Page 8 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
“I’m not sure. There’s another man—no one I recognized. And he was...” She stopped.
“And he was what?”
“He was burying Jack alive.”
CHAPTER 3
I’d halfway opened the bottom drawer of my desk, my mouth already salivating at the thought of the leftover doughnut from Glazed still nestled all soft and sugary in its bag. I’d resisted it for a day and a half and knew I had to eat it now because it couldn’t be expected to stay fresh forever.
At the sound of my phone beeping my hand jerked, bumping hard against the solid wood of my desk. I hit the intercom button. “Yes, Jolly—what is it?”
The receptionist’s voice was hushed. “Someone is here to see you, but he doesn’t have an appointment. I told him that you have a showing in half an hour and to make an appointment when you’d have more time, but he was very insistent.” The disapproving tone brought my attention away from the sweet-smelling bag and back to the intercom.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“Just that you were old friends and he’d explain when he saw you.”
I sat up straighter. “What’s his name?”
“Marc Longo. Should I send him back?”
I slammed my desk drawer.Marc?He was the last person I expected or wanted to see, and I briefly considered stealthily opening one of the windowsin my office and escaping into the parking lot. But that’s what the old Melanie would have done. The Melanie who used to hide from her problems and avoided confrontation at all cost. I was the new, grown-up version of Melanie who didn’t do things like that anymore. Most of the time.
I picked up my cell phone to call Jack to come over but changed my mind. He was working on a book that meant a lot to his career, and I didn’t want to distract him. It was the same reason, I kept telling myself, why I hadn’t told him about the face in Nola’s window. Or about Rebecca’s dream. It had nothing to do with my insecurities and fears of abandonment, despite all of Jack’s reassurances that he loved me and was with me for keeps, even if I was prone to distractions of the paranormal kind. Old habits, I’d found, are like a favorite pair of worn-out old shoes; you just can’t toss them out. You allow them to linger in your closet until you’re tempted into walking around in them again because you crave the comfortable and familiar.
“Thank you, Jolly. Send him back.”
I stood, straightening my skirt and trying out several relaxed and non-posed poses. I was awkwardly perched on the edge of my desk when Marc walked into my office, but I was spared greeting him by the avalanche of my phone, agenda, and desk lamp cascading to the floor because of an accidental tug of the cord by the leg I nonchalantly tried to cross.
“Let me help you,” he said, crouching down to pick up the lamp, which had miraculously survived the tumble.
“Just leave it,” I said. “Really. I’d rather you just tell me why you’re here and then go.”
He placed the lamp in the middle of my desk, the shade completely askew, and he grinned at me when he caught me noticing. I clenched my hands into fists so I wouldn’t reach over and right it, and somehow managed not to start singing ABBA songs backward.
“Is that how you talk to all your clients, Melanie?”
“Well, you’re not a client so it doesn’t count.”
He sat down in one of the chairs where legitimate clients usually sat and smiled. The resemblance to his brother was apparent: the same coloring and build, the same sexy smile. Except where I’d detected warmthbehind Anthony’s eyes, Marc’s were like cold, lifeless stones. All his attention and devotion were directed inward. I couldn’t remember if they’d been like that when I’d dated him or if this was something new. Being married to Rebecca could do that to anyone, I supposed.
He stretched his long legs in front of him and crossed his Italian-loafer-clad feet at the ankles. “Oh, but I could be.”
Having given up on a casual lean on my desk, I returned to my chair. “I doubt it.” I made a big show of avoiding looking at the crooked lampshade and instead glanced at my watch. “I’m afraid I have an appointment—”
As if I hadn’t spoken, he said, “I’d like to buy a house. A nice, big, old one south of Broad. And I’m willing to pay a lot more than what it’s worth.”
I suddenly recalled what Anthony had said about Marc wanting my house, and frigidity spread from the base of my neck to my toes. I squared my shoulders, preparing to do battle. “If you’re referring to our house on Tradd Street, I’m afraid it’s off the market and I don’t anticipate it being available for purchase for at least another hundred years or so.”
He propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers. Tilting his head slightly, he said, “When we were dating, I don’t remember you being quite so... unwilling.”
He’d emphasized the last word, making it seem sordid, and I felt my cheeks redden. His smile widened, his strike intentional. I stood. “Seeing as how we have nothing else to discuss, I’d like you to leave. I’ve got a lot of work—”
Marc cut me off. “Did Jack tell you his editor was let go?”
“What?” I groaned inwardly, wishing I hadn’t allowed him to take me by surprise.
“Ah, I see he hasn’t mentioned it. Happened last week. Not to repeat hearsay, but the rumors had something to do with being too friendly with an intern. A relation of mine, actually—what a small world, right? And now other victims are crawling out of the woodwork, eager to add to the growing pile of accusations. With the current social climate regarding workplace harassment, the publisher had no choice but to let him go.” He grinned again. “Regardless of whether it was warranted. High-profile companies just can’t take the chance, now, can they?”
