He smiled and said, “We’ll see about that.”
As we ate, something Jean-Baptiste had said earlier in the day popped into my mind.
“Vincent, what happened to Charles?”
He was silent for a moment. “What did Jean-Baptiste tell you?”
“That Charles threw a knife at his portrait and ran away.”
“Yeah. Well, that was the end of the story. It started with the boat wreck and just got messier.”
“What happened?”
“Well, the day after the rescue, when his mind woke back up, Charles had Charlotte help him track down the mother of the girl who had died. He started following her around in volant form, wallowing in the guilt of not having saved her child. After he reanimated a couple of days later, he began stalking the woman. Leaving presents at her door. Taking flowers to the funeral home. He even attended the little girl’s funeral.”
“Very creepy.”
Vincent nodded. “Charlotte was worried and told Jean-Baptiste the whole story. He sat Charles down and forbade him to see the woman. He even mentioned sending the twins to one of his houses in the south, to distance Charles from the situation until he got his head back together.
“And that’s when Charles flipped. He was out of control, ranting about how unfair the whole thing was. How he didn’t want to be a revenant for eternity, forced to sacrifice himself for people he didn’t even know, and exiled if he tried to get involved in their lives. He blamed Jean-Baptiste for feeding and caring for him after he woke up, and not letting him die ‘as nature intended’ after he was shot. And that’s when he threw the knife.”
“At least he didn’t throw it at Jean-Baptiste!”
“He might as well have, the way it hurt JB. Then he stalked out of the house, and Charlotte just about had a nervous breakdown.” Vincent paused. “We’re sure he’ll come back once he gets it out of his system.”
“He seems to have had a chip on his shoulder even before the boat accident,” I said.
“Yeah. He’s always been the most existentially minded of all of us. Not that I haven’t thought long and hard about our purpose here. He’s just had the hardest time accepting it.”
That would explain a lot, I thought, feeling a little bit sorry for Charles.
“When did he leave?”
“Two days ago.”
“That’s when I saw him,” I said. “Friday night, a bit after midnight.”
“That’s what Jean-Baptiste said. So . . . you were out clubbing without me?” He gave me a teasing smile. I could tell he was trying to lighten the atmosphere by changing the subject.
“I was attempting to dance my sorrows away.”
“Did it work?”
“No.”
“Maybe it would work if I were there,” he said smugly. “Should we go out dancing some night?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen a dead guy dance. Think you can keep up with me?” I joked, and in response Vincent grabbed my shoulders and leaned forward to press his lips firmly against mine.
My senses were instantly concentrated into those few tiny millimeters of our skin that were touching. And then he broke the connection, leaving my heart pounding in my throat, as if the kiss had yanked it up out of my chest.
“I take that as a yes?” I panted.
“I missed you,” he said, and leaned in for more.
*
“It’s late. You should be getting back,” Vincent said after a couple of hours of lying on the couch and cuddling and catching up on all my nonevents.
“Actually, I have special permission from Mamie to stay at your family’s house tonight, if I need the time to patch things up with you.” I felt a wicked grin spread across my face.
“What?” From his look of surprise, it seemed I had finally told him something shocking instead of the usual vice versa. “I’ve got your grandma on my side? Will wonders never cease?”
“I’m not sure it’s exactly on your side; it’s more on my side. Or maybe even hers. She doesn’t want me to waste away from misery under her own roof.”
Vincent laughed. “Well, we wouldn’t want to misuse Mamie’s trust. You can take my bed. I don’t need it anyway.” He winked. “Anything to spend more time with ma belle Kate.”
I melted inside.
While he concentrated on getting the fire restarted, I got up and wandered around his room, looking at his things for more clues as to who this mystery boy really was. When I reached his bedside table, I froze. Where my photo had stood was a small pot of flowers.
“I gave your photo to Charlotte,” Vincent said, walking up behind me. “It was too hard for me to see your picture every day when I knew I couldn’t see you in the flesh.”
I touched his arm to show I wasn’t upset. “I’ll give you another one. That wasn’t the most flattering of portraits, I have to say.”
“Good idea,” Vincent said and, digging a camera out of the table next to his bed, held it up like a trophy.