He doesn’t remember her answer now. It hadn’t stuck with him the way I’ve been one had. She claimed she hadn’t said it. Maybe she hadn’t. She wasn’t a ghost; she was still alive back then.
She can’t be one now, because there’s no such—
Across the street, the front door opens.
He sits up.
A woman emerges.
She isn’t the person he’d seen in Anna’s room Friday night. She isn’t Anna, or Anna’s look-alike, or Anna’s ghost.
She’s a stranger with long blond hair and movie star sunglasses.
She isn’t alone. There’s another one, another blond stranger, a teenage girl who trails behind the woman, carrying a large bouquet.
Red-hot rage sweeps over him.
Who are they? What are they doing in Anna’s house?
A third person emerges, a man. He, too, is blond and attractive. He lingers on the threshold, holding the door open for . . .
Anna.
Twenty-five years mourning her; two days reminding himself that she’s long gone; an hour convincing himself that there’s no such thing as ghosts . . .
Yet there she is.
She looks around as she descends the steps, glancing up and down the street and then across. Her gaze drops on Jacob like a coin in a slot.
He opens his mouth to call out to her, but her name is mired in his throat.
She looks away, walks away, following the trio of blond strangers.
Move! Run! Go after her!
His legs refuse the command to chase her down.
What if he did? Would he grab her shoulders, spin her around, and . . . what?
Simply hold her in a fervent embrace? Demand to know what she’s doing here, why she’s with these people, how she can be alive again?
He watches her drift away with the others, this fake, perfect family that looks nothing like her, nothing like her own. But of course not. Anna’s family died together, the three of them, in this house.
He bows his head, eyes squeezed shut.
When he regains his composure and looks up again at last, searching for her, the street is empty. She’s vanished once more.
Nora
The house at 128 Glover is in the middle of the block, shadowed by the leafy branches of a tall London plane tree growing at the curb. Ascending the front steps, Nora notes the planter filled with bedraggled, leggy geraniums. They should have been planted in full sun, desperately need to be deadheaded, and the pink shade clashes with the red brick. Her fingers itch to snap off the faded, skimpy blossoms. Better yet, just scrap the whole thing and start fresh.
If things go well this evening, maybe she’ll offer some friendly botanical advice. She can volunteer to help choose fall plantings that will thrive in this shady spot—coleus would be ideal, and coral bells . . .
Heather must have seen them coming and is waiting in the doorway, gracious and smiling. She’s wearing a sleeveless black shift, and Nora congratulates herself on her own wardrobe choice.
Heather introduces herself to Keith and the girls and exclaims over the flower arrangement, “Ooh! Where did you get this? It’s gorgeous!”
“Mom made it,” Piper says proudly.
“Oh, right, Nora, you did say you were . . . was it a horticulturalist?”
“Yes, but not in years. Now it’s just more of a hobby.”
“Might want to rethink that. People around here would pay a fortune for something like this. Including me. Oh, here come Mutt and Geoffrey.”
The dogs trot in with tails wagging and tags jangling. Piper lights up and bends to pet them.
Stacey is subdued, darting a glance over her shoulder as if she’s longing to go back home. Nora is tempted to hiss, Why can’t you behave like your sister, just this once?
But every mother knows better than to compare her children—at least not aloud, in their presence.
Heather invites them in. Nora notices that she’s barefoot, with delicate feet, a shiny red pedicure, and a toe ring. “Do you want us to take off our shoes?”
“Nah. I grew up in a traditional Japanese household. Old habits die hard, but everyone else wears shoes around here.”
The house might be identical to 104 on the outside, but inside, the only similarity is the floor plan.
After setting the flower arrangement on a lime green pedestal table in an entrance hall painted the color of grape jam, Heather ushers them into a stark white living room. It looks like a museum gallery, filled with monochromatic geometric furniture and modern art. A dangling metal sculpture hangs where the light fixture should be, whirling in a breeze from a strategically mounted industrial fan. The fireplace is obscured by a massive painting featuring what appear to be oranges and a single bloodshot eyeball.
The house smells of incense and pungent spices. Nora hears familiar music blasting from the rear of the house—the wailing rock guitar, thumping rhythm, and haunting male vocals of Radiohead’s “Creep.”
The song was popular during a time in her life she’d rather forget. Still, it beats “Pop Goes the Weasel.” It’s been looping through her brain the past few days, though she hasn’t encountered the ice cream truck since Friday.
Keith gestures at half a dozen stands that hold acoustic and electric guitars and asks Heather if she plays.
“Gawd, no. Our son does, and Jules, of course—she’s a musician.”
“Professionally?”
“Yes. She’s also a chef—not professionally, but she’s making one of her specialties, Thai chickpea curry with kale, and it tastes as good as it smells.” Heather raises her voice and calls, “Hey, babe? They’re here! Babe!”
The music’s volume drops a notch in the kitchen. Pans rattle, water runs, and a female voice returns, “Be right there!”
“Have a seat, and I’ll go round up the kids.” Heather scoots out of the room and up the stairs.
“She’s a whole lot of energy,” Keith comments, low, in Nora’s ear.
“Good energy.”
As opposed to Stacey, gazing, or more likely glaring, out the window at the street as if she wants to escape.
“I guess we should sit.” Keith starts to settle on a low bench.
Piper gasps. “Dad! That’s a table!”
Seeing the four mats arranged on the floor around it like chairs, he leaps up again.
Someone gives a robust laugh. “Sit anywhere you like. We never eat at that one.”
Nora turns to see a tall Black woman coming in from the kitchen. Her hair is long and braided, and she’s wearing white denim shorts and a vintage black concert T-shirt, the print too washed-out to read.
“I’m Jules, and let’s see . . . Nora, Keith, Piper, and Stacey.” She points to them each in turn. “Heather told me all about you. Not that she knows all about you. But what she knows, she mentioned. And you.” Jules whirls a finger in the air and then aims it at Stacey, peering at her face. “Did we meet?”
“Uh . . . I don’t think so. But, I mean, I’ve been around the neighborhood the last few days. Walking the dog in the park . . .”
Jules peers at her, then shrugs. “Yeah, that must be it. I had a bad head injury years ago so I forget a lot of stuff, but not faces. Or lyrics. Nor lyrics?” She pauses, weighing the grammar, and settles on “Or lyrics. Especially if I wrote them.”