Page 48 of Ghostridden
“I’d like that. Seven? That’ll give me a chance to shower the dust off.”
His infectious grin bloomed. “You got it. See you then!”
“The truck okay parked at the curb for a while?” Keegan asked.
“Fine by me. I don’t think there are any town ordinances that forbid it.”
Ricky shook his head, so the guys locked up their truck and headed for Sofia’s house while I waited on my porch. Just before they walked inside, Ricky looked over and waved. My answering wave was probably accompanied by a goofy smile.
But hey, can you blame me? A cute guy, a pending date, and a room that I’d been promised would remain completely private. Yeah, maybe I wouldn’t move quitethatfast, but the possibilities put a definite spring in my step when I returned to the Manor. In fact, Imayhave danced up the stairs—since nobody was there to see me, nobody could judge.
When my phone rang again, I was elbow deep in a crate layered with papers, random artifacts, and a metric ton of dust, so, after sneezing twice, I used a voice command to answer the call on speaker. “Hello?”
“Maz? Good morning. It’s Carson.”
“Oh, hi.” I lifted a rosewood planchette with brass casters from a nest of muslin and set it aside carefully before grabbing a tissue and dabbing at my nose. “How are you?”
“Fine, fine. I was just wondering…” He laughed, a self-deprecating sound that surprised me for someone with Carson’s polish. But then I remembered he’d taken some self-confidence hits as a kid, even if it had been distorted through a child’s perception of rejection.
“Go ahead. Hit me.” My voice was still thickened with dust. I should probably start wearing a mask for this job.
“Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” he said in a rush. “I’ve got reservations at Maison Vallée in Richdale for eight.”
Crap.Awkward. If I was sort of pursuing maybe-more-than-friendship with Ricky, I couldn’t really lead Carson on. This was such a new experience for me. I’d rarely had one person interested in me, let alone two at once. “I’d, um, love to be friends, Carson, but if you were hoping for more, well… I’m kind of seeing somebody right now.”
“Seeing someone?” His tone was decidedly tart. “Between yesterday and today?”
“Well. Yeah.”
There was a beat of silence. “It’s Ricky, isn’t it?”
“I just want to be upfront with you, okay? And like I said, I’m happy to—”
“Sure. Right. See you around sometime.”
“Carson, please don’t—”
But he disconnected the call. I kicked myself for not handling that better. This was a small town, after all. I couldn’t afford to alienate the residents. Although Carson didn’t live here, did he?
Nevertheless, I didn’t want to piss anybody off before I’d been here four whole days. That was a record even for me. On the other hand, accepting that no meant no was something everybody had to learn—and something I might have to embrace myself if Ricky’s interest was strictly platonic.
The next thing I pulled out of the crate put Carson and Ricky completely out of my mind. Because underneath the crumpled muslin was a slim, leather-bound journal, secured with a faded blue ribbon. I carefully removed the ribbon and opened the little book. On the flyleaf, in perfect Victorian copperplate rendered in sepia ink, were words that made my mouth turn dry.
On Spiritus Communion
Observations by Frances Richdale
“Holy shit,” I muttered. My hands were shaking so hard I had to set the journal aside lest I tear its pages. A first person account of paranormal experimentation at Richdale Manor. This was exactly what Saul had been hoping for—whatI’dbeen hoping for, but for a different reason.
Saul wanted a clearer picture of the Manor’s history. I wanted to help Avi. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure Saul wanted to help Avi too, since they’d been friends, but his motivation was colored by his ties with the Manor and Ghost’s legacy.
Mine was more personal.
I had a grief-stricken dead guy living in the house with me and I wanted to make him happy. Happier. Or at least more comfortable.
My hands were besmirched with dust, so before I touched the journal again, I raced for the bathroom, scrubbed my hands, and blotted them dry on the embroidered hand towel Saul had left for me.
I crept back to the document room as though I were stalking a skittish Gil before a vet visit. The journal was right where I left it, of course, so I reverently lifted it and sank down in the chair again, hoping that against all the Victorian-era odds, Frances Richdale was clear-eyed, clear-headed, and thorough.
