Page 4 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
The alarm bells were now clanging so loudly I was sure everyone in the restaurant could hear. “What do you mean?”
He leaned in a little closer. “Marc has lots of... connections. Has alot of influence, even in the publishing world. Jack’s new contract might not be as ironclad as you’d like to think.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I hissed. “He’s signed it and received the advance. He’s working on the book now and his publisher has big plans for it.”
Anthony shook his head slowly. “Doesn’t matter to Marc. He has... ways to get what he wants.”
“And what does he want?”
“Your house.”
“My house? We’re not selling. Ever. We’ve gone through quite a lot for that house.” I thought of the ghost of Louisa Vanderhorst, who watched over us, the scent of roses alerting us of her presence. Of old Nevin Vanderhorst, who’d left the house to me in his will, knowing long before I did that the house and I were meant to be together for as long as I lived. Or, as Jack had said at our wedding in the back garden, perhaps even longer.
Anthony smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “Tell me, Melanie. Would you be financially solvent if it weren’t for Jack’s income? I’m sure he’s getting royalties from his earlier books, but without a new book, sales of his older books peter out, don’t they?”
I thought of how we’d had to borrow money from Nola, who had made a few lucrative sales of music she’d written, to keep the house. It was a loan, and we were still working on paying it back.
I started to say no, but Jayne kicked me under the table. “It’s none of your business,” she said, speaking slowly as if to make sure the right words came out.
“Right,” I agreed. “It’s none of your business.” I stood, and Jayne stood, too.
Anthony slid his chair back and stood as well, blocking our way to the door. “What if I said I could help you outmaneuver Marc and make a lot of money at the same time?”
“What do you mean?”
“Marc found something that’s convinced him that there is something valuable hidden in the mausoleum at the Gallen Hall cemetery. He can’t get access, though.”
“Why?” I asked, although with the mention of the mausoleum, I was afraid I knew why.
His voice very quiet, he said, “I know that you can speak to the dead.”
Jayne inhaled quickly, but I kept my eyes on Anthony. “I don’t know where you heard that....”
“Rebecca, of course. I know she has premonitions in her dreams—she’s even told me of a few she had about me. But she said your powers are much stronger, that you can actually talk to the dead.”
“Well, she’s mistaken.” I slid my chair up to the table so I could inch my way around Anthony to access the door and saw Jayne do the same thing. “I’ve got to go. Sorry I can’t help you.”
We’d made it only a few feet before he said, “I heard about that cistern in your back garden—how several grad students assigned to the excavation refuse to return to the site. I was curious, so I did some digging. Do you know where the bricks came from?”
A chill pricked at the base of my neck as I recalled the apparition of the man in the photograph standing by the edge of the gaping hole and holding what appeared to be a piece of jewelry. And the menacing aura that had pervaded my house and yard ever since the cistern was discovered. “No,” I said, my voice wavering only a little. “And I don’t care.”
We’d made it to the door when Anthony called out to us, “They’re from an older mausoleum in the Gallen Hall cemetery. I thought you’d want to know. Just in case.”
I turned to face him. “Just in case what?”
“Just in case you find something... unexpected in your cistern.”
Jayne pushed the door open, then propelled me into the warm morning air with a gentle shove to my back. I turned around to see whether Anthony would follow us out and found myself staring at the glass door of the shop. Except instead of seeing my own reflection, I saw the clear specter of a gentleman in what appeared to be an old-fashioned cravat and jacket staring back at me with black, empty sockets.
CHAPTER 2
I had just finished drying my hair in the bathroom when Jack walked in, his pajama pants riding low on his slim hips, his defined abs under smooth skin making me almost drop the blow-dryer. His dark hair stuck up in a tousled fashion that I’m sure models had to work at, his beard stubble making him the perfect dictionary picture for the definition ofdevastating.
He turned on the shower and slid off his pants, his gaze in the mirror’s reflection never leaving mine as he walked up behind me. Lifting my hair, he pressed a warm kiss to the back of my neck. “Could this gorgeous creature really be my wife?”
It took me a moment to find my voice. “You like my dress?” It wasn’t what I’d planned on saying, but Jayne had apparently rubbed off on me.
“Mmm,” he said, burying his nose in my hair as his hands skimmed over the red fabric that clung to my hips. “I like what’s in it the best.”
