The Dead Romantics (44)

“I—I mean, I’d have to check with Perez—”

“Yes,” Perez replied. “He is.”

“I guess I am?”

“Then would you do the honors of singing at my father’s funeral? I’ll pay you, of course—is there a special rate you have for . . . strange venues?”

Bruno blinked at me. Once. Twice. Then he leaned forward and asked, “Lemme get this straight: You want me to sing at your father’s funeral.”

“Yes. In that.” And I pointed to the poster.

His bushy black eyebrows shot up. “Huh.”

“I know it’s strange but—”

“Hell yeah.”

That took me back. “And your going rate?”

The man grinned, and finally I noticed that his left canine was gold plated. “Miss Day, Elvistoo honors the dead for free.”





17





Dead Hour


I CURLED MY fingers around the wrought iron gate to the cemetery. It was already locked—I forgot that it closed most evenings at 6 p.m.—and I didn’t really want to walk the graveyard tonight, but I didn’t know where else to go. There was a storm rolling in. Lightning lit the bulbous clouds in the distance, and there was a distinct smell in the air.

Damp and fresh, like clean laundry hung out to dry.

Thunder rumbled across the hills of the cemetery.

“A bit early for one of those moonwalks, isn’t it?” asked a familiar voice to my left. I glanced over, and there was Ben, his hands in his pockets, looking a little worse for wear. His tie was a little askew, the top button of his shirt undone, exposing enough of his collar and a necklace hanging there—with a ring on it.

A golden wedding ring.

His? Or someone else’s? I didn’t know why, but I was startled by it. I really knew nothing about him, did I? I didn’t know why it bothered me. I never cared before what kind of jewelry ghosts wore. Silly, I chastised myself, letting go of the gate, and turned to him. “Yeah. Storm’s coming in, anyway.”

He inclined his head toward the clouds. “You can tell?”

“You can smell it in the air. Want to walk me back to the inn?”

“It’d be an honor, Florence.”

Again, he said my name, and again each vowel curled a chill up my spine in a not-too-unpleasant sort of way. It was actually very pleasant. I liked the way he said my name. I liked that he even said it. Lee only ever called me bunny this and bunny that.

But oh, what power there was when Ben said my name.

A gust of wind scattered a few green leaves. I pushed my hair behind my ear, to keep it out of my face, while it blew right through him. It didn’t ruffle his hair, or his clothes. He was stagnant, forever like this. A portrait now, something never to be changed. Like my dad—forever sixty-four. His experiences ended. His life frozen.

Ben put his hands in his pockets and began, “You know, I’ve been thinking about our conversation in the graveyard.”

“About how to help you move on?”

“Yes, and I was thinking that perhaps the reason I’m here has nothing to do with the manuscript,” he proposed. He turned to me and said, very adamantly, “Maybe I’m here to help you.”

I stared at him. Blinked. And then burst out laughing.

He looked indignant. “It’s not that funny.”

“It definitely is!” I howled, clutching my sides. Because if that wasn’t the plot of a rom-com, I didn’t know what was. “Oh my god—sorry. I just—that can’t be right. What would I need help with?”

“Love. Help you believe in it again.”

My laughter quickly died in my throat. It suddenly wasn’t funny anymore. It was personal. I pursed my lips. “You’re not the Ghost of Christmas Past, Ben.”

“But what if—”

“That’s not how this works,” I dismissed. “I’ve never heard of a ghost coming back to help someone alive. It’s always me helping you. Them. Whatever.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“I don’t need help with love. I’m perfectly content with my eyes wide open. It’s not me stuck being unalive, it’s you. So, I need to help you. Make sense?”

“Yeah,” he said, not looking at me, clearly thinking that I was wrong. “I guess.”

“Good. And I will get to the manuscript, I promise. I just—I need time.”

“Well, you have plenty of that now,” he replied wryly, and I winced a bit. He wasn’t wrong.

We passed the ice cream shop, where a kid and her father sat at the table by the window sharing an ice cream sundae. When I was little, and Carver and Alice were littler, Dad used to take me to the parlor and split with me a chocolate bowl with sprinkles on top.

I wished I could ask Dad about how to help Ben. He would’ve known. The only lead I had was the manuscript but . . . I didn’t know how to fix that. And if that was why Ben was sticking around, then I was afraid we were both shit out of luck.

And I was annoyed that Ben would even . . . that he would even propose that I . . . that he was here to—

Argh!

I tried love. It didn’t work. The end. There were bigger things in my life that I had to tackle than something so frivolous.