Page 102 of Ghostly
The room fell silent.
“He said one true thing,” Ernest spoke. “Heisnotorious.”
“Honey.” Mrs. Ashford-Abernathy rose and fixed her faux mink fur shawl. “My middle name is Notoriety.”
“I thought her middle name was Wilhemina,” Ollie whispered to Gabriel.
Mrs. Ashford-Abernathy’s eyes swept the gathered company until they stopped on Gabriel again. “You may be the only person currently more notorious than I am. As such, I believe we’d make a great pair.” She tilted her head at Ernest. “I want him as my lawyer.”
“But, Mrs.—”
“And should you fire him, well, I suppose I’ll have to go where he goes.”
Gabriel almost wanted to start tapping his foot like Ollie—not from nervousness, but from excitement. He did it! Mrs. Ashford-Abernathy had just lifted him back into rainmaker status.
Clifford sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “Very well.” He shut down his partner with a single look, and turned his attention to Gabriel. “Gather what you need and start preparing. The trial begins in two weeks.”
“Wonderful.” Mrs. Ashford-Abernathy flicked the shawl over her shoulder. “Let me know when you need anything.” With a nod to everyone, she left the room.
“Go,” Ernest said to Gabriel.
“One more thing.” Clifford’s voice stopped him as he reached for the doorknob. “If we are to get you established again, we must do so as quickly as possible. Get this over and done with.” He shared a look with Ernest. “There’s a dinner party the day after tomorrow. Strictly business. Representatives of other firms, as well as other prominent society members, will be there.” He drummed his fingers again—one, two, three times—and focused on Gabriel. “You’re invited. I trust you’ll behave appropriately.”
“Thank you, sir. I will.” Precisely what he needed. Something akin to happiness—could it be?—resurfaced, and Gabriel grasped it with all he had. He got the case back, he’d get his respect back. He could do this. This was his old life, after all; it should be the easiest thing to fall back into. Hisroutine, his work—lots of work, he’d need that to keep other memories at bay.
Yes. He could do it.
He turned back. “The invitations are usually for a plus one, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” Clifford drawled. “Why? You’re thinking of inviting someone?”
Gabriel breathed once again. It was risky—but what wasn’t these days? And Wynona’s plan was sound. “The former Mrs. Sinclair.”
***
She’d haunted books. She’d been to the garden multiple times, checking if any of the rosebushes grew, pretending to be indifferent when they hadn’t. She spent hours in the deer statue, but even its comforting, earthy feel was of little solace.
Ida simply didn’t know what to do.
Had she been doing these same things before Gabriel had arrived? Memory confirmed it, but it was hard to believe she spent months, if not years between tenants, doing the same old things over and over again. Phase through walls. Flicker the lights. Knock around.
Like this evening. The sun had set, and Ida lingered in the living room, painted over with the cool blue filter of oncoming darkness. She knocked a book off the shelf, put it back on, and repeated the procedure two more times. She could haunt it, but she didn’t feel like it.
She didn’t feel like much, in general.
Something screeched outside. Steps—coming closer—a scratch at the door—keys in the lock! The book bounced on the shelf as Ida abandoned it, and came to rest against another book.
The front door opened.
“Gabriel?” Ida began a glide to the hallway, only to stop in the middle of the couch as the landlady, Farrah, appeared in the doorway.
She’d already been here after Gabriel had left, to check up on the state of the house. If she was here again…
Farrah turned away and addressed someone behind her. “Let me get the lights going and I’ll show you around… there.” The lights came on; she inspected them, frowning. “Seems to be all good.”
If Ida’s heart dropped upon seeing that the visitor wasn’t Gabriel, it picked back up now. A new tenant! That was something, right? There used to be a time when she was ecstatic with the arrival of every new tenant.
A short, mousy man of about fifty, but with a knitted vest appropriate for a 70-year-old, reluctantly followed the woman into the living room. “Is there something wrong with the lights?”
