To be clear, my recently deceased grandmother didn’t actually cross over. Her ghost is permanently tethered to this bookshop that she left me in her will.
“All rules aside, dear. You know how Erick feels about you. I’m sure there’s some other reason he couldn’t come in for a nightcap.” Her ethereal hand rubs my back, and I find a strange otherworldly comfort in the gesture.
Arching an eyebrow teasingly, I offer my hypothesis. “One reason might be that I can’t offer him an actual ‘nightcap’ since you won’t allow me to store booze on the premises.”
“Alcoholism is no joke, Mizithra.” She clutches one of her strands of pearls and scowls.
“I know, Grams. One day at a time . . . and all that. I respect your struggle, but now that you’re a ghost, shouldn’t I be allowed to have a bottle of wine or two on standby?” I bat my eyelashes and my big grey eyes beg for leniency.
In true diva fashion, she ignores my question. “How was broomball?”
I bring her up to speed on the crowds, the cocoa, and the fights. “I better hit the hay. I have to be up, and functional, at an unmentionable hour to meet Erick for breakfast. I should’ve offered to bring him midmorning donuts instead.”
“Sweet dreams, dear.” She snickers as she fades through the wall into the printing museum.
She doesn’t need to read my mind to know what I’m hoping to find in dreamland . . .
Chapter 2
The stiff black hairs of my semi-wild caracal’s tufted ears tickle my nose. “Really, Pyewacket? Was it absolutely necessary for you to wake me up five minutes before my alarm?”
“RE-ow.” Feed me.
“Yes, Mr. Cuddlekins, your command is my command.” I dig myself out from under the luxurious down comforter and search for my slippers. Reindeer onesie pajamas are all fine and good, but I won’t last long with bare feet in this weather. An Arizona girl like me is used to high temperatures and dry air, and the brutal winters in almost-Canada are still a bit beyond my comfort zone.
Stumbling toward the plaster medallion that opens the secret door from my apartment, I trip over my fiendish feline, and narrowly escape a fall. “Pye, if you want me to serve up your Fruity Puffs, then at least clear a path for me to make it downstairs in one piece.”
He calmly ceases his twisting around my legs and waits patiently while the door slides open. His understanding of the English language is impressive, and my grasp of the subtleties of caracal continues to improve.
The early morning light lacks the strength to penetrate the depths of the bookstore. Shadows linger in the curves and corners. As I trudge across the Rare Books Loft, a strange unease settles on my shoulders. Stopping halfway to the wrought-iron spiral staircase, I slowly turn and survey the neat rows of oak reading tables. None of the green-glass lampshades are aglow, and when I reach out with my extra senses, I don’t feel anything suspicious.
“Maybe I still have one foot in dreamland, Pyewacket. You’d let me know if there was an intruder, right?”
“Reow.” Can confirm.
I’m still figuring out what it means to be a psychic, and I don’t always interpret the messages correctly. The magicked mood ring my grandmother left me is somehow responsible for triggering my latent abilities. However, as mood rings go, it’s exceptionally cantankerous. The swirling mists within the black cabochon can be quite helpful, but only when they choose to be.
At the bottom of the winding staircase, I risk stepping over the “No Admittance” chain. Thankfully, the universe is smiling down on me today, and I manage to make it to the other side without tripping and falling.
Once I’ve squared away Pyewacket with a generous portion of his favorite sugary cereal, I brew myself some wake-up juice. As the welcome scent of java fills the back room, I reflect on my new book-filled world.
One thing I don’t miss about my life below the poverty line in the Southwest is working as a barista. Don’t get me wrong, I love coffee. I can’t imagine starting my day without a proper cup of black gold, but I prefer to order it at the diner, which is named after my grandmother and run by her first ex-husband. This little sip of go-go juice is designed to keep me from climbing back into bed and skipping my breakfast appointment with Erick.
I trudge upstairs with my cup of coffee and dress with my eyes half closed. Ghost-ma’s absence is surprising, but I’ve barely got enough time to run down the block to the diner as it is. I’ll search for her in the adjacent printing museum when I return.
The lessons I learned the hard way during my first winter, on the shores of the great lake that graces this region, have served me well. I’ve layered my clothing, tucked my scarf inside my jacket, and pulled my stocking hat down over my ears. My thick mittens make it impossible to send Erick a text, so I jog to stave off hypothermia and hope to arrive before I’m officially late.
I push open the door of Myrtle’s Diner, and the smell of breakfast embraces me as I stomp my feet back to life and wave to my surrogate grandfather.
He peeks through the red-Formica-trimmed orders-up window and gives me his usual spatula salute.
Walking toward the corner booth, I’m surprised to see it empty. I slide onto the far bench so I can see the door and wave to Erick when he comes in. Although it hardly seems necessary, since the sole occupants of the restaurant are two locals at the counter and me.
My favorite waitress, Tally, slides a steaming mug of java onto the table along with a small melamine bowl of individual creamers. “Mornin’, Mitzy. Did you hear about the storm?”
Since moving as far north as I have ever ventured in my life, I’ve learned that the hot topic of conversation in the winter is always the next storm. “I hear it might be worse than the blizzard in ’84.”
Tally puts a hand to her aproned chest and gasps. “You don’t say? Well, I better run to the Piggly Wiggly after work and stock up on canned goods.”
I nod and smile. I don’t have the heart to tell her I was joking and actually have no knowledge of the legendary snowstorm of 1984.
After several satisfying sips of my coffee, my girlfriend senses and my extrasensory perceptions join forces. Something is definitely not right. First of all, Erick is never late. However, if he was going to be unavoidably late, he would absolutely text me.
Fishing my phone out of the large pocket of my puffy coat, I double check to make sure I didn’t miss a message.
Nothing.
Odell strides out of the kitchen and places my breakfast in front of me. “Somethin’ wrong?”
I drag my eyes away from the phone and stare at him for a moment. The grey utilitarian buzz cut speaks of practicality, and the deep lines of his face hold a lifetime of stories.
“I was supposed to meet Erick. It’s not like him to be late.”
He nods. “Not like him at all. You get started on your breakfast. I’m sure he’ll walk through that door before you finish.”
Our eyes meet, and I grin. “Um, have you met me?”
His coarse laughter warms my heart. “Ya got a point.” Odell raps his knuckles twice on the silver-flecked table and returns to the kitchen.
Halfway through my scrambled eggs and chorizo, the mood ring on my left hand shudders with an icy warning.