Page 9 of After Life
“Virginia?” I asked. “We’re at the head of ‘her’ path.”
He shook his head. “No. A man. He wasn’t happy about... Well. I’m not sure. He didn’t speak to me. He was down by the grocery.” Frowning, Oscar stared at the empty sidewalk ahead of us. “It’s not terribly often I find a ghost to be discomfiting, but this one was.”
I sighed inwardly. My hip was killing me, I was actually fairly hungry, and my head was starting to throb after a long morning of travel and now the emotional roller coaster with Oscar running hot and cold. But I bit my tongue hard before speaking, holding back an exasperated sigh I’d have thought nothing about less than a year ago. “Do you want to go back to Honey Walk?” I offered. “This romantic walk is kind of a shambles. Maybe head back, get some lunch, rest up, and start over later? Or tomorrow?”
Oscar’s frown deepened. “No. I’m spoiling things, aren’t I? Don’t lie to me—I know I am. Come on, ignore my maudlin turn. Let’s go to this café then, get something in our bellies, then decide what to do next. This is a charming town,” he said, tugging me forward. “I bet there’re all sorts of things we can check out before heading back for the evening.”
I let him lead me along but I couldn’t miss the way his gaze darted back toward the spot where he said the ghost had been, or the way he tensed as we reached the café door.
He hung back as I pulled it open, the electronic tone of the door chime sharp and grating on the quiet street. “Oscar?”
“Sorry,” he muttered, looking past me again. “Pardon.” He ducked past me and I had the distinct feeling he hadn’t been apologizing to me.
The café was empty, a sign hung above the counter declaring: Order Here, Seat Yourself, We’ll Find You When It’s Ready. Oscar wavered for a moment, but I motioned for him to grab us a table while I made my way to the counter. Racks of brochures—mostly for mainland attractions but a few for things like Tibbins Quay, the Broken Palm Island Museum and Cultural Center, and Pirate Pete’s Shipwreck Tours were clustered on one end of the rack near the door. Magazines of the dull and respectable variety lined another rack by the counter, all about seasonal crafts, deep sea fishing, or nature and wildlife. They were sun-faded on the edges and gave the place an abandoned air with their curling edges and publication dates from a year past. “Do you see anything you’d like?” I called to Oscar, pointing to the menu board above the counter. A few letters were missing here and there, the plastic pieces no doubt long gone, but it was easy enough to see the café specialized in coffees, smoothies, and sandwiches as well as a few burgers.
“Anything,” he said. “Anything and a lemonade.”
I turned back to the counter just as a woman pushed through the doors that led to the kitchen, looking entirely nonplussed with our presence. “Welcome,” she said in a polite but distracted sort of tone. “What can I get for y’all?”
I placed our order—chicken salad sandwiches, chips, and lemonade seemed like a good bet—and she gave me a ticket with a muttered be right out and disappeared back into the kitchen. Joining Oscar at the booth he’d picked—situated in the window overlooking the road—shrugged. “The surlier the staff, the better the food in my experience.”
“I think that’s just a trick our brains pull on us to ensure we don’t complain about the food in establishments where there’s a high chance they’ll spit in it.”
The door chimed, and we both craned our necks to see who was coming in. The two teenagers we’d seen arguing earlier ambled in, one shaking a cup full of ice and slurping noisily as they leaned on the counter. “Delia,” the other one called loudly. “Ray-Don sent us over to get his order!”
The woman who’d taken my order strode out of the kitchen, scowling. “Ray-Don can get it his own damn self. You two have school today!”
“Nuh uh,” the cup rattler protested. “It’s an in-service day for the teachers.”
“That’s a load of shit,” Delia snapped. “You’re the only two I’ve seen out today and if it were in-service day I’d be up to my ears in kids from the quay slumming it for cheap coffee.”
“Come on,” the other one whined. “It’s useless. We’ll just get our GEDs this summer, you know?”
Delia shook her finger in their faces. “Last time,” she ground out. “Tell Ray-Don he enables this bullshit again, I’ll kick his ass myself!.” Delia turned and strode back into the kitchen, cursing not so under her breath.
“Ugh.” Cup rattler sank down on one of the red vinyl covered stools at the counter while her counterpart turned to lean on their elbows, apparently attempting to channel every too-cool teenaged character in the movies since 1950.
Oscar realized we’d been clocked before I did. “Shit,” he sighed on a soft breath. “Smile. We’ve been recognized.”
The elbow-leaned shoved away from the counter and crossed to our booth in just a few long-legged strides. “I know who you are,” they said, pointing at Oscar. “Holy shit. Are you here to investigate the museum? Oh! Or West Beach? Holy shit! Marilla! Look who it is!”
Marilla—the cup rattler—turned, shrugged, looked away then did a double take. “Oh. My. God. Oscar Fellowes! Ohmygod, is Ezra Baxter here too? I love his camera work and ohmygod, he’s so cute!”
Oscar winced at the sharp squeal of his surname. “Hello,” he said affably. “Ah, we’re just here enjoying a bit of a holiday, just me and Julian. Ezra’s on his own trip with... a friend,” he added, answering the leaner’s question. “It’s lovely to know we have fans here.”
Marilla snorted. “No one comes here on holiday,” she said, imitating Oscar’s accent on the last word. “Seriously. Not unless you’re like, wannabe rich and even then you go to Tibbins Quay. Rosie Sands is a ghost town.” She paused, then snorted. “Literally.”
Her companion nodded, eyes wide as he stared at Oscar avidly. “I’m Kelly. Total old dude name, I know, but, I mean... Oscar, right?” He chuckled. “You know that feel, am I right?”
“I suppose so,” Oscar murmured, clearing his throat. He shot me a desperate glance—one even I could interpret as make it stop please.
“So if y’all aren’t in class, what are you up to?” I asked, drawing Kelly’s glare.
“Nothing,” he sighed. “Waiting for Ray-Don’s food. Dude, seriously though. How do you get started in the biz? Oh! I bet you get a ton of cash, huh? Like all those people who wanna talk to grandma and shit?”
“Kelly! Christ, dude,” Marilla groaned. “It’s not all about money, you dick.”
Delia emerged from the kitchen with a large paper bag just as the café door swung open to admit Ray-Don, the owner of the grocery next door. “What the hell’s taking y’all so long? Gotta go kill the cow yourselves?”
