Ghost Times Two Read Free Page A

“In an office.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI’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 wherethere should be no music, and Megan stalking toward her purse with the intensity of a hunter sighting a marauding wolf.
    â€œMegan—”
    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.
    â€œI thought we’d have dinner—”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œHow 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’vereached 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