“They showed me where it caved in,” she told him.
He lived in an old brownstone, the first floor and basement of which were his. He watched her examine the place as they entered. She looked around, smiling. He thought it was comfortable. He had a huge sofa and several armchairs in the living room, with an entertainment system in a polished oak cabinet facing it. There was an old hearth, and a display of the antique swords and rifles he had collected over the years. He had a surprisingly large kitchen, a nice dining area, a bedroom, an office and even an alcove that could function as a guest room. The basement hosted his pool table and some beat-up chairs.
“Well?” he inquired.
“Well, what?”
“Does it rate okay?”
She laughed. “Great bachelor quarters,” she told him. With an amused grin, she added, “Very manly.”
“Can I get you anything—I just want to check my e-mail and get cleaned up.”
“I’m fine. I’ll see if I approve of your music collection,” she told him.
He left her, striding for his office. He’d sent out a number of inquiries to people who might have information on Genevieve, but he had a hunch so strong that he was willing to put money on it that finding Genevieve hinged on finding the right dark sedan—and the man driving it. Still, he had to go through the motions.
As he booted up the computer, he picked up the sleazy magazine with the story about Genevieve. It was one of those articles that began by praising a person, then started tearing her down inch by inch. He’d never heard of the scandal before, but the article hinted of some affair around the time of Genevieve’s birth, and talked about her father’s coldly autocratic treatment of her. It was skillfully written, implying without directly saying anything that Genevieve might be the result of her mother’s affair with another man. He leaned back. He’d read the article many times already, but he felt as if he were missing something. He started to read it one more time.
Joe’s place was warm and inviting. The furniture was solid and the wood was polished. She had a feeling he enjoyed spending time at home, but also that he didn’t fuss over it. She assumed he had someone in to clean—there wasn’t much dust.
She wandered over to the cabinet and started going through Joe’s CDs. As she did, she noticed movement behind her and turned.
A man in a New York Regimental uniform was sitting on the sofa; he looked as if he had belonged to some kind of Irish brigade.
He was intent, frowning, concentrating, as he stared at her.
“You can see me,” he said after a moment.
“Yes.”
“You can see me,” he repeated, almost in awe.
“Yes,” she said again.
“And you’re not scared? You’re not going to start screaming?”
She smiled. “No. I mean, you don’t intend me any harm, do you?”
“Harm to a lady?” He sounded outraged.
“I’m sorry, I meant no offense.”
He was about thirty-five, she thought, gaunt, and his face was prematurely wrinkled; he looked old for his age. But then, she imagined, war could easily do that to a man. His hair was sandy, and he had a small mustache and neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were a soft brown, emphasized by flyaway brows.
He still seemed to be in awe. Then he rose, smiling. “Forgive me,” he said anxiously. He looked a little uncomfortable and rubbed his leg. “Picked up some shell at Shiloh,” he explained. “Please, sit.”
She realized that he wouldn’t sit again unless she did, so she perched on the edge of the chair, and he took a seat again. He continued to stare at her.
“All these years…kids coming, growing up, moving on…no one has ever seen me.”
She hesitated, speaking carefully. She was becoming more comfortable with her gift, and thanks to Nikki and Adam Harrison, she knew that all apparitions were different, that they often interacted with the living in different ways. Most of them wanted, or needed, something.
“I see you,” she said. Then she asked, “Why are you here?”
“I can’t leave the music,” he told her.
“Pardon?” He couldn’t be talking about Joe’s CD collection.
“I had a march published, just before the war. And then an étude. But…there was so much more. I didn’t know if I was coming back or not—no man did.” A frown creased his brow again. “You’re from the South,” he said suddenly.
“Originally. I’ve lived in New York many years.” She didn’t have an accent, or at least only a very slight one, so how had he known?
He was looking at her warily now.
“I’m glad to say that we’re all one nation now,” she said. How could she explain to him just how much had changed since the Civil War? Or that even now there were still remnants of that struggle that needed to be healed?