Proposal (The Mediator, #6.5)
Meg Cabot
DEAR READER,
I can’t thank you enough for reading this, the first e--novella installment to a book series I created some time ago.
But don’t worry if you missed any of Suze Simon’s previous “progress reports.” After all, they took place in high school. And who wants to relive high school?
Except that it was in high school when Suze first encountered the love of her life, Jesse de Silva. It took a miracle to bring them together, and now that they’re adults, they’ve sworn that nothing will ever tear them apart.
Or will it?
If there’s one thing I’ve learned since high school, it’s that life is full of miracles . . . and surprises, like that a book series I wrote so long ago would have had such a lasting impact on the lives of so many, especially my own. And for that, I’ll never stop being thankful.
So thank you so much for reading . . . and please keep on doing so! I promise to deliver a lot more surprises . . . and miracles.
Meg Cabot
Uno
IT WAS VALENTINE’S DAY, and where was I?
Freezing my butt off in a cemetery, that’s where. Romantic, right?
But I had a job to do, and that job required that I sit in the dark on a headstone, and wait for a ghost to show up.
Yeah. That’s the kind of girl I am, unfortunately. Not the candy--and--stuffed--bear kind. The I--see--dead---people kind.
Discomfort from the cold aside, I was actually kind of okay with the situation. Would I have preferred to be at one of those cute little outdoor bistros over on Ocean Ave, snuggling under a heat lamp and sipping champagne while dining on the Valentine’s Day surf and turf special with my one true love?
Of course.
I wouldn’t even have minded being back at the dorm, hanging out at my suite mates’ anti–Valentine’s Day party, swigging cheap vodka and cranberry juice cocktails while making sarcastic comments about the rom--coms we all claimed to hate (but secretly loved, of course).
But me and my one true love? We’d agreed to spend this Valentine’s Day apart.
Hey, it’s all right. We’re mature adults. We don’t need a stupid holiday named after some martyred saint to tell us when to say I love you.
And okay, the last place anyone wants to be on Valentine’s Day is a cemetery. Anyone except spooks, I mean, and those of us who were born with the curse (or gift, depending on how you choose to look at it) of communicating with them.
But I didn’t mind. Monterey’s Cementerio El Encinal was kind of soothing. It was just me, the headstones, and the marine layer rolling in from the Pacific, making it a bit chillier than it had been when I’d gotten there half an hour ago, and a bit more difficult to see the grave I had staked out.
But who cared if my blow--out was turning limp from the humidity, or my nose red from the chill? It wasn’t like I had a date.
Well, with anyone who personally mattered to me.
And I knew this guy was going to show up sooner or later, since he’d done so every night this past week, like clockwork, to the bewilderment—-and fear—-of the community.
At least when I got home, I’d have a nice cocktail waiting for me.
This guy I was expecting? He had nothing waiting for him—-nothing good, anyway.
I just hoped he’d show up before my butt cheeks froze to the headstone I was sitting on. I wished Mrs. J. Charles Peterson III had chosen a softer material than granite to mark her husband’s final resting place. Marble, perhaps. Or cashmere. Cashmere would have been a nice choice, though it probably wouldn’t have lasted long given the harsh elements of the Northern California coast.
When you’ve been in the ghost--busting business as long as I have (twenty--one years), you learn a few things. The first one is, spectral stakeouts are boring.
The second one is, there isn’t anything you can do to entertain yourself during them, because the minute you slip in earbuds to listen to music or watch a video on your iPod or start texting with your boyfriend on your phone (assuming he’ll text back, which, considering mine was born around the time Queen Victoria inherited the throne and thinks modern technology is dehumanizing), whoever—-or whatever—-it is you’re waiting for is going to show up, hit you over the head, and run off while you were distracted.
Three, if you bring along a thermos containing a delicious warm beverage—-coffee or hot chocolate or hot cider spiked with Bacardi—-you will have to pee in about fifteen minutes, and the moment you pull down your jeans to do so (apologies, J. Charles), you will, literally, be caught with your pants down.
These are the things they never portray in the dozens of movies and television shows there’ve been over the years about -people with my ability. Mediating between the living and the dead is a thankless job, but someone’s got to do it.
I was sitting there wondering why Mrs. J. Charles Peterson III hadn’t installed an eternal flame at her husband’s grave so I could warm my hands (and butt) when I finally saw him—-or it—-moving through the mist like a wraith.
But he was no wraith. He was your average, ordinary dirtbag NCDP—-or Non--Compliant Deceased Person, as those in my trade refer to those who refuse to cross over to the other side.
He headed directly for the grave across from J. Charles Peterson’s. He was so fixated by it, he didn’t so much as glance in my direction.