Page 8 of Wait For Me

“Magical?” Sam had said, always the practical one. “She was murdered.”

“She was in love,” Cora’s eleven-year-old eyes were dreamy. “She chose love over her evil husband.”

“And look where it got her!” Sam had exclaimed.

“You don’t believe in that nonsense, do you Samuel?” Sam’s dad asked. He was a nice man, but blunt.

“No,” Sam scoffed. “Course not.”

“Cora I can understand, with her head in the clouds. But not you, Sam,” their father had said.

I hadn’t said anything at the table, but later that night, I ran into Cora when I was leaving. I’d been coming up the stairs from the rec room, head down, and had smashed right into Sam’s bewildered little sister.

“Sorry,” I said, kneeling to pick up the notebook I’d knocked out of her hands.

But the book had spilled open. I didn’t see much, but I did see what looked like a poem, and the title scrawled across the top which said “The Tragic Love Story of the Doomed Eleanor Cleary.”

Cora snatched the notebook away and quickly stood up again, her eyes big and red-rimmed. She’d been crying. “You going to make fun of me too?”

I frowned, standing up. “Why would I? I believe in Eleanor.”

Her eyes went wide. “Really?”

“Sure.” I shrugged. I believed in Eleanor for different reasons than Cora. I knew that love was unstable. It showed up in bursts, like on the odd night my mom was sober and she’d come into my room and pull my head against her shoulder, promising she was going to leave Randy soon, always soon. Then it would vanish, like Mom the next night, yelling at me topull my weight around the house goddammit, while Randy snored on the La-Z-boy.

“Maybe one day I’ll get a picture of her for you,” I said. I’d just been getting into photography then. “So you can show them she was real.”

It was learning that the new CEO there was going to finally renovate the abandoned east wing—where Eleanor Cleary was said to haunt—that had drawn me home.

It might be my only chance to photograph the place I would always associate with Cora. I wondered if she still wrote poetry about her.

Cora sticks her chin out now. “So, what are you, a travel photographer?”

“Freelancer.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“I take photos of places people only want to see at a distance.” I shrug. “War zones, mostly. The aftermath of natural disasters.”

“Hotels going bankrupt?”

“Haunted hotels across North America. That’s the working title of this piece.”

“How long are you here?”

“A week.” I tuck my hands under my arms. I’m still shirtless, and I feel ridiculous. “Then I’m flying to Borneo.”

“Borneo?” Cora laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course.” Then she raises her fingers to her lips. Is she thinking of the kiss we just shared? Or the one we had all those years ago? She looked so sad and so beautiful that night, too.

She nods, as if making a calculation. “Okay. Well. I better go.” Then she abruptly turns on her heel and begins walking down the dark side street.

I’m so shocked that for a moment I just stand there. Then I come to my senses and jog after her. “Cora, wait. Let me walk you.”

“I’m fine. But thanks for the shirt.”

“I can’t let you walk home alone.”

She throws me a look. “Let me?”

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