Christmas Ghosts - Fiction River (16 page)

The invitation didn’t leave her a lot of choice, unless she really wanted to disappoint him. She considered that and decided she didn’t want any other choice anyway.

He’d said casual, so, after trying on three different dresses, she’d selected dark green slacks and a red silk top. Her hair was too short for her to do anything other than wash it, and she’d never been a fan of makeup. Casual he asked for, casual he’d get.

When he opened the door, she simply stepped into his arms. He turned her just enough to close the door and held her tight. Had she ever found a place she’d been happier than in Dustin’s arms? Not a one that she could think of as she breathed in the wonderful smell of him. Man and…

“Is that roast beef?”

“Not mine, though I can cook a mean one. I went down to Elephant Deli. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and a treat for dessert. I did make the peas with those little onions myself.”

“From frozen.”

“Only the best for Amy.”

She laughed and slid back into his arms.

“So, tell me more about your parents’ son, Dustin. He strikes me as an interesting chap.”

“Well, there was a young boy named Dusty. He had a silent father who loved three things in life: his wife, his son, and his garden.” Dusty led her toward the table in the living room. It was now cozy and friendly. While she’d been cleaning her mother’s place, he must have been hauling everything out. “And Dusty had a mother who loved laughing.”

***

Willow waited. For almost a hundred years, every Christmas Eve someone had come. Willow waited, hoping. Old roots full of broken dreams could do no more.

***

“Come, walk with me.”

Dusty held out a hand. He didn’t lead her toward the bedroom, where Amy would have followed him happily.

He led her to the front door.

“I hope you aren’t throwing me out.” She slid against him reveling once again in the way their bodies fit together, in the way his lips now tasted of chocolate mousse and winter, the way he lost himself completely in her kiss.

With those strong hands about her waist, he pushed her back just a hand’s breadth.

“No way would I throw you out. You’re way too precious for that.”

“God, don’t ever stop saying stuff like that.” He made her feel like such a girl, all soft and mushy.

“Deal. But I thought maybe we could go for a walk together.”

That knocked the soft and mushy right out of her, but she nodded. Amy braced herself, knowing where they’d go. It was right, but no tree awaited her there. In a fit of sentimentality, she’d bought a small ornament that now rested in her coat pocket. Perhaps she’d hang it on one of the roses.

Dusty led her out into the night, up the winding paths beneath the silent Douglas Firs, and around the high, black wrought-iron fence encircling the city reservoir. The light of the full moon lit their breath in billowing clouds and cast brilliant pools on the trail separated by impenetrable shadows. They strolled the back paths leading to the Rose Garden as the silence of the night wrapped gently about them.

For a time they wandered hand in hand between the sleeping rose beds and finally climbed the stairs under the thorny arbors. In the bright moonlight, unbroken by a towering willow, rested the rose bed she’d always thought of as her family’s.

“Oh my god!” her voice came out in a cry. “But how?” A slender willow tree, barely taller than she was, stood in the center of the rose bed just where the old willow had.

“I made a call to the Parks department. My dad worked for them for over thirty years, so I may have thrown his name around a bit along the way. I got permission, and purchased the tree this morning. The master gardener, who my dad trained, came in from vacation and he and I planted it together. I figured, if you wanted, we could come back together in the morning and bury your mom’s ashes here on Christmas Day. I already cleared it was okay.”

Amy didn’t fight the tears that slid hot down her cold cheeks. She wrapped her arms around Dusty and held him and laughed and cried some more.

She pulled the delicate bubble of blown glass from her pocket and hung it from one of the tree’s slender branches. There it filled with moonlight and hope and joy.

“It’s…” she had to swallow hard to speak. “It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.” She could only look at the young tree with its new bauble, for some reason she couldn’t turn to look at Dusty.

“Well,” Dusty considered Amy’s profile and wondered for the hundredth time if he was about to do the stupidest idea he’d ever thought up. Of course that had never stopped him before.

A decade ago, the day before Dusty first reported for basic training, his father had stood with him by the
Rosa canina
, the old Briar Rose. They had stood a long time in comfortable silence, the summer tourists flowing past the two silent men entranced by a single rose bush among ten thousand.

“Your heart knows it is right for you to go into the Army,” his father had spoken softly. “If you always listen to it, you will make no mistakes, at least not about things that are important.”

Dusty heard his heart clearly and knew it was the right choice as he gently turned Amy to face him and he looked down at the tracks of her joyous tears still glistening in the moonlight. He just hoped she thought it was right too.

Again he kissed her long and deep before setting his hands on her waist and stepping her back a half step so that he could form a complete thought.

“Amy?”

“Yes, Dustin?” He liked that she’d started using his full name.

“There’s something I have for you that I hope you’ll wear some day. It’s far too soon, but I know it has to be here, on this night of Christmas Eve, in front of this young willow tree. I hope, Amy Patterson, that someday you’ll want to wear this.”

He reached into his pocket, then held out his hand before her. In the center of his palm lay the circle of gold with a square-cut diamond he’d chosen that afternoon. It caught the moonlight and glittered.

Amy studied his hand in silence for a long time. She pulled off her right glove and reached out to trace a tentative fingertip once around the circle of gold before withdrawing her hand.

Then she looked up at him, studying him, clearly thinking hard. Maybe he understood his father’s silence a little better now, as Dusty found himself struck dumb, mute before this beautiful and amazing woman.

“I think…” Amy’s face revealed nothing to him as she inspected his face.

Then a smile flowed across her features as she pulled off her left glove and held her hand out to him.

“I think I’d like to start wearing it now.”

***

Young Willow liked the little bubble of blown glass that caught the moonlight, and the reflection of the people past and present. Amelia and Hiroshi. Amy and Dustin. Old pain might run deep, but Young Willow knew, this love would always run as fresh as spring rushing to brighten new leaves, born of the Christmas cold and the moon bright.

Young Willow knew that the ghost of Old Willow would agree that they’d done well.

Note:

For over ninety years Old Willow (actually a weeping beech which looks like a willow) stood in the heart of the International Rose Test Garden in Portland, Oregon. It was removed for safety reasons in early 2012 and replaced at the turn of the year in 2013 by a young flowering magnolia in the same planting bed (A89). 

Introduction to
“Toasted”

A
New York Times, Wall Street Journal,
and
USA Today
bestselling writer, Mary Jo Putney writes everything from what she calls Jane-Austen-ish Regency romances to historical fantasy with real history and not-so-real mages. Her most recent Regency novel,
Sometimes A Rogue
, appeared in September. You can find out about all her series, including the magical Guardians series, on her website, maryjoputney.com.

I discovered Mary Jo Putney through her Regency romances, in particular her classic novel,
The Rake and The Reformer
, and have proceeded to read everything she’s done, including the romantic suspense novels she hasn’t mentioned here. (She’s reissuing all of her older novels in e-book format.) She helped me through my first Romance Writers of America convention, and I was able to return the favor by helping her through her first science fiction convention.

When I asked writers to join Christmas Ghosts, I let them choose what they wanted to write. I had no idea what I’d get from Mary Jo because she’s done so many things. I just knew the story would be superb—and it is.

She writes, “Though I’m known mostly as a romance writer, I read sff long before I discovered romance, and I
love
writing fantasy. My Guardian series is about human families with magical gifts and a very low profile. In the three full length 18
th
century novels, their work behind the scenes produced history as we know it.” She connected those stories to “Toasted.”

“In short stories I can play,” she continues, “and where better than New York City for Christmas ghosts???”

Toasted

Mary Jo Putney

“HELPPPPP!!!!!”

The silent scream rang in my head, waking me from a deep and much deserved sleep. With a groan, I rolled over and dragged a pillow over my head. I was off duty, dammit, and some other doctor could answer the page.

“HELPPPPP!!!!!”

The scream was back even louder, and I woke enough to realize that I wasn’t home in Boston, but lying in an obscenely comfortable bed in a boutique hotel off Fifth Avenue. I rubbed my chin since bristle length was a good way of judging how long I’d been on duty at the hospital. About three days’ worth. Right, I’d come off duty and gone straight for the train station. Christmas in New York was my holiday present to myself. Bright lights, big city, endless carols.

But though I could leave the hospital, there was no holiday from ghosts. Usually they were a gentle presence, easy to greet and send off to the Light. This one was unusually annoying. And strong. I opened my eyes to see a softly glowing shape sitting on my chest, rather like a cat I’d had once.
“
HELPPPPP!!!!!
”

The ghost was in terrible pain, I realized. Newly dead, still vibrating with death agonies, and desperate to communicate a last message. Instinctively I reached out with my inner senses to lessen the pain, a skill I developed before I learned to read and write.

When the pain had diminished to more bearable levels, I communicated with the ghost, speaking aloud to focus my reply. “I’ll help if I can. What’s wrong?”

I felt a sense of relief coming from the frantic entity. “
Come with me, come with me, come with meeeeee!”

I didn’t hear actual words, of course, more like telepathic understanding. “First I need to know what’s needed. Settle down and let me study you.”

The energy jittered a little, then stilled. I called on inner senses as I analyzed the ghost. “You’re female and young and newly dead, yes?”

The ghost bounced, tickling me. “
Yesss.”

“Hold still, I need more information.” I slowly moved my hand into the ghost. She had a lovely energy, vibrant. I’d say full of life, except that she was a ghost.

I caught my breath as our energies snapped into resonance together. “You’re a Guardian like me, aren’t you?”

She bounced again. “
Yes, yes, yesss!
”

“Really, you don’t need to say things three times. You have some important task to accomplish before you can let go and follow the Light?”

“
Yesss.”

At least she said it only once. I sat up and considered turning on the bedside lamp, but that would make her harder to see. We Guardians come from families in which magical abilities run very strong. We’re sworn to help those in need, and not to cause damage. We also keep a low profile—ancestral memory is very strong where witch burnings are involved.

Most of us have one particularly strong talent, and we’re drawn to fields where we can use those talents. I’m a healer, which is why I became a doctor. “What kind of Guardian are you?”

“Hunter…”

My brows arched. Female hunters aren’t unknown, but they’re rare. “Were you killed while hunting?”

“Yes. Children stolen! Hurt! Danger!”

That got me out of my comfortable bed in a finger snap. “Do you want me to call 911 to get help for the children quickly?”

“Can’t explain…where.”
Her energy vibrated with frustration. “
Can guide you.”

“So guide me and I’ll call 911 as soon as I have the location. Then maybe I can help any injured children.” I started grabbing clothes from the chair where I’d thrown them. “My name is Simon Harlowe. And you are?”