Page 85 of The Dead Romantics

Ben took a breath. “In truth, I’d wish for—”

A roar of wind swept across the trees, and when it hit the field, it plucked up the white fluff of dandelions like a roiling wave on the ocean. It swept across the field and rushed toward me in a whirl of seeds that looked like snow. I shielded my face as the wave splashedagainst me, over me, around me, and carried the dandelions across the rest of the field and up into the crystalline sky.

I whirled around and watched them go. “Holy shit, talk about spring winds. Right, Ben?” There was no response. “Ben?”

But he was gone.

27

Ghost of a Chance

WHEN I REACHEDthe bottom of the Ridge, Carver’s blue Ford pickup truck was parked in the lot. He dipped his head out of the open window, a John Deere hat flipped backward on his head, and waved me over. He had a beautifully carved wooden birdcage in the passenger seat that he’d made himself, strapped in for safekeeping.

I let out a low whistle when I saw it. “Is thatmahogany?”

He scoffed. “Hell no. It’s cherrywood. What do you think I am, made of money?”

“You do have a steady high-paying job in tech and can take all of the vacation you wantwhileworking from home so, like, yeah, I do,” I replied.

He playfully slammed me on the arm. “Shush. Just wait until you sell the next Harry Potter. Then you’ll be rolling in the dough and everyone’ll want you to be their best friend—perhaps with benefits, if they’re lucky.”

I rolled my eyes. “No one will sell the next Harry Potter. It hita zeitgeist that’ll never be re-created, and because there is so much tochoosefrom now, it’s near impossible to predict the next publishing trend—”

“Okay, okay,” he groaned, “I get it! Uncle, I call uncle!”

I stuck out my tongue, and then nudged my chin toward the birdcage. “What’s that for, anyway?”

He grinned then. “I got an idea for a part of Dad’s will.”

“You were thinking about that?” I asked, surprised.

“Of course I was! What do you take me for, a nonmeddling middle brother?”

“Touché.”

“Okay, I say we feed the little fuckers who keep stealing the squirrel food, trap twelve of them, and let them go during the funeral.”

“Those are going to be some mad crows...”

“So? What’re they going to do? Shit on my windshield?”

“Steal your Rolex.”

He looked annoyed. “Do you have a better idea?”

“No, but I do like the birdcage—can you give me a ride back to the bed-and-breakfast?”

“Sure, hop in. Just be careful with the cage,” he added as I walked around to the other side. I slid in, and noticed a copy of theDaily Ramon the seat. I picked it up, and flipped through to the back. “The obit was lovely,” he added as I found it.

Good, they used one of my favorite photos of Dad. It’d been taken a few years ago, when everyone had come to New York to celebrate the New Year and we’d all grabbed our champagne and climbed the fire escape to the roof. He had a cigar in one hand, laughing into the night, his face lit by New Year’s fireworks. I smiled at the memory.

Carver pulled out onto the road again and made a U-turn backinto town. “You know—you don’t have to do all of this alone. I love scavenger hunts.”

I folded the newspaper back up and stuck it between the seats. “I know, but you’re all so busy. I’m the bum of the family.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied. “You ghostwrite for Stephenie Meyer.”

“Not even the same genre, bub.”

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