbuttoned my coat. I was met by the host, who gave me one look and put his hand to his heart,
"Señorita!
You are breathtaking! May I give you a table in the window to attract all the men in town tonight?"

I giggled and gave my hair another flip. "Hello, Estevan. I'm actually meeting someone here, so I'll sit wherever you've put him," I said, nonchalantly scanning the restaurant.

"And who are you meeting?" Estevan asked.

"Uh …" I said, suddenly realizing I didn't even know my date's name. "You know, that's a good question. I'm on one of Mama Dell's dinners. Is there a single gentleman here waiting on someone from Mama's?"

"Why, yes, there is!" Estevan said, looking at his seating chart. "I just escorted a man to a table a few minutes ago, and he is waiting on his perfect match from Mama Dell's."

I was already annoyed. "I'm not so sure we're a perfect match," I said quickly. "Actually, this is our first date."

"I see," Estevan said as he took my coat. "Well, after he sees how beautiful you look tonight he may consider you such, no?"

"Let's hope not," I said as my stomach bunched. I hated men who moved too quickly.

"Right this way," Estevan said as he led me toward a dark section. As we approached a table I clenched my teeth to hide my disappointment. The man seated at the table had a receding hairline, large ears, and fishy-looking lips. His torso was thin, along with his shoulders, and his eyes had a nervous cast to them. He was dressed in a brilliant green suede jacket, white turtleneck, and black pants. It suited him—he'd make a good turtle.

As we approached he looked at me and his mouth hung open. I forced a plastic smile to my lips while inwardly vowing to boycott Mama Dell's forever. Estevan stopped in front of the table and said,
"Señor,
your guest has arrived."

"Whoa," Turtle said, looking up at me.

Still smiling tightly, I stuck out my hand and said, "Hello, I'm M.J. I'm pleased to meet you."

"Whoa," Turtle said again.

Estevan pulled out my chair and I sat down, wondering how I was going to get through the evening with Chatty Cathy here. "I love your jacket," I tried.

"Whoa."

I nodded my head. "Yeah, you said that a few times now," I said as I snapped my napkin and smoothed it onto my lap.

Turtle gulped audibly.

I held in a sigh and went for small talk. "I was expecting someone in black. I mean, Mama Dell said that you would be dressed in black."

Turtle ogled me silently, his eyes crawling from my chest up to about my neck, then back again. I eyed the breadbasket and thought about tossing a roll at his pointy head to get his attention back to my face. "Anyway," I said, dipping my chin to try to meet his gaze, "like I said, my name is M.J."

Turtle gave my eyes a quick glance, then headed south again to rest on my décolletage.

"And you are?" I said through gritted teeth. I was two seconds away from pulling back my chair and running for it.

"Too overcome by your beauty to speak," a deep baritone said over my left shoulder.

I turned in my chair to see Steven Sable grinning at me. I also noticed he was wearing black pants, a black silk shirt, and a black blazer. Gil and my bird were right: He was most definitely delicious. "Hello," I said, looking back and forth between Turtle and Steven.

"Are you here to meet the man from Mama Dell's?" he asked me, the mischievous grin never leaving his features.

"You 're
my date?" I asked, standing quickly, a huge sense of relief flooding through me as I realized I didn't have to spend one more second with Whoa Turtle.

"Yes," Steven said. "And I believe this is his," he added, indicating a woman behind him with a blond pageboy and a dark green blouse.

Turtle looked from me to the blonde and said to Steven, "That's okay; I like this girl better."

The blonde looked insulted, so I wasted no time. Grabbing the woman by the arm before she had a chance to run, I said, "Ha! He is
such
a funny guy! Boy, are you going to have a good time tonight or what? Now sit yourself right down here, honey—see that? I've already wanned it up for you. Okay, you two make some magic together, and remember, the wine here is fabulous! I suggest a bottle … each." And with that I grabbed Steven's hand and pulled him back over to Estevan.

"Señorita,
I am most sorry. I did not realize Mama sent me two couples for dinner tonight."

"That's fine, Estevan, don't worry about it. But now we'll need a table, preferably as far away from them as you can get."

"Sí, sí.
Come, I will put you in the window so that passersby can see what beautiful people frequent my restaurant."

A minute later Steven and I were sitting pretty at a table by the large picture window. Estevan had bustled off to get us a complimentary bottle of wine, and I realized then that I was struggling with what to say next. We sat there for a few moments looking at our menus and taking small peeks at each other. I don't know why I hadn't noticed it this afternoon, but Steven had marvelous features: strong jaw, full lips, fabulous eyelashes. Taking him all in visually, I couldn't help but wonder why this rich, good-looking doctor would need a matchmaker to fix him up. He seemed the type to be dripping with women, a girl in every port, so to speak. Catching me looking at him thoughtfully he asked, "You wish to ask me something?"

"No," I said, my eyes darting back to my menu. "Well… yes," I said a second later.

"I'm listening," he said, still gazing at his own menu.

"It's just that of all the people I would expect to need Mama Dell's services, you are definitely not one of them."

"Why would you say that?" he asked me as he closed his menu and set it down in front of him.

"Have you
seen
you?" I asked, waving a hand at him.

"Every morning in the bathroom mirror," he said matter-of-factly.

"You know what I mean," I said. "Don't girls just throw themselves at guys like you?"

"Guys like me?"

"Yeah. You know, rich, handsome doctor types?"

Steven chuckled and swept a hand through his black hair. "So your impression of me is that I am … how do you Americans say … not getting any?"

I blinked at him a few times. Was that my impression? "No," I said as I closed my own menu. "It's just that I would think that you would look at this type of thing as a waste of time when you could just as easily—"

"M.J., I can assure you that I am not having trouble gaining the attention of the women," he said, the deep rumble of his voice reverberating off the windowpane next to us.

"Confident, are we?" I said.

"No. I am just stating the truth of things."

"Then why go to a matchmaker?"

He chuckled softly as he leaned in over the table toward me, holding my gaze with his black eyes. "I did not go to a matchmaker. After leaving your office I stopped for an espresso. While I was at this shop for coffee, I met the charming patron known as Mama Dell. She began talking with me and told me that she knew of a beautiful woman I must meet, and she offered to arrange this for me. At first I was cautious, but she persuaded me with her … eh … Southern hospital."

"Hospital
ity
," I said, smirking a bit. I had to admit that I found Steven's abuse of the English language quite charming.

"Yes, yes," Steven said, waving his hand. "Shall we order?" he asked as our waiter appeared at our table.

By the time we'd given our order and had our glasses filled with wine, I'd managed to get a little grip on my attraction to the man in front of me, and I did that by reminding myself that if I didn't bring Sable's business back, Gilley would have a giant cow. Sadly, that meant I couldn't very well mix business with pleasure. What happened after Steven's case was solved, however… well, I'd just have to leave that up to fate.

"As it happens," I began in my most professional voice, "I had my business partner try to reach you after you left our office."

"Yes, I received his voice mail," Steven said coolly.

"I've had a chance to discuss your terms with him, and I believe we can reach an agreement that will be mutually beneficial to all parties."

"I see," Steven said as he picked up the basket of bread and offered it to me. After I declined, he pulled out a piece and began buttering it. "You're willing to allow me to come along?"

"Yes," I said, studying Steven closely. I didn't know what it was with this guy, but I was having a heck of a time getting a good read on him. "That is, in part, yes."

"In part?" he asked, meeting my eyes again.

"I'm not a private investigator. I'm a ghostbuster. And even though I hate that particular connotation, it does specify what I actually do. I help those poor souls who are stuck between this world and the one beyond to move forward, to bust out of their prison, so to speak, and go to where they belong. If, in doing that, the truth of your grandfather's demise comes out, well, then, that's just gravy. I cannot guarantee that what I discover will be satisfactory to you."

Steven studied me for a while, chewing his bread and looking thoughtful. "So tell me this: How am I to know that you are not lying?"

I frowned at the question. "Excuse me?"

"As you indicated, I am quite wealthy. And in this time of sorrow, most vulnerable. How do I know what you say is true?"

Now, I get this question all the time, but the way Steven said it, with just a hint of condescension, pissed me off. "How do your patients know when they come to see you that you're for real?" I snapped, crossing my arms and sitting back in my chair.

"Because I have diplomas and certificates which prove that I went to school, graduated, and passed the medical boards in both Germany and this country. Did you go to school for this? Do you have diplomas I can see?"

"Yes, I went to school, but not for this. They don't teach what I do in college, Steven." I didn't bother telling him I'd spent only two years in a community college. Best not to elaborate here.

"You see my dilemma, then," he said, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin. "I will need some kind of"— he paused, searching for the word—"proof before I agree to hire you."

"You know, it's amazing to me that you doctors get stereotyped as egomaniacs. Truly, you're one of the humble ones," I snapped. My temper was flaring. I didn't care if this man was delicious. Currently he was one of those appetizers that looked good on a buffet until you tried a tiny bite; then you wanted to stuff it into a cocktail napkin before the hostess could see you.

"Humility has nothing to do with this," Steven said. "In my country, women like you are scorned. They are the Gypsies that prey on tourists and use their magic tricks to deceive the foolish. No one in my standing would ever
think
to hire someone like you. And I am only considering this because I am without hope. So, you wish me to hire you? Then I will need to see some proof of your abilities before I do so." He finished by leaning back in his chair. The suspicious look he gave me said that he would be watching me carefully, waiting to catch me in any sleight of hand.