Page 3 of Ghosted
I know you always thought I was a batty old man for investing in gold rather than putting my money in the stock market, but it is now yours to do with as you wish. However, I would be very pleased indeed if it went to baby Rose. For whatever it is she ends up enjoying in her life, or whatever academic plans she might have in the future.
The gold is buried in my old work briefcase on the north side of the oak tree in my backyard. It is approximately four-feet down. Hopefully, you receive this letter before you decide to do anything with the property.
I love you very much, son, and I could not be more proud of you. You have been the light of my life, and my only regret is not getting to spend enough time with you or Rose. Be well and take care of yourself.
Love,
Leo (Dad/Grandpa)
I work to school my expression as I feel Leonard peel away from me. The sensation is not unlike removing a sticker from your skin. I shudder a bit and nod to him, not wanting him to notice my teary expression. Fathers who love their kids will always get to me. My own dad is one of those, but I’ve come across too many that aren’t.
“Okay, let’s head out. Did you by any chance have a desk or bureau that got sold off when you passed?” I ask Leonard while folding the letter and crinkling it a bit. I swipe it through the dust under the desk for good measure and sneeze at the resulting dust bunny tornado.
He scrunches up his face in thought, his form flickering in and out as his concentration shifts from staying corporeal to flitting through his memories. Finally, he snaps his fingers. “Yes! My son got rid of our old bookcase that had some cabinets built into the bottom. When I get out of here and see his mother, she’s gonna be pissed he got rid of it. He should feel lucky it's me haunting him. She would have brained him as soon as the sale went through. Especially since he used the money to buy an even bigger TV.” He snorts and follows me out of the store.
“Great. I’ll say I came across it at an estate sale and found the letter,” I say, beckoning Wren to follow us out.
“Can you please inform Mr. Gold Standard to stay as far away from me as he can?” Wren asks testily. Despite the slight chill of the approaching Massachusetts autumn, I know the goosebumps along her exposed arms are from the ghost at my side rather than the air. She always overheats when she’s working, so she tends to wear short sleeves, even in the fall and winter. All the better to display her various tattoos.
“What’s her problem?” Leonard grouses, moving to theother side of me and into the street. Cars can’t hit him anyway, I guess.
I tilt my head towards Wren even though I’m addressing him, “She doesn’t love the feel of ghosts. Sorry,” I say apologetically, as we make our way up the street and toward the historic housing district of Ravenwood. Leonard nods and follows along quietly. I clear my throat and say, “So, listen. I don’t like to advertise that I can see and speak to the dead, so please don’t talk to me and expect an answer when we get to your son’s house.”
“Got it,” he says, completely unbothered by the cars running through him. Yeah, this guy has definitely been a ghost for a while. New ghosts tend to operate with the same instincts they did when they were alive. Especially jumping out of the way of moving vehicles.
I link my arm through Wren’s and we trudge onwards.
THREE
“Well, that could have gone better,”Wren says, barely suppressing her snicker behind her glass of red wine.
I scowl at her over the top of my own glass, then swipe the last bit of sharp cheddar off the charcuterie board between us before she can grab it. She gives me the finger as I chew, not caring at all that we’re in a semi-fancy wine bar.
I can’t even be upset at her because she’s right. Meeting with Leonard’s son had been a disaster. First, his wife, Holly, almost closed the door on us because she took one look at Wren and me and thought we were satanists or something. I should mention she was clutching her large, diamond-studded cross necklace as she proclaimed that, “This is a house that follows the church, not… whatever you’re selling.”
Sigh.
Eventually, once I showed his wife the letter, we got Abraham outside. Thankfully, she recognized Leonard’shandwriting. The entire—and I mean the entire—time, Leonard would not shut up. And listen, I get it; he wanted to talk to his son in some way. But judging from Holy Holly glaring daggers at us through the window, I didn’t think facilitating a conversation between the dead and the living would have gone over well.
The only good thing that came out of today is that Leonard is gone. He got his wish, thankfully, because Abraham didn’t sell the house and instead has rented it out to a cousin. When we left, he was right behind us carrying a shovel over his broad shoulder, intent on seeing if he’d be thousands richer by the end of the day. Judging by the fact that Leonard is no longer in my ear, yammering about his son’s poor choice of lawnmowers, Abraham must have found his gold.
I drain the last sip of my wine and ask, “So, how’s it going in the land of MatchStik, home of the finest assholes dating apps have to offer?” Now it’s her turn to scowl. She and I both have struck out more times than worth mentioning in terms of dating. The only difference is that she hasn’t given up yet. I did after the last guy I briefly dated wanted me to get in contact with his dead ex-girlfriend. Talk about a mood killer.
“You’re only asking to distract me from bullying you about today,” she says, miming the way my eyes had bounced back and forth between Leonard and Abraham. I’m sure my eyes zinging back and forth from Holly’s husband to a seemingly empty spot next to him didn’t help our case.
“That’s true, but I'm also curious how your last date went. What was his name again? Devon?” I ask.
“Damien,” she hisses like the feral cat she is.
“So, I’m guessing things didn’t go great,” I sing-song.
“Hold. I need another glass of wine before I tell you this,”she states, standing and swiping both of our glasses off the high-top table. She stalks to the mirrored bar, sliding her petite form between two couples.
I take a second to sweep my gaze over the interior of Barrel and Vine, making sure no wine enthusiast spirits are about to accost me while I’m alone.
I’ve always been terrified of someone seeing me talk to a person who isn’t there. Truly, I was so thankful that Bluetooth headphones were invented. All you have to do is put an earbud in your ear, and most people will assume you’re on the phone. No wonder so many people with the Gift were hung back in the day. Not many convenient excuses for talking to yourself in the 1690s.
Wren comes back with two very full glasses of merlot and a scowl for the crowd. “What are all these people doing here on a Wednesday?” I don’t mention thatwe’rehere on a Wednesday, because arguing with Wren is futile.
