Page 48 of Ghosted
“I will, and you do the same if you two learn anything more,” Jack replies from his position by the sink.
I nod, gathering my trash and throwing it out. I stick the yogurt back in the fridge for someone else to enjoy. The muffin was okay, but I’m still queasy.
Jack studies me like a concerned father. “Are you sure you should go to work today? Do you need to go to urgent care?”
“No. I doubt there’s much they could do for me at this point. And to be honest, it would complicate things for us if I had to trace back where I got drugged. As far as work goes, I have to go, whether I want to or not. I’m the only one who can open.” Aunt Clarissa hasn’t been more than a cashier in years.
Jack frowns at me. “I don’t like you working.”
“Yeah, but I like to keep my lights on and my fridge stocked,” I say with a sardonic smile. It’s our busiest season; I can’t afford to take a day off, even if I do feel like shit.
Jack shakes his head at me. “Okay, Rae. Take care.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
With the NightBefore All Hallows Eve Ball coming up this Saturday, I have a lot to get done. Despite wanting to figure out who murdered my… Friend? With ghostly, orgasmic benefits? Whatever. The point is, I have very little time to do much of anything outside of preparing the store for the ball. I opened The Veil today after a quick “pits and bits” shower. Now I just have to hope Lenore, our seasonal hire, is up to the task of holding down the fort while I stop into all the other shops on Main Street and collect the donations for the silent auction.
One thing I love about this town is the way we all come together for each other. Each small, locally owned business on Main Street helps out when needed, and together, we collaborate on creating some of the most fun town festivals around.
Our Harvest Festival and Holiday Festivals are epic, but when I asked for auction items to help us boost sales at the last business owner’s meeting, no one batted an eye. Every single person donated. Ravenwood rallies around its own.
I tear open a new box of shipping supplies and set them up in the stock room, wiping my brow free of sweat once I have them all sorted. Even though it’s almost November, we’re having an unseasonably warm day today. I’m still hungover from my little GHB latte, and the last thing I need is the sun’s personal vendetta against me.
I dust my hands off on the seat of my jeans and head into the store. Lenore is already working, adding price tags to a few new clothing items we got in the other day. “Hey Lenore,” I call. She swings her head my way, the decorative rings in her braids clacking musically as she raises a hand in a slow, fluid motion. Aunt C met Lenore at a yoga retreat she was teaching and insisted she would boost the vibration of the store. I take in Lenore’s smooth, deep complexion and her wide eyes that are always at half-mast, as if she can’t be bothered to open them all the way. She’s too busy being Zen. I would love even a single crumb of her relaxed state of mind.
“Rae, hello. These crocheted cardigans are just darling. The woman who makes them has a fantastic Surya Virabhadrasana—Sun Warrior. So strong, she can stand there for hours. I don’t know how that correlates to crocheting, but all forms of creation are intertwined, don’t you think?”
I blink at her, the pounding headache drilling a hole through my skull not allowing me to partake in deep discussions about creativity and connectedness. “Um, yeah. One form of creativity usually lends itself to another,” I say halfheartedly, not wanting to be rude. “But hey, do you think you have the store for an hour or so? I have to get the stuff for the auction.” I throw a thumb over my shoulder towards the door.
She offers me a relaxed smile and nods. “Yes, I have it handled. Go about your business. And remember to drink somewater. A hydrated body is a supple body,” she says wisely. I made the mistake of telling her about my headache earlier today, and she offered me one too many turmeric chili remedies. I finally had to announce it had gone away on its own, even though it hadn’t. My body and spicy food do not mix.
“Thank you,” I say, grabbing my bag from behind the counter. She waves off my thanks and goes back to her task.
I make sure to put on my darkest pair of sunglasses and push my way out onto the bright street. Despite the near-black tint of the lenses, the sun still needles my retinas. I wince and hope that the ibuprofen I took earlier kicks in soon.
The street is nearly empty, which isn’t surprising for a Monday morning, so I’m able to get to The Cracked Spine in just a few minutes. The used bookstore is my first stop because Carlos, the owner, offered to donate a special book to the auction. He wouldn’t tell me much other than that it’s a handwritten grimoire someone found in a local basement.
I open the door to his shop and am immediately overwhelmed with the smell of old books and furniture polish. Carlos likes the books to speak for themselves, so any decor is kept to a minimum. The store is a veritable labyrinth of bookshelves, stretching further back than you can see. His checkout desk sits at the front, with paths leading into the shelves veering off every which way. I’m sure it’s a fire hazard; but hey, death by book is a great way to go in my opinion.
“Rae, hi!” Carlos greets me jovially from his desk. His round face and equally round glasses, coupled with his white, close-shaven beard, make him look like a Latin American Santa Claus. He has the demeanor to match, so I always enjoy talking with him.
“Hey, Carlos. How are the grandkids?” I ask. His onlydaughter, Marisol, moved to New York around seven years ago with her husband to pursue the “big city nonsense,” as Carlos likes to call it.
“Good, good. Maritza just won an award with her dance group, and Luis and Miguel are doing well in Kindergarten so far.” Luis and Miguel are the surprise twins that Marisol and her husband had just a year after moving to New York. To say that their lives have been busy is an understatement.
“I’m glad to hear that everyone is doing well. So, can I see this book?” I ask eagerly. I love a good grimoire.
“Yes, yes. Follow me,” Carlos says before rounding the desk and locking the front door. He flips the sign to “Closed,” and then gestures for me to follow him deeper into the store.
We weave our way through the narrow aisles, the books looking almost like rows of teeth, as if we’re being digested by some great, literary beast. When we get to his stock room, he yanks the door open and ushers me inside, clicking the light on in passing. A long wooden table takes up most of the real estate in the center of the room, and various books cover nearly the entire surface.
He turns to one of his floor-to-ceiling stocking shelves and reaches for a cardboard box. He brings it down, gently stacking a few other books and pushing them aside to make room on the table.
He carefully lifts out a book that’s about the size of one of the Mirriam Webster Dictionaries I remember from every classroom growing up. But this book is no dictionary. The outside is made of a deep-mahogany, worn leather cover. It was bound by hand, the yellowed parchment pages sewn together with a thick cord. He hands it to me almost reverently, and I finger the symbolembossed on the front cover. It looks to be some sort of family seal, but I don’t recognize it.
“May I?” I ask, fingers itching to flip open the cover.
“Of course,” he replies, stepping closer to my side so we can both look through it.
