Page 119 of Best In Class
“This is going to be one for the history books,” I tell him as I lead him to a black 1972 Cadillac hearse. It’s retrofitted with velvet seats and eerie purple underlighting that glistens under the lamplight like it just rolled off of a Tim Burton movie set.
“Thisis your idea of a date?” Dom asks haughtily.
“It’s Savannah,” I reply sweetly. “Of course, it is.”
He narrows his eyes, then glances at the Cadillac. “You know, I believed in ghosts when I was a kid.”
“Really?” I flutter my eyelashes like I’m trying to recall. “I don’t remember.”
“Of course, you don’t,” he quips sarcastically.
I give him a look of pure glee. “You did say ‘do better.’ Iamdoing better.”
“Are you?” he asks dryly, an eyebrow arched.
God! He’s so handsome. I could eat him up in two bites.
“And”—I link my arm through his—“when I told Miss Abigail my plan for the date, she reminded me, and I want you to note she was chortling when she told me how you wouldn’t sleep in the dark until you were fifteen.”
He groans. “She needs to stop telling you things.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Moonbeam, your idea of fun and mine are different.”
“Man up, Calder. It’s time to pay respect to Savannah’s history,” I tell him and then turn to face him. I go on tip-toe and brush my lips against his. “And, if you get scared, I’ll hold your hand.”
His hands go to my waist, clasping tight. He pulls me close. “Oh, I’ll hold something of yours.” He cups my ass and squeezes.
I laugh.
Loudly.
I’m full of joy.
Like I haven’t been…ever.
The tour guide, a lanky man in a black waistcoat with a shock of silver hair and a voice like molasses, waves us over.
“Welcome to Dead of Night,” he intones. “You two lovebirds ready to ride with the spirits?”
Dom mutters, “Define ready.”
“I’ll leave the bedside light on tonight,” I tell him cheekily.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“You betcha.”
We climb into the back of the hearse, which smells like old wood, cloves, and something faintly metallic. Dom slides in beside me.
There are six of us, plus the tour guide. There’s an older couple from Lubbock who are in Savannah to celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary and are fans of everything ghostly. And a gay couple from Oregon who are in Savannah for the first time, and were told that the hearse tour is a must-do experience.
We glide slowly through the historic district, past mansions draped in moss and stories.
“Welcome, everyone,” our guide says. “I am William Butler”—he dramatically pauses—“Jones.” He cackles. “I’m sure y’all were thinkin’ I’d say Yeats.”
We all murmur a chuckle.
