Page 52 of Sing For Me

“Good man. It’ll be great. Cindy’s a real sweetheart, and she asked for you specifically.”

I raise an eyebrow. The woman said she was going to get “thank you, God, for letting me live” etched on her gravestone. Then I register the other part.

“Why me?”

“She said you seemed like a gentleman—someone who’d appreciate a proper thank you.”

I grimace. “I don’t even know what that means.” But I can’t help but be a little touched that she wanted me, and not Jude, a natural on TV and with an ego the size of a hot air balloon.

But ten minutes later, with the TV lights searing heat into my face, I deeply regret feeling this way. Cindy sits next to me, clasping her hands under her chin. “Thank you, sir, for creating this beautiful hotel and this beautiful restaurant.”

“Oh well, I didn’t build it,” I say, and I swear I feel Reese laughing somewhere behind all those lights.

“But most of all,” Cindy says, looking earnestly into my eyes. “Thank you for not cleansing the kitchen of the spirits before we got here.”

My jaw drops.

On her other side, Neil’s eyeballs have sprung wide. “Spirits?!” he exclaims.

I groan. This is what I was afraid of the other night at the bar. Only this time, it’s happening far too close to the TV cameras for my liking.

“Yes,” Cindy turns to Neil. “There’s a ghost here, don’t you know?”

Neil’s looking at Cindy like she’s lost her last marble, though the look is mixed with a kind of delight I recognize.

He’s going to throw her under the bus.

I don’t like that look. It’s not fair to Cindy.

I make a snap decision—one I know I’m going to regret. “Cindy’s right,” I say, though I can’t believe I’m doing it. “Not that we’re actually haunted, of course, but people like to make up stories about old buildings. And the story about the ghost at Rolling Hills is a fun one for people to keep alive. As it were.”

“CUT!” Nancy calls.

“Thank you!” Cindy exclaims, before squeezing me like a stuffed animal and disappearing off stage.

“Oh ho ho!” Neil says to me, rubbing his hands together.

“No, Neil,” I say, a note of warning in my voice. I didn’t want him framing Cindy like someone who’d completely lost her mind, but I should have known he’d bite onto this bigger fish and run with it.

“Yes, Eli. It’ll be great for business, mate, trust me.”

I slump in my chair as the next five minutes are a blur of Dijon coming back to re-powder my nose, the crew rearranging the furniture, and the whole room buzzing with excitement.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out.

REESE: Buckle up!

ELI: I take it all back! We’re not even!

REESE: Eleanor Rigby…

She types out the first lines of the Beatles’ song, making me scowl-laugh. Unbelievable.

Everyone who believes in the ghost nonsense at Rolling Hills—Jude, my dad, maybe Chelsea—says it’s the ghost of Eleanor Cleary.

But before I can say anything else, Neil claps my back, the cameras are rolling again, and someone hollers ACTION! Under the glare of those fucking TV lights, with a face conformed to a deeply serious expression, Neil asks me point blank, “Eli, is there a ghost at Rolling Hills?”

The minute we’re through, I unclip my mic, scanning the crowd for her. I pull my phone out, ready to text Reese. But then I spot her, standing at the back of the crowd, clearly trying to hold in laughter.

---