The Second Summoning

“Well, I’m still hanging here because I’ve got unfinished business, right?” Claire sighed. She should have known it wasn’t going to be that easy. “If that’s what you think.”

“And just what’s THAT supposed to mean?”

There was another small flare of energy. In the bathroom, the toilet flushed.

“With metaphysical phenomena, belief is very important. If you believe you’re here because you have unfinished business, then that’s why you’re here.”

“Yeah? What if I believe I’m alive again?”

“Doesn’t work that way.”

“Figures.” She looked from Claire to Dean and back to Claire again. “Okay.

Unfinished business, I want to talk to my husband. You bring him here, you let me have my say, and I’ll go.”

“Bring your husband here?”

“Can I can go to him?”

Claire shook her head. “No, you’re tied to this room.”

“Doomed to appear to couples and give them unwanted advice,” Dean added from where he was kneeling in the narrow space between the bed and the bathroom wall.

“No one ever wants relationship advice, sweet-cheeks.” For the first time since she’d appeared, Cheryl looked at him like he was more than pretty meat. “But how did you know?”

He sighed and tried not to think about what he was kneeling in. “We spoke to Steve and Debbie.”

“Nice kids.”

“They’re some scared.”

“Yeah, well, death’s a bitch.”

“Can you believe that she died right after a nooner with my best friend?” Howard Poropat sounded more resigned than upset by the revelation, his light tenor voice releasing the words in a reluctant monotone that lifted slightly at the end of each sentence, creating a tentative question. “Did she tell you that?”

“No, she didn’t mention it.” Claire braced herself as the car turned into the motel parking lot, sliding a little in the accumulated slush. When she thought it was safe to release her grip on the dashboard, she pointed. “There. Number 42.” Jaw moving against a wad of nicotine gum, he steered the station wagon where indicated. “Let’s just go over this again, can we? Cheryl’s ghost is haunting the room she died in?”

“Yes.”

“And she can’t move on until she says something to me?”

“Apparently.” It hadn’t taken much effort to persuade him that it was possible.

For all that he reminded her of processed cheese slices, he had a weirdly egocentric view of his place in the world.

“You think she wants to apologize?” The car slid to a stop, more-or-less in front of the right room.

“I honestly don’t know,” Claire told him, slamming her shoulder against the passenger side door and forcing it open. “Why don’t we go inside and find out?” While Claire’d been gone, the room had been redecorated in early playing cards. Most of them were just lying around, but several had been driven into the ceiling’s acoustic tiles.

“What happened?”

Dean nodded toward the ghost and mouthed the word, “Boom!” Brows drawn in, Cheryl folded her arms. “We were playing a little rummy to pass the time, but he cheats!”

“Dean? I doubt that. He spent six months living next to a hole to Hell, and the ultimate force of evil couldn’t even convince him to drop his underwear on the floor.”

“Not him, the cat!”

Austin continued washing a spotless white paw, ignoring both the conversation and the seven of spades only partially hidden by a fringe of stomach fur.

Claire snorted. “What did you expect? He’s a cat.” She had no iIlea how a cat, a ghost, and Dean had managed to play rummy when only one of them could actually manipulate the cards, nor did she want to know. Shrugging off her jacket, she moved farther into the room, pulling a suddenly reluctant Howard Poropat along with her by the pocket on his beige duffle coat.

The ghost’s eyes widened. “I don’t believe it! How’d you convince him?”

“I asked him nicely.” She dropped down onto the edge of the bed, out of the reconciliation’s direct line of fire.

“Cheryl?”

“Howard.”

The bed dipped as Dean joined her. Claire leaned back and, when her weight pressed into his shoulder, turned her head to murmur, “You okay?”

“I got clipped by the six of clubs, but my sweater deflected it.” Dean’s sweater was a traditional fisherman’s cable knit. Handmade by his aunt from wool so raw it had barely paused between sheep and needles, Claire suspected it could, if not deflect bullets, certainly discourage them. “Thanks for staying with her.”

His arm slipped around her waist. “No problem, Boss, always willing to help.” Austin’s right, Claire thought as they turned their attention back to the couple staring into each other’s eyes in the center of the room. It’s been implied for a week, what are we waiting for?

There’d been contact, touching, kissing, more touching, gentle explorations all crammed into those rare moments when they were actually alone and not likely to hear a speculative comment just as things got interesting, but somehow they hadn’t moved on to that next step.

Maybe I should lock Austin in the bathroom.

The next level of intimacy.

Not that he’d stay there.

The horizontal mambo . . .

Stop it.

“Howard.”