Ghosts of Romances Past Read online

  “I’m afraid Mr. Stuart has finished for the day. About ten minutes ago.”

  “Ten minutes?” Alice frowned. “He must’ve tried to phone me.” She fumbled a hand into her skirt pocket, and then remembered her phone was in Liz’s gym bag at the hospital.

  “No.” She groaned and buried her head. Warren was probably already upset. Now he had to hear about it secondhand from an irritable Liz, no doubt wading through next-of-kin forms and Alice’s brief medical history.

  “Something wrong?” Jamie asked. “Do you need me to go look for him?” His tone was begrudging—as it so often was when he spoke of Warren—but Alice felt a surge of gratitude, nonetheless.

  “Thanks, but he’s already gone. I’ll just go find my bag and we’ll leave.”

  “Which court, ma’am?” the receptionist asked. “I’ll send a staff member to collect it for you.”

  “Let him,” Jamie urged her. “You don’t look so good at the moment.” He laid a hand on her shoulder, his touch soothing her nerves, making her long to lean her head against him.

  If only she could tell him why she seemed so mixed-up. Instead, she summoned an answer to the receptionist’s question. “My bag is on court number two.”

  Jamie drew her towards the door. In the heated lobby, she placed a hand against the glass and watched the pavement glisten in the winter sunshine. A part of her was afraid to look around the lobby, lest she spot Aunt Phylis lounging near the water cooler or the sporting goods shop.

  “Here you are, ma’am.” An employee handed her the gym bag. “Someone turned it into Lost and Found. You may want to check its contents.”

  “I’m sure it’s all there, thanks.” Now that the bag was in her hands, there was no obstacle to her escape. As Jamie opened the door, she practically ran to the car.

  “Are you being followed?” he asked, with an undeniable note of sarcasm in his voice.

  “No. I just want to get out of here. Have you ever heard of an accident victim who wanted to linger at the scene? Or an emergency room patient having a swell time?”

  “I just think you’re acting a little weird, that’s all,” he said. “I mean, you panic at the sight of anything that moves. It seems like you’re under some kind of stress.”

  “Maybe it’s my work,” she joked.

  He gave her a look that proved he wasn’t in the humor for it.

  “Besides,” she continued, “I don’t think this is the time for a confession. I’ve taken up half your day already. So just take me home, please.”

  “As you wish,” he answered, shifting the car into gear. “If you want to call Warren, I’ll wait here while you run back inside. Then maybe you’ll feel better.”

  Why hadn’t she thought of that? Her first urge was to bury her face in her hands and not look up until she was sure this day was over.

  “I’m so muddled,” she murmured. She felt helpless, like a child instead of a grown-up woman capable of making tough decisions.

  He reached across and touched her hand. “You know, you could talk to me about that. Think of me as a stand-in for somebody more important. If you want to.” His boyish expression grew serious as he spoke.

  She had no hesitation about trusting him with anything in her life, even the truth of what was going on right now. Except any minute, Aunt Phylis might appear in the back seat to contribute.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea. But thanks for the offer.”

  “Right.” With a long exhale, he backed out of the parking space and exited towards the freeway. “Have you considered maybe your subconscious is deliberately avoiding Warren?”

  “What?” she squealed. “That’s ridiculous. Why would I avoid Warren? He’s the best thing that’s happened to me in years. We have a great relationship.” Was she babbling? She shivered over the timing of this conversation.

  “I’m not saying he isn’t a nice guy,” Jamie said. “That’s why I said subconsciously. Maybe that’s why you didn’t think of calling him from a phone in the club. Or why you keep making such a big deal over what he’ll think when he sees that bump on your head.”

  “I’m upset at myself, not at Warren.” She twisted the handle of her gym bag, fighting to keep her voice on an even keel. “If I wasn’t so klutzy, I’d be able to handle relationship issues a lot better.”

  “Are you sure about that? Not the klutz part,” he added, flashing a grin. “But did you consider that you’re afraid to confront things with Warren? Sort of like your heart is running away from some hidden problem?”

  “You must think I haven’t grown up much.” She regretted the words the instant they left her mouth. In the four months they’d worked together, she’d avoided mentioning their long ago break-up. And now here she was, about to start a fight over the subject she wished most to avoid.

  “I wasn’t talking about the past,” Jamie insisted, his tone flustered. “It was a general observation—”

  “Let’s just drop it, OK?”

  “Whatever you say.” His gaze stayed the road, but his clenched jaw gave away the frustration her words inspired.

  Slumping in her seat, Alice stared at the freeway traffic with unseeing eyes. It was the injury making her irritable, that’s all. Along with the nagging fact that even with a nasty head bump, her imaginary aunt made no sense. After all, what was a lifelong spinster doing giving out free relationship analysis?

  Ghosts Of Romances Past

  6

  As long as Alice could remember, Aunt Phylis had been a strong, sassy independent figure. Always self-assured, always viewing life with a secret smirk. She informed her niece she was “Aunt Phil” when Alice still had a toddler’s lisp, so Alice called her that even years later.

  Even when Phylis was past fifty, her clothing style remained trapped in the eras of grand dames and divas, her eye shadow bold and colorful. But she managed to create the latest fashions for her dress shop, tailoring modern styles to fit bridesmaids, prom queens, and mothers-to-be.

  Back then, Phylis spent her afternoons at Alice’s house, having coffee and chatting with her Alice’s mother. There were ten years between Dolores and her “big sis” Phylis, but Phylis’s energy and spark made it seem like fewer as she dealt out no-nonsense barbs on virtually any subject.

  “Of course I feel sorry for the Morrises,” Phylis said. “It’s just that they should expect this sort of thing to happen in a marriage. Everyone knows that the fairytale ends with the kiss...and what comes next is all about the daily drudge.”

  She set her coffee cup on a coaster and curved her lips into the bewitching smile that eight-year old Alice found irresistible. Polished red nails folded on a lap of yellow satin, her auburn hair wound up like Audrey Hepburn’s on the movie screen. How could any man not be smitten with her?

  “Stop saying things like that,” Alice’s mother scolded. “You know as well as I do that the Morrises have every reason to be happy. He just got that promotion and their new house is certainly the talk of the town.”

  “So? They should do less talking and a little more “tsk-ing” before other young people make the same mistake and marry while they’re still children.”

  Alice pretended to be absorbed in dressing her dolls in the gowns Phylis had brought as a surprise. They were sewn by hand from scraps leftover from her clients’ gowns. Bits of white satin became a fashionable wedding dress with puff sleeves. And even a green tulle ball gown made from pieces of a prom dress, trimmed with fake roses.

  “Alice, why don’t you run outside and play with your dolls?” Dolores suggested. “Me and Aunt Phil will bring out some lemonade and cookies in just a bit.”

  “I’ll bring my crochet hook and thread and make a veil for that wedding gown,” Phylis added, with a discreet wink of comradeship that only Alice could see.

  But by her teen years, it seemed strange to Alice that Aunt Phil was always alone. “Mom said you never had a boyfriend,” seventeen year-old Alice said. “Is that true?” It was only a few weeks after she
received her first dance invitation, from a boy whom she secretly had a crush on.

  She was staring at her reflection in Phylis’ fitting mirror, while her aunt pinned the dress’s hem. It was Alice’s first formal dress, sewn by hand from a shiny magenta, with puff sleeves.

  “Sort of,” Phylis answered. “Why? Are you thinking of getting one?”

  “No.” Alice knew her cheeks flushed with the question. “It’s just that you’ve never had somebody bring you flowers or take you to the movies or anything. I thought maybe you’d never had a romance.”

  “Romance is mostly made-up for the movies, sweetie. Just a way to explain all those butterflies and longings.”

  Alice stared into the mirror, a frown on her face. “But my mom and dad,” she began. “They love each other, don’t they?”

  A look of regret flickered across Phylis’s face for a second. “Of course they do, sweetheart. It’s just ...well, not everyone has that. Or needs that. You understand?”

  Alice nodded and stayed silent, unsure what to say to her aunt, who was busy pinning the ruffled trim to the bottom of her dress as if the subject never came up.

  ****

  Jamie’s car swung into the closest parking space in front of Alice’s apartment. He turned off the ignition and glanced at her. “Let me walk you inside.” The soft look in his brown eyes doubled as an apology, tugging at her heartstrings. “I’ll make you a cup of tea, get you settled before I leave.”

  “You should go to your…meeting thing. You’re already going to be late as it is.”

  He followed her up the steps anyway. “About what happened in the car. I had no right to say those things.” He spoke in a gentle tone, his fingers touching her arm with a soft pressure. “I’m not trying to say that you don’t love Warren. Or that you’re not ready for this.”

  “It’s OK.” She smiled, trying to cover the sudden confusion that swept through her at the memory of those words. “I know what you meant.” She pressed his arm briefly before slipping inside.

  ****

  Jamie glared at his own reflection in the rear-view mirror. Well, that had gone well. About as well as Custer’s Last Stand, that is.

  He knew he should start the ignition and get moving. For one thing, she might notice if his car hung around when he was supposed to be meeting someone. But his big mystery appointment was actually more like an instructional session. His neighbor, Vicki, was dropping by to watch him demonstrate some new digital photography software.

  He sighed, his eyes drifting to Alice’s curtained apartment window. Maybe this had something to do with growing in faith. Being friends with Alice—a brother in Christ with no romantic agenda in mind—he was hard-pressed to think of any greater test.

  This would be a great time for a sign, Lord. He scrutinized passing vehicles, as if the answer would materialize across a back windshield.

  Please God, I need to know. Should Alice remain a part of my life? Or am I just chasing old dreams?

  Reality interrupted as his cell phone buzzed. Flipping it open, he saw a text message from Vicki, asking if they were still on for two-thirty.

  With a sigh, he typed back a ‘yes’ then started the motor and left his questions behind. God would show him the answer when the time was right. Until then, he needed to find a way to keep his heart intact.

  Ghosts Of Romances Past

  7

  Alice’s apartment was quiet except for the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the corner. A soft hum joined it as the refrigerator came to life. For a moment, she lingered in the doorway, waiting for signs of life—or rather, imagined life.

  She moved to the mantelpiece, where the photo of Aunt Phylis stood in front, her eyes focused on the camera lens with a knowing smile. Forever frozen in the yellow silk dress, defined by brown circles that intersected like rings in a psychedelic pattern. Alice touched the frame, staring at the image as if it held the answers.

  “That’s not really what I looked like, you know.” Aunt Phylis sent her a shrewd look from her position in the kitchen doorway.

  “That’s how I remember you, though,” Alice said. “There was something about you that seemed...I don’t know. Sultry. Charming.” The casual voice that emerged from her lips surprised even her. Was she growing used to made-up conversations?

  “You mean classy,” her aunt corrected. She made a gesture that reminded Alice of watching her tap out a cigarette, before she gave up smoking. “The right dress works wonders, you know. So does the right outward appearance. Keeps everyone from seeing the real you.”

  “But it was the real you,” Alice argued. “You never changed, other than growing a little older.”

  “I changed into that,” Phylis said with a sniff, joining Alice by the mantelpiece. “If you want to know the truth, you’re looking at the wrong picture.” Her gaze traveled from the yellow dress photo to an older one in black and white, taken with Phylis posed on the hood of a car. “I used to be someone else entirely.”

  “What do you mean?” Alice frowned, her heart picking up speed. “I spent my whole childhood with you. You never had a date. All your photographs were family and friends. You never mentioned a boyfriend.”

  “Maybe you should look a little closer,” Phylis said, her gaze never leaving the black and white photo. “Think back. Was there never a mystery to those images from my past? Something that got you thinking about my supposed spinsterhood?”

  Alice pressed her forehead, aware the pain had sharpened. “Maybe…I used to flip through your scrapbook. I wanted to be just like you. Confident and completely independent.”

  “Is that what you saw?” Her aunt sighed, a tired smile pulling her mouth. “Appearances can be so, so deceptive.”

  “But I asked you once if you ever had a boyfriend…”

  Phylis let out a sardonic laugh. “Let me tell you something, honey; if you want a secret to be kept in a family, then you never tell it in the first place.”

  Alice shivered. This was a little too much like the Aunt Phylis of her memories.

  “Think about it,” Phylis whispered. “What’s the worst thing that happens when you tell a secret?”

  A long moment of silence passed as Phylis waited.

  Alice closed her eyes as her lips formed the words. “Somebody else knows it. “ She swayed from the mantel and heard the shatter of glass against the hardwood floor. When she opened her eyes the room was empty and there was a broken picture frame on the floor. The photo of Aunt Phylis seated on the hood of a white Corvette.

  Bending down, she picked up the slivers of glass. Her hand struck the frame. Its sides fell apart beneath her fingers, the picture sliding free.

  With a sigh, Alice flipped the photo over. On the back were a few short lines scribbled in pencil.

  All my fondest thoughts are for my own true love. Wesley.

  Wesley? Who was he?

  The handwriting was squared and slanted, obviously masculine. And judging from the fade marks, the inscription dated back to Phylis’ teenage years or a little after.

  The phone’s shrill ring broke the silence. She let the picture slip from her fingers as she dove for the receiver, knowing it must be Warren on the other end.

  “I’ve been calling your phone for almost a half hour and no one answers.” He sounded annoyed. “What happened to you?”

  “I had an accident at the tennis court, and Liz took me to the emergency room—”

  “Another accident?” Warren interrupted.

  “Just a little fall from a dizzy spell.” She avoided any direct reference to her second bump. “I tried to find you afterwards, but you’d already gone and Liz has my phone somewhere in her bag…”

  Warren inhaled, a hoarse sound. “So you’re all right. Just without a phone, correct?”

  “Correct. I really did try to call you.” She let a note of guilt creep into her voice as she thought about Phylis’s words—and Jamie’s. Perhaps she was letting something subconsciously hold her back from this relat
ionship.

  “I’m beginning to think I may have to pad the corners in your apartment,” Warren said.

  “Not necessary, I promise.” Alice giggled in spite of herself. She twisted her body into a comfortable position on the sofa, facing an old curio cabinet on the wall, stuffed with family memorabilia she always kept on display.

  “Try to get some rest. No painting and no stressing about freelance stuff.”

  “No can do, I’m afraid,” she said, scooting closer to the cabinet, her eyes scanning its rows of scrapbooks and albums. “Jamie and I are on a tight deadline with the holiday and circus designs.”

  “Can’t he just finish that himself? I mean, we’re not exactly talking about the works of Monet here.”

  The joke stung a little, despite the truth behind it. “We both have to sign off on the edits. That’s how it works.”

  “I know, I know. But I think you have much more potential, much more talent than your freelance work lets you explore.”

  She started to defend the Storyhour illustrations, when a soft beeping issued in the background. Warren’s digital watch, no doubt reminding him of a business appointment.

  “That’s for a meeting, sweetie,” he said. “I’ll see you for Valentine’s dinner, right?”

  “Oh, wait.” She swallowed hard, gathering courage. “What about meeting somewhere tomorrow? Maybe lunch?” Now, more than ever, she needed to test her reaction to Warren—to prove her own secret doubts were wrong.

  “Tomorrow?” Warren’s voice grew fainter; he must be multi-tasking. “Actually, my schedule’s pretty packed…”

  “How about something casual—a sandwich shop? Just something quick to touch base.”

  Papers rustled somewhere in the background. “Oh, well…all right. How does twelve-thirty at the Southside Bistro sound?”

  “Perfect,” she said, releasing a held breath.