Page 19 of Man of His Dreams

Chapter

Eight

At least this time Flip didn’t almost faint. Maybe it was because, deep in his heart, he’d known the truth all along. But knowing something and accepting it were two different things, and Flip had finally hit the limits of his denial.

Ghosts and clairvoyants existed. Flip himself possessed a talent for interacting with the departed. He’d even made out with one of them. And that ghost he’d entertained in his bed was also Tony’s relative.

Now that he accepted this reality, what was he supposed to do with it?

“Is Scratch in the book I bought?” He was proud of how calm he sounded.

“No. Nobody knows about him except a few of my octogenarian family members, and who knows how accurate their stories are. None of them were born yet when he died.” Tony gave a wry chuckle. “I don’t think there’s a single person alive now who knew him.”

You’re wrong about that, Flip thought.

But Tony was still speaking. “I’ve dug around and found a few mentions of him. There used to be these books, the Blue Books, that were guides to the Storyville brothels. There were advertisements in there too, for all sorts of things. I’ve seen his name mentioned in a couple of the ads. I also found a newspaper article about his murder. But that’s about it.”

“Do you have a photo of him?”

Tony looked puzzled. “No. Why?”

Flip fumbled for a reasonable response, but then Tony answered his own question. “Oh. I bet you’re a visual processor. Is that a writer thing?”

“I have no idea,” Flip answered honestly.

After a moment of slightly awkward silence, Tony shifted the bag in his hand. “Well, I have to work in the morning, and you probably have to….” His voiced trailed away and he sighed deeply. “Thanks for a really great day, Flip.”

“It was my pleasure too.”

After a bit more bittersweet discomfiture, they parted.

The first thing Flip did after depositing his new clothing and book in the bedroom was to heat the bread pudding according to the waitress’s instructions. Then, even though he wasn’t hungry, he ate it. The sweet stickiness comforted him and calmed his uneasy stomach. Fortified, he booted up his laptop and pounded out two new chapters. He followed up with an email to his long-suffering agent, in which he informed her that, contrary to fears, he had a good chance of completing the manuscript by the end of the month. She’d be thrilled to wake up to that news.

It was very late by then, so Flip went to bed.

His dream began with standing alone at the French window and looking outside. He saw nobody, living or dead. Hearing a small sound, he turned to discover Scratch at the other end of the room, wearing a tuxedo but looking uncharacteristically subdued.

“You still have the umbrella,” said Flip, even though they both knew it was irrelevant.

Scratch bounced the furled umbrella against his forearm. “It’s nice. Do you want it back?”

“Keep it. Um, do ghosts need umbrellas?”

“Not to keep dry. But this one here reminds me of when I was alive. Carrying it makes me feel more substantial.” He jutted out his chin a bit, as if making a point.

Flip said, “I know you’re real.”

“Been telling you that.”

“Now I believe you.”

“Did he convince you that ghosts exist? Tony Bergeron?”

Flip shook his head. “I didn’t tell him about you. But he was telling me about his family and mentioned you.”

Clearly surprised, Scratch blinked rapidly. “He knows about me?”

“A little, yeah. He says he’s researched you but couldn’t find many details.”

---