A Gift of Ghosts (Tassamara) (28 page)

Not so
Dillon. Being torn away from his car by the ghostly vortex had snapped his tie
to the Taurus. He could now go anywhere he pleased and he was thrilled to be
able to travel. Akira suspected that after the holiday he might head off with
Lucas. It’d be a little lonely for him unless he found other ghosts to talk to,
but he was ready for some adventure, she thought.

With a sigh,
Akira considered her clothing options. Living with Zane meant both of them had
to make some compromises about food—he thought meat, dessert and carbs ought to
be fixtures at meals, not the occasional treat—and she’d gained a little
weight, so most of her dressier clothes were going to be uncomfortably tight.
Her hand hovered over a cranberry-colored silk dress. Dry clean only, so she
rarely wore it, but she supposed she could trust Nat not to spill wine on her
again.

By the time
she entered the kitchen, Grace was already mashing the potatoes. “How much
butter do you put in, Akira? Nat says two tablespoons is plenty, I say the whole
stick.”

“Most of the
time I just use milk.” All right, what in the world was going on with Nat? Her
smile at the sight of Akira in her new dress was filled with glee, and looked
just like Zane’s when he beat Lucas at pool for the first time. Should she ask,
Akira wondered?

But then Zane
appeared in the doorway, laden down with a deep golden bird, and the moment was
gone in the chaos of turkey carving and final preparations.

In the
dining room, Akira had put place settings three to a side of the table, leaving
the ends of the table empty. The arrangement was a little unusual, but not for
a house with ghosts. But before they all sat down, Zane asked if they needed
another chair.

When she
looked at him curiously, he raised his brows and said, “Henry?”

Smiling—she
loved the way Zane remembered the ghosts, even though he couldn’t see them—Akira
glanced at Rose, who was almost bouncing in her seat with excitement.

“Oh, no,
Henry’s fine,” Rose assured her, waving the suggestion away. “He doesn’t need a
chair. But it was sweet of Zane to think of him.”

Akira
relayed the message, and then ran her eyes over the table. Had she remembered
everything? Butter, salt and pepper, side plates, the rolls, serving utensils
for all the dishes . . . .

Hmm. She
counted. Yes, a wine glass was missing, the glass that ought to be at her place
setting. She glanced at Natalya, who was looking back at her, eyes bright, and
then slipped into her seat without comment.

Max said
grace, they passed the food, the siblings chatted and bickered cheerfully,
everyone ate, but Akira sat silently, brain ticking away, until Zane caught her
attention. “Okay?” he asked her, looking a little worried.

She’d been
quiet for too long, she realized, so she smiled at him as she nodded. They’d
been busy, she’d been happy, she’d felt fine—oh, if she’d thought about it, she
might have realized, but she hadn’t been thinking.

She felt as
if she was glowing with happiness, and maybe he saw it on her face, because he
quirked a brow at her. She just smiled a little wider, and turned her head to
Natalya, who was sitting next to him.

“Is this the
right dress?” she asked Nat. No one else at the table understood the question,
but Natalya pressed her lips together instead of answering. Akira could see the
smile in her eyes, though. “It was a two-year contract,” Akira continued. “So
you knew what you’d seen was on Thanksgiving, but thought maybe this
Thanksgiving was too soon?”

Natalya
still didn’t say anything, but Max was looking curious and Grace and Lucas had
paused in their conversation about some complaint filed with the SEC about
General Directions that might or might not be going to cause another
investigation into their business practices.

Akira stood.
She felt as if the happiness was going to explode out of her and she wanted to
be next to Zane, touching him, when it did. Walking around the table, she
paused by Rose’s chair. “Henry’s comfortable where he is?” she asked.

“Very,” Rose
replied cheerfully. “He won’t remember later, but we can remind him.”

Akira
nodded, and continued around the table. Nat wasn’t even trying to hide her
smile, but everyone else looked mystified. When she got to Zane, Akira held out
her hand, and he stood, taking her hand with his.

“We need to
decide on a wedding date,” she told him, loving his perplexed expression, the
confusion in his blue eyes.

“Okay,” he
answered obligingly. “June or October?” Those were the dates they’d been
talking about: June for the tradition, October because it was the nicest time
of year in central Florida.

Akira shook
her head. “I was thinking more like next weekend. We’re going to be much too
busy in June.”

She waited
for him to realize what she meant, but when he didn’t get it fast enough, she
pulled his hand to her and placed it on her stomach, and as Zane realized what
she was saying, his face lit up, and he wrapped his arms around her, lifting
her off her feet with exuberant joy.

All she’d
been looking for when she came to Tassamara was a place where she could exist,
where she could survive unnoticed. Instead, she’d found everything she’d ever
wanted.

A home.

Love.

Safety.

And a
family.

If you’re
reading this, I hope it means that you enjoyed Akira’s story. (I suppose it
could also mean that you’re one of those people that check the ending to be
sure you’ll like it before starting to read. I admit, I’m one of those, too, so
go ahead, click back a page. You can read this later if you make it this far.)

You know how
some authors say that they always wanted to write? That they’ve been scribbling
in notebooks their whole life? That it was everything they’d ever dreamed
about?

I am not one
of them.

Oh, sure,
every few years I’d try to write. I love to read and I’m a compulsive
daydreamer, so writing is a natural fit. Unfortunately, I’m also tough on
myself. I wrote, I read, I hated, I ripped up (and then later, hit delete). And
after each failed attempt, I wouldn’t write for years.

Then I
discovered fan fiction. And with it, an audience of wonderful, supportive,
enthusiastic fellow writers and readers. I wrote about a quarter of a million
words of fan fiction before turning to original fiction, and received well over
a thousand reviews. I’m not going to list the name of every person who wrote a
review (admit it, you’d stop reading!), but I did want to take this opportunity
to say thank you: thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who ever
reviewed my fics—you gave me the courage to believe in my stories, even when I
was sure the words weren’t doing the story justice.

Thank you,
more specifically, to Allyrien aka Rachel (my chapters don’t feel real until
you tell me what you think of them); to Sara aka Justine (you give me faith
that my words work in my most doubting moments); and to Zero aka Tim (a
parenthetical is not nearly enough room to appreciate your endless patience and
willingness to consult on tone and structure, punctuation and male psychology.)

When I
started writing original fiction, I posted chapters to fictionpress.com.
Leaving my lovely little fan community for the world of original fiction was a
lot like being kicked out of a nest (although I suppose I jumped, really), and
I want to thank everyone who reviewed
A Gift of Ghosts
while it was in
progress. So thank you, so much, to Everis, Nereemac, JMill, DonHanz, Amy, Kat,
Shayna-18, Kaypgirl, AlternateShadesofBlue, RyaJynx, Darlove99, Lorina Lee
Belmont218, Heather, Ann Barthel, Hoshi14, Magz, Miisu, World of Ink,
Purplelover, Luckycool9, Ahrendaaria, FamishedNight, Bittie752, Far Wanderer,
Cat Parmegiani, Ruki44, Bird That Flies At Dawn, Hatondog, Lonnee, and Shineyma.
Your encouragement kept me going.

I also
posted chapters to Critique Circle. I need to say first of all that every
adverb, every use of the word “was,” and every misplaced comma are mine, all
mine, and the people who generously critiqued my work bear no responsibility
for the above. That said, I’d like to thank MikeKent, MimiWriter, Harleyquin,
Katamuki, LornaB, Jaylia, Mpolish, KSullivan, Baker, Egryphon, and Wim for
their insight and feedback.

Jaime
Norwood’s comments were exactly what I needed to hear: whether it was point of
view issues or doubts about tone, Jaime, your concrete, insightful assistance
made this a better book. Christine Pearson, your character analysis helped me enormously,
and Maggie Sharp (the world’s nicest sister-in-law!), your questions made for
some great last-minute tweaks. Thank you all so much!

Finally, I
want to thank my sister, Karen Lowery, for reading what I write and telling me
I’m wonderful. Our mom asked me once why I’d never given her anything of mine
to read, and I told her it was because I already knew she would read it and
tell me it was wonderful and that she loved it and that she was proud of me,
and so I was okay with letting her skip the actual reading part. I didn’t let
my sister skip the actual reading part, but I still appreciate the
unconditional support she gives me. Thanks, Karen!

A quirky
dedication for a quirky book: this book is dedicated to the creators, cast, and
crew of the (wonderful, amazing, incredibly fun, tragically cancelled)
television show
Eureka
, for first inspiring my creativity and then
annoying me so much that I was forced into originality.* And in particular, to
Felicia Day, for this blog post:
http://feliciaday.com/blog/five-things-about-2010
, and for making geeky girls cool.

*Ahem. Or
95% originality? The Quirky Town trope isn’t exactly new. Other superficial
similarities and hidden allusions to Eureka are intended as homage, not
plagiarism. Grace as the surprise CEO is one of my favorites!  

A Gift of Ghosts
is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination,
with the occasional nod to reality and/or other fictions. (Cassadaga exists and
is charming; every quirky small town should have a diner with a cook who can
prepare anything.)

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,
or locales is coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 Wendy Sharp

All rights reserved.

Cover art: Lightning Strike by Adam Weeden. Image from
public-domain-image.com

Cover design: Wendy Sharp

Visit me on the web at
http://sarahwynde.blogspot.com/

The airport was already decorated for Christmas.

If Dillon had still been alive, he would have said something
wry and sarcastic about the materialism of contemporary American society, about
Christmas as an excuse to sell stuff, about cheap glitter being no way to
celebrate light into darkness.

As it was, he kind of liked it.

He wished he knew what he was doing in the Orlando Airport
on the day after Thanksgiving, though. The crowds were crazy. The lines wound
back and forth, back and forth, through the huge open space with the gigantic
screen of arriving and departing flights. As a ghost, Dillon didn’t have to
worry about standing in line, of course, but he was following his father,
Lucas, and he didn’t want to lose him in the chaos.

For the first few years of his afterlife, Dillon had been
trapped in the place he died: the backseat of a black Ford Taurus. He supposed
he was lucky. At least he hadn’t died in a car accident. Eternity stuck in a
smashed-up wreck sitting in a junkyard wouldn’t be fun.

Instead, he’d died while hiding out in the car trying to
jumpstart a psychic gift. Most of his family had one—his grandpa and his Aunt
Nat could see the future, his dad could read minds, his Uncle Zane could find
anything—and he’d been tired of waiting for his own to show up. He’d thought
the prescription pills he’d stolen would make him hallucinate. Instead they
killed him. He’d had plenty of time to think about what a stupid way it was to
go.

Last winter, though, he’d met a woman, Akira, who could see
and talk to ghosts. She’d introduced him to some other ghosts, including Rose, who
was pretty much his best friend now. Akira had also, although it was sort of an
accident, broken his tie to his car. He was no longer trapped. He could go
anywhere, do anything.

He was a little nervous about it.

Oh, sure, he was a ghost, so it wasn’t like anything really
bad could happen. He couldn’t get cold or wet or hungry. And he was already
dead, so nothing could kill him. But he’d seen that there were dangers for
ghosts in the world, and Akira had told him stories. He just didn’t know
whether he’d recognize trouble when he saw it.

Plus, what if he got lost? What if he got stuck somewhere
and couldn’t get home again? What if he ran out of energy and faded away?

Being dead had done nothing to make Dillon less anxious.

Still, he was determined. Life—or afterlife—had to have more
to offer than watching television with Rose or hanging out at Akira’s lab while
she worked. Despite all that might go wrong, Dillon was going to travel with
his father for a while.