“Now I know what a ghost is. Unfinished business, that’s what.”
—Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses
May mornings in Vienna, Virginia, usually dropped hints of the insufferable summer to come. Swells of spindly, black mosquitoes hanging low and heavy in the swamp air, just waiting to latch onto oncoming ankles. People moved slowly, dragging themselves down the street as if sloshing through viscous mud. Since it was the first Friday of the month, Quinn was driving down Church Street, as per her usual. In front of the storefronts, on the corners of childhood haunts, bulky bags of dog food waited for her, slumped forward and misshapen, like tired old men on porches with nothing better to do than sit and watch other people living life.
Even with the windows down and RBG sticking her head out, her long tongue dangling out the side of her mouth like a scarf in the wind, Quinn didn’t have her heart in it. She wasn’t able to soak in her town’s usually delightful mix of Southern charm and Northern cleverness.
On the surface, nothing had changed. People still waved. She got her fill of “Good morning” and “Say hi to your mama.” None of it touched her. And being from there, Quinn knew, down to the marrow of her bones, that her neighbors weren’t feeling it either. They were all going through the motions, every one of them holding their breath without even realizing they were doing it.
Tricia may have been in the ground, but her soul wasn’t at peace. And Quinn knew that because she was everywhere. She smelled her perfume while getting coffee. Out of the corner of her eye, Quinn could’ve sworn she saw her as she was leaving the abbey after the donation drop-off. She wanted to ask Daria if she was experiencing the same phenomenon, but her cousin was tied up with novitiate duties and couldn’t meet her at the truck or come for brunch afterward. Quinn opted for takeout and headed to see another friendly face, turning right on Lawyers Road, then making a left on West Street.
“Sounds like she’s haunting you.”
Quinn gave her brother a pointed look. “Don’t tell me you still believe in ghosts.”
“Oh, they’re real. Trust me on that one. I’ve been through enough abandoned buildings and old houses to know the dead walk among us.”
She stopped what she was doing, staring at her brother. “Are you telling me, Sebastian Monroe Caine, that you’ve actually seen a ghost?”
He placed the journal down, his expression losing any trace of humor. “No, I haven’t seen a ghost: I’ve seen two.”
Quinn was visiting her brother at the carriage house, the one on the back of their parents’ property. He had turned down the loft listing the Pemberley twins had shown him and was now debating whether to stay put or rent something for a little while.
They both knew, without verbalizing it, that he was waiting for Rachel. In that spirit, he had asked his sister to come over—and bring Granny Nora’s journal.
It took Quinn staying up into the wee hours of the morning, but she had managed to finally finish repairing the diary. The results went beyond expectations, if she did say so herself, but in order to complete the project overnight, she’d had to forego reading the rest of Nora’s story. Bash had asked her to bring it over so he could read it for himself.
“Let’s see, the first ghost I ever witnessed—and met—was Merle. There was an uncontrolled blaze on twenty acres in the middle of the Adirondack Mountains. He must’ve lived out there for, I don’t know, thirty years, in a cabin maybe ten people knew about. It was a freak accident—unbeknownst to him, one of his propane tanks had sprung a leak, and it exploded when he lit a fire for himself that night. Why he had the tanks anywhere near the vicinity of his firepit was beyond any of us, but anyway … by the time we put the fire out and secured the perimeter, the only light around was from the stars and our headlamps. Merle came walking up to me, looking almost as solid as you sitting there, and apologized for causing so much trouble.”
“Tell me you’re kidding. Because you know I’ll believe you. I’m completely gullible.”
Her brother cracked a sly grin. “Oh, don’t I know it, but I swear to you, that’s a true story.”
She sat down, crisscross applesauce. “What did he say next?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. Just walked into the woods and disappeared, like Shoeless Joe did into the corn in Field of Dreams.”
Quinn’s eyes must have been as wide as saucers. “Whoa … freaky. Tell me more.”
His brows went up as he leaned back in his chair. “Let’s see … then I met another one while at a national FEMA conference held at the Houston Public Library. It was the end of the second day, and I went wandering off by myself. I could’ve sworn I heard someone playing violin, and sure enough, I happened upon Julius Frank Cramer. Now he had more of a ghostly appearance … you know, floating around, see-through body. He must’ve been able to read my thoughts because he said it’s because he’d been dead since 1936.”
“Why was he there?”
“He used to be the janitor,” Bash answered, balancing on the back legs of his chair. “A janitor who enjoyed playing his violin after work hours. He said the acoustics were much better in that section than in his basement apartment. He played me a decent rendition of ‘Aura Lee’ and Mozart’s Concerto Number Five in A Major.”
“Well, at least they were friendly ghosts.”
Bash agreed, but his mind was now clearly somewhere else, staring out the window.
Quinn waited before waving her hand in front of his face. “Hello? You in there?”
He did a quick headshake, like a wet dog. “Yeah. I was just thinking of a dream I had last night.”
“You should tell it to Mom. She loves that stuff.”
This was true. Ever since they were little, they’d come to their mother with their dreams, and she’d tell them what they meant—the advantages of having a mom who considered herself a “kitchen witch” of sorts.
“Well, this one was pretty straightforward. The ghost of Rachel’s great-grandmother visited, telling me not to give up on her and that you were going to help me win her back.”
Quinn’s jaw dropped. Bash sat, straight-faced, staring at her.
“Oh my gosh, really? That’s so cool! It’s a sign!”
He gave her a look. “I was kidding, Quinnie.”
She blinked. “What? So, wait—Granny Nora didn’t visit you?”
The smart-ass started cackling.
She bolted out of her chair, grabbed a pillow off his bed, and proceeded to wallop him like a whack-a-mole. “You are really and truly evil and terrible! And awful. The family stories are true—you were dropped as a baby! No wonder you’re not right in the head!”
He laughed, then grabbed the weaponized pillow with one hand, easily able to rip it away from her. “All right, all right—let’s call a truce.”
Red-faced, her auburn hair tussled, Quinn asked, “Were the other two ghost stories true?”
He crossed his heart with his finger while raising the other hand. “They were. I swear. True stories.”
She grumbled “Fine” under her breath and plopped into the seat next to him, by his breakfast table. “If only Nora were to come back from the other side to give you a hint of what to do.”
Last time they had spoken, Bash had informed her that Rachel had asked for some space. As much as he wanted to orchestrate a grand gesture, he wasn’t going to cross her boundaries to execute it.
“I did hear some good news, though,” he said. “Supposedly, she broke up with Lyle.”
“Oh yeah? When?”
“Shortly after Tricia’s funeral.”
Quinn nodded, thinking. “Wait, if you’re giving her space, how do you know this delicious piece of information?”
He answered with a wicked smile. “I have my ways.”
She flicked the side of his ear.
He jerked his head back. “Ow! That hurt!”
“Good! Because that answer was more creepy than informative.”
“Fine. Her brother Stuart told me. Satisfied?”
Rachel was the youngest of three, with two older brothers, Zach and Stuart, two years apart from each other, with Stuart being the middle child. According to Bash, both were certifiable man-babies, wanting—and expecting—everything to be done for them except going to work every day. But they were good guys who loved their sister and liked the idea of Bash and Rachel together—certainly more than the idea of her with Lyle.
“Stuart said he and Zach couldn’t stand the guy. No sense of humor. He thinks Rachel only kept him around for as long as she did because Oliver and Sylvia were really pushing it.”
Oliver and Sylvia were Rachel’s parents.
“Why would they do that? They adore Rachel and want her to be happy.”
Bash’s mouth got tight. “The Slingbaums are good friends with Lyle’s folks. They attend the same synagogue, and the dads shared a bunk or something at some Jewish sleep-away camp. In short, they go way back.”
He opened the journal again and started reading. She reached across the table, placing her hand on his forearm. He glanced up.
“Listen, I don’t want to sound like a Debbie Downer or something, but when I suggested you read Granny Nora’s journal and make the big gesture, it was when you two were still talking to each other.”
His eyes searched hers, confused. “Right. What’s your point?”
How could she say what she needed to say?
“Do you really see the point in continuing reading if she won’t even see you?”
He righted the chair legs, back on the floor. “I hear you, but I also heard you a few weeks ago. In fact, I haven’t been able to think of anything else.”
Her face went blank as she searched her memory.
He grimaced. “When you and Daria concurred that I’ve had it too easy when it comes to women?”
Oh … that.
“Rachel may or may not decide to have anything to do with me again. If I love her the way I say I do, that means doing whatever it takes to get to know her now and honor what makes her happy.”
Quinn sat there, stunned.
He pointed his finger down. “This journal was important enough for her to want you to restore it. It means something to her, which means I want to read it. You were right, Quinn: every woman is a rare first edition, and it’s my job to do my homework. So that’s what I’m going to do.”
Then he went back to reading as if he hadn’t just blown his sister’s mind with his maturity and insight.
“All right then, what happens next?”
He turned the page, reading a bit further. “Well, I was able to catch up to as far as you got and then some,” he said with a wink, his not-so-subtle brag that he was a wicked-quick reader. “She’s still fighting with her parents about David. Granny Nora was convinced that if she couldn’t marry David, she didn’t want to marry anyone.”
Quinn balked. “What was she, nineteen, when she wrote that?”
“It was different back then.”
Bash’s cell phone rang.
“Don’t answer it! I need to know what happens next.”
He peeked at the screen. “It’s Rachel’s brother. I’ve got to take it.”
She blew out a frustrated sigh. “Fine, go ahead.”
“Hey, Stuart, how’s it going?”
Quinn doesn’t know what’s worse—not knowing if Nora and David’s story ended for good or wondering what Stuart wanted with her brother.
“Uh-huh … uh-huh … I don’t know, man … Well, sure I want to go, but that’s not the point … uh-huh … uh-huh … Oh, my parents are invited? They didn’t say anything. All right … Yeah, let me think on this—I’ll call you back.”
He hung up.
“Talk to me.”
Bash blew out a frustrated breath. “He invited me to his parents’ anniversary party.”
“That’s perfect! Rachel will be there. I’ll help you pick out a killer outfit for the party.”
“Thanks, ‘Mom’, but I’ve been dressing myself since kindergarten.” He shut the journal. “But it doesn’t matter anyway because I’m not going.”
“What do you mean you’re not going? He just invited you!”
Bash got up from the table, nervous energy making him pace. “Rachel said she needed space, and I’m thinking me showing up at her parents’ anniversary party violates the spirit of that request.”
He had her there.
Quinn eyed Nora’s diary. “Well, at least let’s see what happened with her grandmother. You can’t leave me hanging.”
He scoffed, his hands fisting his hair. “We will. I can’t right this minute.” Bash grabbed his keys. “I need to get out of here, clear my head.”
She got the hint. “I understand.” He’d always been like this, not running away from his emotions, but needing to move, be physical, in order to sort through them. She lifted the strap of her messenger bag over her head. “I need to walk RBG anyway. Come by if you want company.”
He nodded, but his eyes told her he was already somewhere else. As Quinn walked out of the carriage house with Bash, she glanced over her shoulder with the smallest smile.
And it was because Rachel’s great-grandmother’s journal was on his table, something he’d never have bothered to read through mere months ago. Whoever said people never changed never met a Caine.