Not Quite Alive Page 2

  Chapter Two

  “So, you have found corroborating evidence for a relationship between this Elizabeth Myles and Henry Woodward while he attended university in London?”

  I take a deep breath and organize my thoughts before diving in. “Yes, I think I can make a strong case in the next article I submit. Elizabeth’s diaries were helpful, of course, and I was able to find the university records with Henry’s name on them for the years in question. We know she attended his memorial service in London. There are purchase orders—including passage on the Carolina, a ship bound for the new world in the years after Henry was re-installed here—that strongly support the idea that she’d planned to leave England.”

  “You suppose that she didn’t follow through on those plans because of her mother’s death, and her father’s subsequent stroke and inability to care for himself?” he asks, letting me know that he’s read the research that goes along with the first paper, and probably more than once.

  “Yes. It’s no stretch to figure that her parents would not have approved—a planter’s son would not have been an ideal match for the daughter of minor royalty—and she must have been torn over leaving her ailing father, especially since she hadn’t received word from Henry about his change in fortune.”

  “When he left England, he was a ship’s cook and doctor, but the latter was more of an apprenticeship, at best,” the voice on the other end of the line, a tenured professor at Stanford, muses. “Why would she have gone?”

  I pause, not wanting to sound like anything less than an academic, but there’s really only one answer. Only one answer to most of life’s riddles, as I’ve learned over the past seven months of peering behind the veil of so many men and women taken too soon—love.

  “It must have been love,” I say, holding my breath and waiting for him to laugh.

  “I agree.” He pauses, and it sounds as though he’s taking a drag from a cigarette. Do people smoke anymore? “And if your research backs it up, as well as possible given the patchy circumstances, we’d be very excited to read this second article and then hear what others in the community have to say.”

  My heart speeds up and a smile spreads across my face, making my cheeks ache. This high of academic praise from an esteemed colleague never gets old, and this guy is one of the best early American history scholars in the world. I never realized how much I missed moments like this until I began writing for publication again, but now the thought of quitting is laughable. I need the next hit. The day I see article one in print, I’ll probably faint dead away from sheer joy.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m working on the revision of the first article now, with your notes, and should be able to have it to you before the deadline.” I take a deep breath, telling myself to slow down. “I’ll start on this one immediately afterward.”

  “Perfect. I’m looking forward to reading through the changes.”

  We sign off a moment later and I look up to find Amelia watching me, her purse slung over one shoulder and her hands clasped under her giant belly in what looks like a feeble attempt to hold it up.

  She grins at me. “I take it he likes your article about Henry?”

  I nod, still smiling. “Not only that, but he thinks there’s a good chance that things between Elizabeth and Henry happened like I think, based on his review of the primary sources, and they want to see the second one. Crazy, right?”

  “Not so crazy. You’re good at your job, Grace. It’s just…why do your ghosts insist on having such sad stories?”

  “I don’t know if Henry’s story is sad.” It’s not exactly happy, I suppose, but compared to some of the others it could definitely be worse. And why would a ghost stick around if they were totally happy with the way their life turned out? “He led a pretty amazing life. One that people can hardly believe is real, in fact.”

  “Yeah, but he did it all to be good enough to marry the woman he loved. And that never happened.”

  Something about the wistfulness in her voice stands me at attention. Brick Drayton hasn’t been around much lately, and Amelia’s been a little down in the dumps—not like before, but enough that it’s noticeable. “Amelia Anne Cooper, you better not be thinking you need to prove your worthiness to anyone.”

  If she thinks she’s not good enough for Brick, what must she think about Beau and me?

  “Grace, what are you talking about?” She squints at me, leaving no doubt in my mind that it’s my own insecurities that have reared their ugly heads. “I’m just…it’s sad that they never got to be together, that’s all.”

  I take a deep breath and get it together. As much as possible. “Sure, I mean, he obviously loved her. But I don’t think he did all those amazing things just to be with her. I think Henry had a great sense of adventure, and the way he lived his life proved that he had no fear in the face of the unknown, only curiosity. I doubt he would have been happy living some dumpy life in England, even for love.”

  The man survived cannibals, pirates, a shipwreck, and heaven knows what else. It’s a strange thing to envy a ghost, but I wish I had half Henry’s ability to talk his way out of deadly situations.

  That makes Amelia laugh, which is a relief. With any luck, it’ll distract her from following up on my previous comment about her worthiness to be with a Drayton—or mine. Not that Brick has made any official overtures toward more than friendship with my cousin.

  My gaze falls to her belly. I suppose things are complicated.

  Things in general, really, I think as we head home for the night to cook dinner and chill, just the two of us. With Beau gone and Brick god knows where trying to track down Beau’s probably dead ex-girlfriend Lucy, it’s been the two of us more often than not lately.

  Which, really, is kind of nice. No new ghosts have even been by to pester me for answers.

  Knock on wood.

  The next night is still a family affair, but Travis is coming over for dinner. I was tempted to go through Frank’s bag overnight to get a head start, but in the end, I decided to take Amelia’s advice. Partially because I fell asleep at eight p.m.—I even slept through Beau’s phone call—and partially because she’s right. There’s no real reason to hide anything from Travis.

  In turn, I’m hoping he decides not to hide anything from me.

  The phone rings while I’m putting the finishing touches on a salad to go with the pizza that Travis is bringing with him. He insisted that Millie not have to cook, and apparently knows the two of us well enough not to expect me to toil in the kitchen. I thought about putting on an indignant face at the assumption, but hey, free pizza is free pizza.

  It’s Beau on the line, and I nearly drop the knife covered in red pepper juice in my haste to answer his call.

  “Hello? Beau?”

  “Gracie Anne, it is so good to hear your voice. I cannot even tell you.”

  “How are you? How was work?” I’m talking too fast and my body feels hot at the sound of his voice, or maybe at the reminder that we’re so far apart. That Millie and I are about to have pizza and hang out and he’s not the one bringing it over.

  I swallow, not wanting to cry. Not wanting him to hear in my voice that I miss him, that I’m wishing right now that I’d told him not to take the job. Not to go.

  “It’s been a whirlwind, that’s for sure. Everything’s gone according to schedule, though, and I sat in on my first full session today.”

  “How was it?”

  “About how you’d expect. I feel like I’m playing a decade of catch-up.”

  “You’re going to do great. Don’t expect too much of yourself too soon, just get acclimated.” The advice sounds good coming out of my mouth, if a bit robotic.

  The warmth of his voice, the way it curls around me, reminds me of all the good stuff we still have between us. That him going was the right decision, both for him and for us, and this is the way things have to be.

  “Thanks, beautiful.” He pauses, and through the line, wor
ds are lost. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “Anything new going on there? How was your interview?”

  A smile tugs at my lips, my heart touched that with everything going on with him, he still remembers what’s happening in my life. “It was great. They’re waiting on my revisions for the first article, but they’re interested in publishing at least one more. He said he was impressed and convinced by my research.”

  “That’s fantastic. I’m so proud of you.” Another pause, and this time it sounds as though someone is talking in the background. “No new ghosts yet?”

  “Nope. Henry was back yesterday, though. I can’t wait to tell him about the second article.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. Or, from what you’ve told me, a Henry version of thrilled.”

  That makes me laugh, and I can hear the smile in Beau’s voice through the line. I feel better than I have since he left.

  It’s only been two days, Drama Queen.

  I flick the devil off my left shoulder and say goodbye to Beau. My eyes are misty but my heart is lighter as I finish the salad and set it on the kitchen table. Travis is going to be here any minute, so I head upstairs and dig the bag from Frank out from under the bed. It’s heavy with untold secrets and smells slightly of mildew, though to be honest that could have come from my room and not whatever cesspool Frank dragged it out of to deliver it to me. Our housekeeper is good, but she’s not a miracle worker.

  The doorbell rings and I hear Amelia laughing in the foyer. It hits me then how comfortable my life is here in Heron Creek, and how maybe the real reason I didn’t want to go to Washington with Beau, not even for a few days or a week, is because I don’t want to leave home.

  There’s no time to psychoanalyze myself now, even if I had the guts to peer that closely into the depths. Amelia hollers up the stairs in what I’ve decided will become her mom voice, and I push away my worries over whether my preference for what’s comfortable is holding me back.

  From what? Hard to say.

  “Hey, Travis,” I greet him as I enter the kitchen, Frank’s stinky bag slung over my shoulder.

  “What’s up?” His gaze falls to the bag, but he makes no comment as I drop it on the floor and stride toward the fridge.

  “I’ve got the dressing and silverware. Grace, will you get Travis a beer?”

  “Sure.”

  We gather around the table over the next couple of minutes and the smell of the cheesy pizza from the gas station in town makes my stomach grumble. We told Travis to get whatever, and lo and behold, we must be related because the two pizzas he picked are plain pepperoni and a mushroom and ham—my favorite and Amelia’s. The kitchen is quiet for several minutes while we chew, my cousin devouring two slices in the time it takes me to finish one.

  My mind wanders as I study Travis as surreptitiously as possible. Ever since that DNA test confirmed that we’re half-siblings, I’ve wondered whether he can see ghosts like Frank and I can. My father—our father—says that it runs in our blood, that it’s been part of our family legacy as far back as anyone has documented. That means Travis must have something special about him.

  Or maybe the blood from his mother erased the specific part of the Fournier DNA that lets us lucky ones see ghosts.

  If it didn’t, if he can see ghosts and has been making me feel like a freak all of this time, I’m not going to be very amused. Then again, don’t most brothers live for annoying their sisters?

  When they’re ten.

  “How did it go at the police station?” Amelia asks around a mouthful of pizza, pulling me from my fruitless musings.

  Travis perks up. “Good. The council said they want to talk to me about the reason for my resignation, but since they never terminated me, they’re going to let me back on a probationary basis. They’re still short.”

  “Would you be the detective again?” I wonder aloud.

  “I don’t want the job. I think it’s time to admit to myself that leadership roles and I do not mix.”

  We chew on that for a few minutes, along with the food. I wonder for the millionth time what really happened in Arkansas, and decide to chuck propriety and this annoyingly slow dance and just ask. “Were you in a leadership role in Arkansas when that whole thing went down?”

  That whole thing? You mean the dead girl only he could find?

  Maybe I don’t have guts, after all.

  Travis gives me a look like he’s trying to decide if I’ll take his pizza away if he refuses to answer, and Amelia gazes down at her plate, picking at a large slice of ham. The air in the kitchen had been relaxed and cheesy, but my question has turned it sour and tight.

  “I was the lead detective on the kidnapping case, yes.”

  “And you’re the one who solved it. Found the body,” I press, determined to keep whacking my way down this tangled path now that I’ve stepped off the road.

  “I did find her, but it was really…I didn’t solve anything. The forensic clues on her body led to the killer.”

  He’s right—it’s not exactly like solving the case, but his actions did lead to the capture of a child killer. So why does he sound as if he’s not the least bit proud of his role?

  I narrow my gaze on him, wishing that I could read his mind. Right now, it seems as if some light telepathy would be easier to accomplish than getting him to talk. “How did you find her?”

  The two of us stare at each other for a long time. I feel nervous and excited, like I’m ten years old again, my best friend, Melanie, and I are in a staring contest, and the prize is the last scoop of Grams’s homemade apple pie after dinner. I refuse to lose, refuse to blink, and when Travis sighs and sits back in his chair, dropping his crumpled napkin on his empty plate, a flash of victory goes through me.

  “How did you know?” he asks.

  I cut a quick glance toward Amelia, whose wide eyes are a testament that she has no idea what he’s talking about. “Know what?”

  “That I see them, too.”

  Chapter Three

  The stunned silence seems like it goes on forever, but in truth, it can’t be more than a few seconds.

  “Ghosts?” Amelia blurts, shock paling her pretty face.

  Travis nods, and from deep inside me, a gush of anger wells up.

  “What?” I nearly yell. “But you’ve been making me feel like some kind of lunatic loser ever since you came to town. Calling me a murder suspect? Saying you don’t believe me? Why would you do that?”

  He flinches from the hurt that must be on my face, and honestly he should. This has driven a bigger wedge between us than the fact that he didn’t tell me who he was and why he was in Heron Creek when he first arrived. There are enough people in my life who act as if this ghost thing is going to ruin my future—hell, there are still plenty of days when I can easily believe that’s already happening—and this man, who claims he came to find me because he wants family, treated me that way even though he knew the truth?

  “I’m sorry, Graciela. I don’t…it’s not something I talk about, ever. That’s the first time I’ve ever said it out loud.” He swallows, the expression on his face part awe, part disgust, with a healthy dose of fear. “I see ghosts.”

  It takes a moment, but I manage to tamp down my anger enough to speak. “You saw the dead girl. She told you where she was and you found her.”

  He nods, slender fingers picking at the peeling label on his bottle of beer. “I couldn’t explain it, and I was a suspect for a while because of that. Even once the evidence pointed toward the killer—and there was no doubt it was him—they still didn’t trust me. I had to leave.”

  It makes sense, what he’s saying. It fits with his itchiness over the mere mention of Arkansas, the way he quit his job here in Heron Creek for fear word would get out. Yes, the idea that my half-brother struggles with the same…affliction as the rest of the Fourniers seems more than plausible.

  It’s not that
I don’t understand his fear, but it would have made me feel so much less alone in all of this if he’d told me the truth months ago.

  “Okay, but you were already convinced Grace was your sister before you got the test done. You’ve heard the rumors, and pretty much knew she sees ghosts, too. Why keep lying to her?” Amelia sounds at least half as pissed about all of this as I feel.

  He pauses, and it goes on and on. Neither Amelia nor I give him the out he’s clearly seeking, so after a pause that might well have lasted a full minute, he shrugs. “I guess I got used to not talking about it. I wanted to control how people saw me this time.”

  It’s a shit answer, but there’s nothing we can do to make him tell us the real one. If there’s one thing I know about people, it’s that they’ll keep their own secrets exactly as long as they need to, regardless of how long they’ll safeguard yours.

  Are we at a stalemate? Do I keep the secrets in Frank’s bag—if there are any worth the trouble—to myself for as long as Travis wants to play coy? Or do I take the high road and hope that giving him some answers will lead to an avalanche of more?

  “Frank says our family has a legacy, and it has to do with seeing ghosts,” I say, deciding with my gut. “That we’ve died because of what we can do, and the answers to all of my questions are in our past.”

  “Grace,” Amelia breathes, and when I meet her gaze, she makes it clear that she no longer thinks spilling everything is a good idea.

  I shrug. “He might not trust me, but I’m tired of wondering why this is happening and if it’s going to stop. If something bad is going to step through that veil at some point. Frank says I need to be armed with the truth, so I’m going to go ahead and assume that you do, too,” I finish, turning my attention back to my maddening younger brother.

  Half the brother. All of the annoyance.

  “What legacy?” Travis asks, looking both curious and relieved that I’m not throwing him out on his ass.