“You’re not going to meet people leaning against a wall by yourself,” she pointed out.
He glanced at the noisy, animated crowd, then back at her. “Ah, but I’ve met you. I prefer quality over quantity.”
Just as she did. Did he mean what he’d implied, or was he just being polite? “Are you going to eat that mushroom cap?” she blurted.
He stared at the appetizer in his hand. “Forgot I had it.” Then he popped it into his mouth.
Had he forgotten because he was caught up in his conversation with her? It had been so long since she’d dated, she’d lost her ability to judge the signals between men and women. And what was she doing, letting one guest make her forget all about her duties?
Sarah’s cheeks heated and she said, half nervously, half regretfully, “I’m afraid I have to get back to work.”
“I know. I shouldn’t have kept you so long, but I’m not going to apologize.”
Was she crazy to think there was a special connection between her and this man she’d just met? She turned to go and he said, “Before you disappear, what’s your name?”
“Sarah Masters.”
“I’m Will Bryan.” He held out his hand.
She shifted the tray to her left hand then put her right hand in his, enjoying the warm pressure of his touch.
“And I don’t have a romantic interest in my life either,” he said, “just in case you happened to be wondering.”
“I, um…” Should she confess? And was it possible for her cheeks to get any warmer?
He kept hold of her hand, and she had no desire to free herself.
“I know we’ve just met, Sarah. But it’s New Year’s Eve, a perfect time for beginnings. Is there any chance, when this party finally winds down, that you’d feel like going for a walk on the beach? We could watch dawn break on a new year.”
“Oh!” It was exactly the kind of thing that appealed to her. She couldn’t think of anything more romantic. And now she knew she’d been reading the signals just fine. “It sounds like a perfect way to welcome the new year.”
He squeezed her hand. “That’s exactly what I thought.”
Samantha loved movies, especially on the big screen at a movie theatre. But she hated it when men figured that her being alone gave them license to flirt. So she’d worked out her strategy.
She went on Monday nights, because they were quiet. She arrived early and claimed an aisle seat in the middle of the theatre. She draped her coat on the neighboring seat and, if asked, said the seat was taken.
On this particular Monday in late January, it was snowing and she was tempted to stay home. But she’d been looking forward to seeing
Martha’s Magnificent Marriage
, an English historical romance based on one of her favorite books. She had avoided reading the movie reviews because she wanted to come to the experience fresh, without other people’s opinions cluttering her mind.
The snow certainly hadn’t kept other movie-goers at home. Martha obviously had lots of fans, and the movie was new in town. Samantha slipped out of her seat to yet a couple of middle-aged women go by, and she’d barely sat down when she had to get up again, this time to let a man on his own slide in. He took the seat beside the one with her coat, leaving an empty one on his other side. He smiled at her. “I like being in the middle of the theatre.”
“Me too.”
“It strains my eyes if I’m too far back,” he said easily. “And I hate sitting up front, having to tilt my head back. Gives me a crick in my neck.”
She smiled. Normally she didn’t talk to strangers, but this man seemed harmless, and he had a particularly engaging smile. But for the smile, he was an average guy. Medium build, brown hair, no obvious distinguishing marks. Just a smile that kinked up at one corner and squinted his eyes. A smile that almost forced you to smile back.
“I’m really looking forward to this movie,” he said.
“So am I.”
“I read a couple of reviews. Hope you’re prepared for some real thrills.”
Thrills? Well, yes, like when Martha accepted Henry’s proposal, and when their first child was born. “I’m ready, but I must confess I’ve read the book so I doubt I’m in for any surprises.”
“There’s a book? I didn’t know.”
“I just loved it. It was heartwarming.”
“Heartwarming?” He shrugged, then grinned again, like a small boy anticipating a treat. “They say the special effects are awesome.”
“Really?” She raised her eyebrows, wondering why on earth the film-makers added special effects to a historical story.
A voice spoke from over Samantha’s shoulder. “Are those seats taken?” She glanced up to see a young man and woman in business suits, looking harried.
Her new acquaintance said, “The one over here is free but…” He glanced at Samantha. “You’re waiting for someone, aren’t you?”
She deliberated then grabbed her coat. “If he hasn’t made it by now, he deserves to lose his seat.” The newcomers looked perfectly respectable, and so was the man she’d been talking to. She’d have no problem sitting beside any of them. In fact, she might enjoy sitting beside the man with the smile.
She slipped out of her seat and into the aisle. Would he move to the left, or to the right? He came out behind her, letting the couple move past him. Then he went in, taking the seat beside Samantha. She sat down just as the lights dimmed.
It had been a while since she’d sat beside a man in a dark theatre. She’d broken up with Frank six months ago, and he hadn’t been much of a movie fan anyhow.
Now she found it hard to relax because she was so aware of the smiling man’s presence. He didn’t encroach on her space but his shoulder and arm were only a couple of inches away and when she looked down, she saw his thigh. He was dressed casually in jeans, an open-necked shirt, and a sports jacket, so either he hadn’t come straight from work or he had a job that didn’t require a suit.
The titles rolled and the man beside her stirred restlessly, distracting her. Then she saw Martha as an adolescent, in her sister’s bedroom, discussing her sister’s impending nuptials. Yes, that was just where the book began. She gave a sigh of satisfaction.
* * *
Gabe watched in disbelief as the credits rolled.
Martha’s Magnificent Marriage
? What the heck was that? No wonder the woman beside him had looked startled when he mentioned thrills and special effects.
He began to rise, so he could sprint to whichever theatre in this complex was showing
Killer Tornado
. But if he did, he couldn’t sit in the dark beside the attractive brunette.
Killer Tornado
versus a woman he would never see again.
She let out a soft sigh and he knew he was staying. There was something special about her . . .
He struggled out of his jacket, trying not to bump her. But, as he pulled his arm out of the sleeve, it brushed hers. “Sorry,” he murmured, taking the excuse to lean close.
She turned toward him and breathed, “It’s all right.” Her breath was minty and her hair smelled like a bouquet of flowers.
He tried not to groan. If this was a date, he’d have his arm around her by now.
But she’d been holding a seat for someone—a date, of course. A woman like her had to have a boyfriend. She was so pretty and classy. Long shiny hair, pale oval face, big brown eyes. Tailored gray pants and white shirt. Elegant, yet not snotty. Her smile was genuine; it lit her eyes. Why couldn’t he find a woman like this?
He wondered about her boyfriend. What jerk—what idiot—would stand this woman up?
* * *
The aisle seat had its disadvantages. People began to shove their way past Samantha as the lights came up, and she couldn’t read the credits. She gave a growl of frustration.
Her neighbor said, “They ought to have a brief intermission so the folks who are in a hurry can leave. Then roll the credits for the people who want to read them.”
“Excellent idea.” She reached under her seat to collect her purse. “Since I can’t read them, I suppose it’s time to go.”
They walked up the aisle together and he stayed beside her, shielding her from the jostling crowd, until they reached the street. “Seeing as your companion didn’t show up, can I offer you a lift?” Quickly he added, “I hope I’m not out of line.”
He was awfully cute and seemed really nice, but she couldn’t accept a ride from a stranger. “No, thanks.”
He studied her for a minute, his head cocked to one side. Then he pulled his wallet from his pocket and handed it to her. “Look, this is me. My name is Gabe Marino. I’m a veterinarian, I’ve got a library card and a video card, I’m a blood donor. You’ll see photos of my parents and my spaniel, Gus. No wife. I’ve never been married. You’re right to be cautious, but…” He drew a deep breath then said, “I have to come clean. I came here tonight to see
Killer Tornado
and—”
“Then why did you stay?” she interrupted.
His eyes, with those nice crinkly lines around them, met hers. “To be honest, I couldn’t throw away the chance to sit next to you for a couple of hours. And I’d love to spend a little more time with you. But if you don’t feel right about it, I understand.”
He looked so earnest, so sweet. She glanced inside his wallet and smiled at the gray-haired couple with their arms around each other, the floppy-eared spaniel. She handed the wallet back. “I don’t know you well enough to accept a ride so—”
“I’ll say goodbye then.”
“Let me finish. I was going to suggest we chat over a cup of coffee instead.”
“I’d like to, but what about your boyfriend?”
She chuckled. “I don’t have one these days. When I go to the movies alone, I put a coat on the seat beside me and pretend I’m waiting for someone.”
“Oh.” He began to smile, that warm, contagious smile. “And maybe you
were
waiting for someone.”
She smiled back. “Maybe I was. Now, what about that coffee?”
“Great! There’s a nice spot in the next block.”
He turned and she fell into step beside him. “By the way, I’m Samantha Ward.”
“Nice name. It suits you.”
“Thanks. So, Gabe, do you want to talk about the movie? All the, uh, how did it go? Thrills and special effects?”
He laughed and his shoulder gently bumped hers. “Samantha, tonight’s thrill was meeting you.”
“A ghost! How intriguing.” Antonio pushes the clutter of dinner dishes aside so he can rest one elbow on the bistro table and prop his chin on his fist. He widens his brown eyes theatrically.
“I didn’t say it was a ghost.” I chuckle at his expression, and at the thought of a fluffy white Casper-like phantom bouncing along beside my right ear.
“You said you were being haunted, Leslie darling.”
“Yes, but not in the Halloween sense of spooks and goblins. It’s more like…” I pause, trying to figure out what, exactly, it is like. “It’s a voice in my head,” I say lamely. “Not my voice, and it’s not really in my head, it’s sort of, uh, pervasive or omnipotent. If I was religious I’d probably compare it to God talking to me.”
“A voice from on high, making pronouncements?”
I wrinkle up my nose. “Not so much pronouncements as…evaluations, I guess. Negative ones.”
“Of you? What a bad-mannered ghost.”
Part of me is laughing with him, relieved to keep this conversation on a superficial plane. It was crazy to have mentioned the subject. Yet, having done so, a desire to persist is building inside me, a need to analyze the phenomenon and try to explain it to him. If I can’t do this with Antonio, my new and maybe future love, it doesn’t bode well for our relationship. The Voice is significant to my life, as is Antonio.
He is tipping out the last of the wine, slowly and ceremoniously. I watch mesmerized as a miniature ruby waterfall trickles into the rich, still pond in my glass. When I raise my eyes, Antonio is holding up the empty bottle, his face and gesture a question mark.
The words that come aren’t his, though. In fact, he can’t even hear them. This time it’s The Voice.
Remember you’ve got that meeting first thing in the morning. Best not to over-indulge, or you won’t be on your toes.
I hadn’t intended to drink any more, precisely because of that meeting, but now I’m belligerent as a thwarted child. I nod brightly at Antonio. “Not a whole bottle, but another glass would be nice.”
He flags down our waiter, which takes some doing as we’re sitting in the most secluded corner of the crowded bistro. It’s a nasty January night, bitterly cold outside, and when I told the hostess that I wanted to sit as far away from the front door as possible, Antonio charmed her into offering us this lovely nook.
Our waiter finally responds and I’m quiet, waiting while he clears the table and Antonio places our order. Antonio adjusts the placement of the candle so it’s off to the side of the table, casting a romantic, flickering light rather than shining directly in my eyes.
When he’s done, I admit to my suspicions. “I think it’s my mother.”
He frowns slightly; his face telling me he’s feeling guilty for not following the conversational thread. Not that I was stitching a straight, obvious line.
I help him out. “The Voice. The ghost, as you call her. I’m pretty sure she’s my mother.”
His mouth forms a silent
O
. Again I know what he’s thinking, and I know he is hesitant to say it.
I say it for him. “Yes, she died when I was six. I barely remember her. But I think it must be her voice.”
“When did she start, uh, talking to you?” He still looks cautious.
Hush now, girl, or the man will think you’re a fruitcake.
Shut up, Mom, he already knows. Besides, if I’m crazy, it’s you who’s doing it to me.
I’m shocked, Leslie. You know I only mean the best for you. You have so very much potential, I just hate to see you wasting yourself, doing ill-considered things, throwing your life away.
I don’t reply, and The Voice falls silent. What I’m thinking is that she figures I owe her my life. She saved mine, when I was six and ran out in front of a car. She died doing it. She was a heroine and I was the girl who had killed her mother. No-one ever came right out and said it, but I felt it, in everyone’s pain-filled silence. There was no way I could make it up, not to Dad, or my baby sister Jen, or Gran and Gramps. I was just a kid. I couldn’t give them—or make up for—what they’d lost.