Finnley
It’s been over ten years since my parents died. Almost nine since I gave thought to the fact that spirits might exist. Even back when I was young though, I never experienced anything like the dream I woke up to today.
Most disconcerting is the woman in the dream. She recently died.
She doesn’t seem nearly as crazy as people say she was.
“So you’ll help him for me?” she asks. I can hear the hope in her words. She’s counting on me but I still don’t understand.
“Why don’t you just do it yourself?”
Maggie Shaw smiles at me but there’s a heart crushing sadness that washes over her expression. Her form is blurry. It’s like I’m watching T.V. with bad reception, but I can still see her enough to notice the regret of a lot of years weighing on her.
“It’s best that it’s you.”
She’s much older than I am but she has a child’s spirit about her. One that reminds me of my own, once upon a time - innocent, naive.
I reach out to hold her hand but my fingers pass right through hers. I snatch them back, and when I look up to ask her another question, she’s gone.
But not forgotten.
“Be patient with him, Finnley,” she whispers across the air. “He’s been hurt by a lot of people. Including me.”
Her words pierce my heart. I ache for the son she feels she’s lost and I can’t explain why. I don’t even know him.
She’s fading fast, like she’s done here, but I don’t have enough information yet.
“Wait,” I call out, desperate. I haven’t attempted anything like this in a very long time. I’m rusty. “How am I supposed to help him when I don’t even know where he is, or what he looks like?”
“He’ll come to you,” she says with a quiet assuredness. My heart is beating a million miles a minute when she says it.
“When?” I ask, anxious to know now.
“Today.”
It’s the last thing she says. As soon as she’s gone, I wake up with hurt pressing against my chest and tears welling in my eyes. I brush them away with shaky hands because and all I know, despite years of nothing, is that I need to help Cooper Shaw find his truth.
# # #
Minutes have turned into years and I’m not even midway through my morning. I have no idea when or where Maggie Shaw’s son will show up or how I’m supposed to handle the situation when he does get here. I am anxious as all get out. Not to mention the fact that I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I mean, sure, I’ve dabbled in spells over the years here and there but it’s been a very long time since I’ve actually tried to help someone, much less tell them something along the lines of hey, I spoke to your dead mom recently.
I told Maggie I’d try though. So I will.
It’s probably best that I stay in one place for as long as possible. I figure if he’s going to show up, it’ll be at the Camilla Inn, so I rush through my errands for Gran and plant myself at the B&B.
Two hours later, when the clock strikes eleven AM, I regret that decision.
Every time the door opens I look up expectantly, thinking it’s going to be Cooper Shaw, dashing young son to Maggie Shaw, ready to know all there is to know about his family. I practice what I’ll say to him in between guests. How I’ll smile, making him more at ease. I imagine his surprise, but then gratefulness for someone to give him some answers to any questions he might have.
Then I sit there, dumbfounded for a few minutes.
“What answers? I don’t have any answers.”
“I’m sorry?” a man who’s snuck up on me asks as he leans over the front desk.
“I-”
For a moment I wonder if it’s him. Cooper. But as I search his eyes and see nothing familiar there, I know it’s not him.
I’ve never met this man but I feel like I’d recognize him if I saw him. I mean, I hope I would. I only poured over every article ever written about him and his family since getting to work this morning. I even Googled his high school graduation picture.
I might have also stared at it for a bit too long.
I couldn’t help it. Those eyes, even back when he was younger, they’re so deep. Telling. I could see the hurt behind them.
“Sorry about that, I was thinking out loud.”
I smile, halfheartedly, and sign the guest in.
I sigh.
I go back to waiting.
At noon, Gran stops by all dressed up.
She’s on her way over to the bank to try and get an extension on her mortgage payment due date but she won’t get it. She’s been trying for ages. Dan Moss isn’t the biggest jerk in town, but he’s sincerely getting on my nerves. Mostly because he’s trying to get me to finally go out with him by holding Gran’s house debt over my head.
Who does that?
Not that I haven’t considered it once or twice, but lately, I don’t know, I have a feeling about the whole situation. Likes things are about to take a turn somehow.
So I’m holding out a little longer.
“What’s going on with you, Finnley?” she asks with her authoritative voice. I know she’s serious based on the fact that she’s using my whole name. I hate Finnley, always have. And she knows it.
Most of the time I tell Gran everything, and I plan to tell her about Maggie’s visit into my subconscious, but now’s not the time. It’ll just get her all excited and worked up and besides, I have no idea how this will all pan out and if I fail, then what?
I’m not real great at fibbing to her though, it makes me itchy, which is why I begin to blink uncontrollably as I shake my head.
“Nothing. Why?”
She eyes me, then purses her lips.
“You’ve got a twitch,” she informs me. In other words, she’s not buying what I’m selling today, which is the usual when I try to beat around the bush.
I just smile and dip my head like I’m searching for something on the internet. Then I wave her off.
“I’m perfectly fine, Gran. Go on and get your list of to-dos done and I’ll be here, like always.”
Her hesitation tells me she’s debating arguing with me over my complete lack of skills in the lying department, but she lets it go.
For now.
“Okay then,” she says. “I’ll be home later on.”
Like I would ever beat her home.
“Bye,” I sing, avoiding eye contact, hoping she doesn’t have second thoughts.
I peek up to make sure she’s really leaving and watch her wave to a few employees as she goes. When I see her stop to talk with Betsy Ashbury, who’s supposed to be starting her shift soon but looks about as frazzled as I feel. As she struggles to hold her youngest in her arms while stopping the older of her children from running off, I know what’s coming.
I feel bad for the girl. If there’s anyone in Salem who’s got a bad ticket in life, it’s Betsy. Two kids, three and one, husband . . . gone. She has three jobs and a crappy babysitter who calls out on her more often than not but she can’t afford a good one, even with her three jobs, so here she is.
Gran finally leaves the building without another glance back after finishing up with my friend and co-worker. As Betsy approaches the front desk, her mouth opens to say something and I hold a hand up to her.
“Of course I’ll cover for you tonight.”
Betsy’s eyes fill up with tears and she smiles at me, grateful.
“Thank you so much, Finn. I’m sorry, Annie called about an hour ago and . . .”
She’s still talking about why she can’t make it in tonight when someone walks in the front door. It’s a man, I can tell that much, but right now he’s turned the other way, trying to maneuver his luggage, behind him, and I can’t get a good look at his face.
I lean forward and stretch my neck a little to get a better view.
“Finn?”
I jump and fumble with the pen in my hand before giving Betsy my full attention again.
“What?” I ask, like I’ve been there the whole time.
Her brow dips and she adjusts the little one in her arms again.
“I was just saying, I’ll make it up to you next week, I promise.”
“Oh,” I pish. “Don’t worry about it. Life’s too short to worry about who put in what hours and when.”
The man finally gets his things through the door and turns to approach me to check in and my shoulders fall.
It’s not Cooper.
“What’s the matter with you?” Betsy asks, but even if I wanted to tell her, I can’t now, I need to check this gentleman who is not Maggie Shaw’s son into the B&B.
“Go on home and be with your kids, Betsy. Don’t worry about anything, I’ve got it taken care of.”
I smile and Betsy returns the sentiment, then she tugs gently at her oldest’s hand. As they leave, I take a deep breath and open up Gran’s registry.
I look up into the empty eyes of our latest tenant and don’t even try to grin.
“Name?”
# # #
By eight-thirty PM, I’ve checked in more visitors than we’ve had at any given time in months, helped serve dinner and dessert, headed up the evening activity for guests, dealt with the plumber, the health inspector, lost tourists, and a wine distributor who clearly needs some additional training since he appeared to be under the impression that Gran is running a vineyard instead of a B&B.
After I fold the towels that needed washing and drying today, I stack them as high as I can in my arms and run them upstairs. I speed walk through the hallways to get them into the bathroom before guests notice they’re missing and when I return, my night just got exponentially worse.
I wipe the bangs out of my face and slow my steps to a crawl, the last few steps down into the front area.
“Raymond,” I practically whine. I can smell the liquor on him from here. “What do you want?”
The cocky, younger brother of Dan Moss leans against the front desk like he owns the place. I’m sure he thinks he does, or will maybe some day, but tonight he’s just an annoying pest.
“Hey, Finnley.” He smirks and twists the toothpick in his mouth around a little bit.
He knows it annoys the living hell out of me when people call me Finnley, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting to his idiocy.
“I’m real busy here, Ray,” I start to tell him, but he doesn’t care about my workload. He only cares about himself. His entire family is the same.
“I just wanted to see if you got the messages I left for you this week.” He pushes off of the counter and strolls around to where I am, behind the desk. He stands too close to me for my liking. He always stands too close. The boy never has had a very good sense of personal space.
As he leans in to me, I pull away from him. Our eyes lock and I have the strongest urge to pull out an old spell I used to play around with.
One that’s would make his skin itch for days.
Weeks if I say it right.
His eyes dip and then meet mine again. His eyebrows bounce once as he asks, “Did ya get my messages, Finnley?”
About ten seconds go by before I let out a laugh I can’t hold in any more. I push him away from me and move passed him.
“Of course I got your messages Raymond. The question is, didn’t you get mine?”
“What message?” he asks, angry now.
“Exactly.”
I pay him no mind for the next few minutes to make sure he understands he means nothing to me. When he grabs my arm and jerks me around to face him, I get the impression he just doesn’t get it.
“Are you listening to me?” he spits.
“Let go of me, Ray,” I tell him under no uncertain terms. It’s not until I whisper, “Eximo,” the latin word for release, that he does though. I don’t know a ton of spells that have to do with the language, but the ones I do know work pretty well.
He blinks and looks at me like he doesn’t understand what just happened. That’s because he doesn’t. How could he?
In his defense, people are much more susceptible to things when their defenses are down. Like when they’re drunk.
“You should go home, Ray, you look tired.”
I eyeball him carefully, as he thinks it over.
Now I don’t exactly buy into all that ESP or mind control stuff or anything but hell, it never hurts to try.
Ray scratches at his head like he’s trying really hard to remember something and I bite my tongue to keep from pushing too hard. When he starts toward the front door, I think I’m good to go until he turns around again.
“You’ll call though, right Finn?”
It’s these small moments like this, that I see a Ray most people never have or will. The self conscious younger brother to Dan Moss, big shot banker in town who always gets the girl he wants. Well, most of the time. Makes a ton of money and is a blatant favorite in the Moss family.
In the end, poor Ray just wants to be like his big brother.
Unfortunately.
“Probably not, Ray,” I tell him with a slight smile.
He nods, then goes on his way, reluctantly, and I make my way back behind the front desk, where I start to straighten up the printer area.
Then I hear the door open and close again.
For the love of . . . If this boy doesn’t learn his lesson soon, I’m definitely going to lose my temper.
“Raymond.”
I swear to the spirits surrounding this city.
“I’m tired. I don’t have time for this to-”
I spin to give him a serious talking to this time, but when I see Maggie Shaw’s son standing there looking at me - just like she said he would - I lose my words for a moment or two.
It’s him.
He’s nothing . . . and everything that I expected. And more.
His eyes aren’t bright but they shine all the same and they tell me that he’s lost his path somewhere along the way. That he wants to find his way back. That he needs to.
“Night.”
We’re connected, looking at each other like we’ve both lost the ability to speak for a minute or two and I feel something building inside of me like I haven’t felt before.
Ever.
My heart speeds up and my stomach free falls like I’m on a roller coaster. My palms are sweaty and my mouth is dry. I feel my cheeks get hot and suddenly, I’m jittery. Like a rabbit fleeing a fox. I look away to try and regain some composure, but when he starts to introduce himself, I cut him off without thinking.
“I know who you are,” I tell him, excited and anxious.
“You do?” he asks. He seems confused. Relieved, maybe or... no.
Wait.
He’s scared.
The healer inside me reaches for him when I see resolve in his expression. He looks like he’s getting ready to be lead to the gas chamber or something. I want to hurry over to him and hold him. I want to tell him everything his mother told me in my dream and that I’m here to help. Here to guide him.
A whisper stops me.
“He’s not ready yet, Finnley.”
It’s Maggie again, warning me. Only this time, I’m not asleep and I have no idea how she’s doing that, but regardless, she’s right. If I go telling this man who I am . . . what I am, he’s bound to go running off somewhere and never come back. So I cover up what I’ve already started with flippancy.
“Seems like every other Tom, Dick and Harry in the media’s shown up already. You may as well join ‘em.”
“You think I’m-?”
“You’ve got paparazzi written all over you,” I tell him.
I wait impatiently to see what his reaction is, and he seems to buy it. I can tell by the defense mechanism that kicks in with his next statement.
“I’m not—”
“The funeral’s not for another week, you know,” I tell him, then I start punching in randomness into the computer to busy my eyes away from staring at him.
I can’t stop staring at him.
“You’re mistaken,” he pushes, but I’m pretty sure he is, despite his denial. On some level though, I think he believes what he’s saying.
“Really.” I say it with as little interest as possible but my tone sets him off a little, I guess.
“Yes. Really,” he tells me. I have to look up now, I can’t help myself. When I look into his eyes, I have an uncontrollable urge to tell him he’s full of shit. That I know more about him than he probably knows himself. And that if he would just be honest, I could give him some direction.
But I don’t. For Maggie.
“In town for the festival then?” I ask him, changing the subject all together in hopes that we can just drop it for now. I type into the computer again and clear my throat. I’m pretty sure it’s raised up an octave or two in the past few minutes.
I hope to appear nonchalant about him and anything he has to say from this point forward. Which has turned into absolutely nothing for what seems like an eternity. It’s like he didn’t hear a word I said.
When I peek up from the terminal, I find him staring at me with a scowl in his expression.
Maybe he didn’t understand the question.
“Soooo . . .”
“What?” he snaps and I restructure my inquiry.
“Do you have a reservation?” I ask him, thinking maybe this will give him an opening to explain why he’s here, but he doesn’t take the bait.
“No,” he tells me, short and simple.
He drops his bags next to him and rests his elbows on the counter. His eyes close and his face falls into his hands. My fingers reach out to comfort him, then I pull them back.
It’s too soon.
When he doesn’t come back to life for a while, I wonder if he’s had anything to drink before arriving tonight. I can’t smell it on him like with Ray, but I know from experience that some people hide their problems better than others.
“Helloooo,” I call out gently to wake him from his momentary slumber.
He lifts his head and I decide to just ask away. The one thing I don’t need is another round of a Ray Moss type episode. I can’t say I get that kind of a vibe off this man but I ask him anyway.
“Are you drunk?”
“What?”
“Because I’m not in the mood for—”
“I’m not drunk,” he assures me with a sharp edge to his tongue. When we lock eyes for a stare down, I feel a pull toward this man that’s becoming more and more difficult to ignore.
He seems like he’s waiting for someone to tell him what to do, or maybe more like he needs someone to. I can’t say for sure if that person is me or not but I want it to be me. As I open my mouth to tell him everything, right here and now, once again, I hear Maggie Shaw inside my head.
“Please, Finnley. Not yet.”
Her plea is heartbreaking in a way that I just cannot bring myself to let her down, so I resolve to keep this particular conversation neutral.
“Name?” I ask, and go back to typing into the computer, hoping it’s not obvious I already know the answer or that I love the way his eyes change a little when he looks at me.
“Um . . .” he replies as though he has to think about it. And when he follows up with, “Cole Stone,” I freeze.
Because I couldn’t have gotten this wrong.
It’s him.
I know it’s him.
I did my research, dammit.
“Cole Stone?” I repeat, giving him the opportunity to correct himself. Only he doesn’t.
“That’s right,” he says and now I’m confused. But not. I’m certain this is Cooper Shaw, but why would he lie?
“You sure?” I ask him, and he snorts at me.
Snorts.
“Yes.”
I play along, because I’m curious now, as to why he’d pretend to be someone he’s not. Then I wonder to myself, if he even knows who he really is himself.
I’m staring too long again, I realize, as I debate his intentions, so I push over to another terminal and enter the name he’s given me.
“So . . . not in town for the festival?” I ask, yet again to give him every opportunity to come clean here.
Still, he refuses to confess.
“I didn’t say that,” he says, defensive again. I watch him close as he delves deep into his own thoughts while I try to figure out just exactly what he’s up to.
“Well, then are you—?”
Only he cuts me off at the bit. Again.
“Seriously,” he blurts out, “Do you always talk this much?”
Touchy.
Gran says I’m very intuitive about things. A lot more than most people. She also says that’s no excuse to come off as a know it all, so once again, I ignore the urge to tell Mr. Stone that he’s a big fat liar.
I shrug.
“Just asking.”
I give him the price for his room and pull the book out for him to sign. He hands me a credit card and when I take it from him, I notice him noticing my infinity tattoo.
Instinctively, I pull my hand away and push my bangle bracelets over it. Gran doesn’t mind it all that much, she gets why I had it done, but she says it’s better safe than sorry to keep it hidden around guests because you never know who’s gonna get offended by what.
Cooper Shaw slash Cole Stone loses interest after that, thank goodness. When I catch him fiddling with some of the brochures on the desk, I decide to give him yet another hint toward telling me who he is.
“You should go see the Witch House. It’s the only remaining structure left in the town from the witch trials of sixteen hundred and—”
“I’ll try to make time for it,” he informs me with a polite tone. A little too polite if you ask me.
So I try again.
“How about the Essex Museum then? It’s one of the largest in the area you know?”
Nothing.
“It’s got everything,” I urge. “From art, to culture, to . . .”
I’m disrupted from a rant about the place when I notice Cooper looking slightly pale.
This time, I don’t stop myself from putting a hand on top of his to try and reassure him everything will be alright.
He’s cold, and not responding, so I whisper another latin word I learned from Gran, once. I probably shouldn’t do this in front of him but I feel an urgent need to help him.
“Viglio.”
It means awake.
When he doesn’t respond, I push a little further.
“Hey, you okay?”
He comes out of the trance he fell under and glances around a bit before he realizes where he is. When he notices my hand on top of his, I remove it slowly.
The warmth in my cheeks is returning and I don’t like feeling this vulnerable around people who don’t want to tell me who they are, so I play it off like I’d do this for anyone that wandered in.
“You look a little pale. If you’re gonna be sick—”
“I’m fine,” he tells me, even though it’s plain to see he’s not.
He doesn’t trust me. Or anyone probably. I’m getting flustered with every sentence he speaks so finally, I give up.
“Well,” I hand him his key. “Here ya go, Mr. Stone, second floor, last room on the right.”
I try to smile for him, to let him know that even if he trusts no one else, he can trust me.
I don’t know if he believes it.
He takes the key and after a small hesitation, he heads for the stairs. Then I remember.
“Hey wait!”
He stops but doesn’t turn around right away. His shoulders slump a little and I can see just how tired he really is.
From life.
When he twists around I offer him his credit card back and try to lighten the mood.
“I’m guessing you’re not gonna get too far without this.”
I laugh at my own pun and I think he’s going to as well at first, until he notices me.
All of me.
In such a way that it makes me uncomfortable.
“Shoot.” I try to cut at the tension, assuring him, “I don’t usually leave the front desk. I just figured you might need that.”
I point to the card in his hand and he inspects it, then me.
“Not a problem,” he mumbles, then continues on up the stairs with a drag in his feet and an annoyance in his voice.
“Need help with those?” I offer, but whatever rapport was between us is gone.
Maybe he got a good enough glimpse of the tatt after all.
Maybe he doesn’t like it.
Not that I care.
“No thanks,” he says without looking back.
Frustrated, I head back over to the front desk again.
He’s so stubborn. And I’m unseasoned in my knowledge of how to deal with the dead . . . or their children.
“Why me, anyway?” I ask Maggie, just in case she’s listening.
“I mean clearly he doesn’t want to be here, and he certainly doesn’t like me, much less want or think he needs my help or anyone else’s for that matter.”
I pick a pen up off of the counter and begin to doodle in the guest book margin next to his name.
“He’s grouchy. And a liar,” I tell the ghost.
“I doubt I’ll even see him again,” I mutter, trying to make myself feel better about not being able to follow through.
I stop drawing when I see what I’ve inscribed next to Cooper’s fake name over and over and over again.
Infinity.
Then I slide the pen across the table with force and curse Maggie for getting me involved in things that are none of my business.
“It’s too hard,” I tell her.
“And useless,” I tell myself.
“He doesn’t even want my help,” I tell the both of us.
But he needs it.
“I mean maybe, maybe, if I thought there was a chance that I’d have reason to see him again. Maybe I could try this from square one, so it wouldn’t seem so . . . I don’t know, obvious . . .” I begin to explain. “So I could ease him into it somehow, or . . . find my own way through helping him . . .”
I’m in the middle of trying to come up a few lame excuses for confronting Cooper Shaw again.
Then the front desk phone rings.
It’s been over ten years since my parents died. Almost nine since I gave thought to the fact that spirits might exist. Even back when I was young though, I never experienced anything like the dream I woke up to today.
Most disconcerting is the woman in the dream. She recently died.
She doesn’t seem nearly as crazy as people say she was.
“So you’ll help him for me?” she asks. I can hear the hope in her words. She’s counting on me but I still don’t understand.
“Why don’t you just do it yourself?”
Maggie Shaw smiles at me but there’s a heart crushing sadness that washes over her expression. Her form is blurry. It’s like I’m watching T.V. with bad reception, but I can still see her enough to notice the regret of a lot of years weighing on her.
“It’s best that it’s you.”
She’s much older than I am but she has a child’s spirit about her. One that reminds me of my own, once upon a time - innocent, naive.
I reach out to hold her hand but my fingers pass right through hers. I snatch them back, and when I look up to ask her another question, she’s gone.
But not forgotten.
“Be patient with him, Finnley,” she whispers across the air. “He’s been hurt by a lot of people. Including me.”
Her words pierce my heart. I ache for the son she feels she’s lost and I can’t explain why. I don’t even know him.
She’s fading fast, like she’s done here, but I don’t have enough information yet.
“Wait,” I call out, desperate. I haven’t attempted anything like this in a very long time. I’m rusty. “How am I supposed to help him when I don’t even know where he is, or what he looks like?”
“He’ll come to you,” she says with a quiet assuredness. My heart is beating a million miles a minute when she says it.
“When?” I ask, anxious to know now.
“Today.”
It’s the last thing she says. As soon as she’s gone, I wake up with hurt pressing against my chest and tears welling in my eyes. I brush them away with shaky hands because and all I know, despite years of nothing, is that I need to help Cooper Shaw find his truth.
# # #
Minutes have turned into years and I’m not even midway through my morning. I have no idea when or where Maggie Shaw’s son will show up or how I’m supposed to handle the situation when he does get here. I am anxious as all get out. Not to mention the fact that I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I mean, sure, I’ve dabbled in spells over the years here and there but it’s been a very long time since I’ve actually tried to help someone, much less tell them something along the lines of hey, I spoke to your dead mom recently.
I told Maggie I’d try though. So I will.
It’s probably best that I stay in one place for as long as possible. I figure if he’s going to show up, it’ll be at the Camilla Inn, so I rush through my errands for Gran and plant myself at the B&B.
Two hours later, when the clock strikes eleven AM, I regret that decision.
Every time the door opens I look up expectantly, thinking it’s going to be Cooper Shaw, dashing young son to Maggie Shaw, ready to know all there is to know about his family. I practice what I’ll say to him in between guests. How I’ll smile, making him more at ease. I imagine his surprise, but then gratefulness for someone to give him some answers to any questions he might have.
Then I sit there, dumbfounded for a few minutes.
“What answers? I don’t have any answers.”
“I’m sorry?” a man who’s snuck up on me asks as he leans over the front desk.
“I-”
For a moment I wonder if it’s him. Cooper. But as I search his eyes and see nothing familiar there, I know it’s not him.
I’ve never met this man but I feel like I’d recognize him if I saw him. I mean, I hope I would. I only poured over every article ever written about him and his family since getting to work this morning. I even Googled his high school graduation picture.
I might have also stared at it for a bit too long.
I couldn’t help it. Those eyes, even back when he was younger, they’re so deep. Telling. I could see the hurt behind them.
“Sorry about that, I was thinking out loud.”
I smile, halfheartedly, and sign the guest in.
I sigh.
I go back to waiting.
At noon, Gran stops by all dressed up.
She’s on her way over to the bank to try and get an extension on her mortgage payment due date but she won’t get it. She’s been trying for ages. Dan Moss isn’t the biggest jerk in town, but he’s sincerely getting on my nerves. Mostly because he’s trying to get me to finally go out with him by holding Gran’s house debt over my head.
Who does that?
Not that I haven’t considered it once or twice, but lately, I don’t know, I have a feeling about the whole situation. Likes things are about to take a turn somehow.
So I’m holding out a little longer.
“What’s going on with you, Finnley?” she asks with her authoritative voice. I know she’s serious based on the fact that she’s using my whole name. I hate Finnley, always have. And she knows it.
Most of the time I tell Gran everything, and I plan to tell her about Maggie’s visit into my subconscious, but now’s not the time. It’ll just get her all excited and worked up and besides, I have no idea how this will all pan out and if I fail, then what?
I’m not real great at fibbing to her though, it makes me itchy, which is why I begin to blink uncontrollably as I shake my head.
“Nothing. Why?”
She eyes me, then purses her lips.
“You’ve got a twitch,” she informs me. In other words, she’s not buying what I’m selling today, which is the usual when I try to beat around the bush.
I just smile and dip my head like I’m searching for something on the internet. Then I wave her off.
“I’m perfectly fine, Gran. Go on and get your list of to-dos done and I’ll be here, like always.”
Her hesitation tells me she’s debating arguing with me over my complete lack of skills in the lying department, but she lets it go.
For now.
“Okay then,” she says. “I’ll be home later on.”
Like I would ever beat her home.
“Bye,” I sing, avoiding eye contact, hoping she doesn’t have second thoughts.
I peek up to make sure she’s really leaving and watch her wave to a few employees as she goes. When I see her stop to talk with Betsy Ashbury, who’s supposed to be starting her shift soon but looks about as frazzled as I feel. As she struggles to hold her youngest in her arms while stopping the older of her children from running off, I know what’s coming.
I feel bad for the girl. If there’s anyone in Salem who’s got a bad ticket in life, it’s Betsy. Two kids, three and one, husband . . . gone. She has three jobs and a crappy babysitter who calls out on her more often than not but she can’t afford a good one, even with her three jobs, so here she is.
Gran finally leaves the building without another glance back after finishing up with my friend and co-worker. As Betsy approaches the front desk, her mouth opens to say something and I hold a hand up to her.
“Of course I’ll cover for you tonight.”
Betsy’s eyes fill up with tears and she smiles at me, grateful.
“Thank you so much, Finn. I’m sorry, Annie called about an hour ago and . . .”
She’s still talking about why she can’t make it in tonight when someone walks in the front door. It’s a man, I can tell that much, but right now he’s turned the other way, trying to maneuver his luggage, behind him, and I can’t get a good look at his face.
I lean forward and stretch my neck a little to get a better view.
“Finn?”
I jump and fumble with the pen in my hand before giving Betsy my full attention again.
“What?” I ask, like I’ve been there the whole time.
Her brow dips and she adjusts the little one in her arms again.
“I was just saying, I’ll make it up to you next week, I promise.”
“Oh,” I pish. “Don’t worry about it. Life’s too short to worry about who put in what hours and when.”
The man finally gets his things through the door and turns to approach me to check in and my shoulders fall.
It’s not Cooper.
“What’s the matter with you?” Betsy asks, but even if I wanted to tell her, I can’t now, I need to check this gentleman who is not Maggie Shaw’s son into the B&B.
“Go on home and be with your kids, Betsy. Don’t worry about anything, I’ve got it taken care of.”
I smile and Betsy returns the sentiment, then she tugs gently at her oldest’s hand. As they leave, I take a deep breath and open up Gran’s registry.
I look up into the empty eyes of our latest tenant and don’t even try to grin.
“Name?”
# # #
By eight-thirty PM, I’ve checked in more visitors than we’ve had at any given time in months, helped serve dinner and dessert, headed up the evening activity for guests, dealt with the plumber, the health inspector, lost tourists, and a wine distributor who clearly needs some additional training since he appeared to be under the impression that Gran is running a vineyard instead of a B&B.
After I fold the towels that needed washing and drying today, I stack them as high as I can in my arms and run them upstairs. I speed walk through the hallways to get them into the bathroom before guests notice they’re missing and when I return, my night just got exponentially worse.
I wipe the bangs out of my face and slow my steps to a crawl, the last few steps down into the front area.
“Raymond,” I practically whine. I can smell the liquor on him from here. “What do you want?”
The cocky, younger brother of Dan Moss leans against the front desk like he owns the place. I’m sure he thinks he does, or will maybe some day, but tonight he’s just an annoying pest.
“Hey, Finnley.” He smirks and twists the toothpick in his mouth around a little bit.
He knows it annoys the living hell out of me when people call me Finnley, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting to his idiocy.
“I’m real busy here, Ray,” I start to tell him, but he doesn’t care about my workload. He only cares about himself. His entire family is the same.
“I just wanted to see if you got the messages I left for you this week.” He pushes off of the counter and strolls around to where I am, behind the desk. He stands too close to me for my liking. He always stands too close. The boy never has had a very good sense of personal space.
As he leans in to me, I pull away from him. Our eyes lock and I have the strongest urge to pull out an old spell I used to play around with.
One that’s would make his skin itch for days.
Weeks if I say it right.
His eyes dip and then meet mine again. His eyebrows bounce once as he asks, “Did ya get my messages, Finnley?”
About ten seconds go by before I let out a laugh I can’t hold in any more. I push him away from me and move passed him.
“Of course I got your messages Raymond. The question is, didn’t you get mine?”
“What message?” he asks, angry now.
“Exactly.”
I pay him no mind for the next few minutes to make sure he understands he means nothing to me. When he grabs my arm and jerks me around to face him, I get the impression he just doesn’t get it.
“Are you listening to me?” he spits.
“Let go of me, Ray,” I tell him under no uncertain terms. It’s not until I whisper, “Eximo,” the latin word for release, that he does though. I don’t know a ton of spells that have to do with the language, but the ones I do know work pretty well.
He blinks and looks at me like he doesn’t understand what just happened. That’s because he doesn’t. How could he?
In his defense, people are much more susceptible to things when their defenses are down. Like when they’re drunk.
“You should go home, Ray, you look tired.”
I eyeball him carefully, as he thinks it over.
Now I don’t exactly buy into all that ESP or mind control stuff or anything but hell, it never hurts to try.
Ray scratches at his head like he’s trying really hard to remember something and I bite my tongue to keep from pushing too hard. When he starts toward the front door, I think I’m good to go until he turns around again.
“You’ll call though, right Finn?”
It’s these small moments like this, that I see a Ray most people never have or will. The self conscious younger brother to Dan Moss, big shot banker in town who always gets the girl he wants. Well, most of the time. Makes a ton of money and is a blatant favorite in the Moss family.
In the end, poor Ray just wants to be like his big brother.
Unfortunately.
“Probably not, Ray,” I tell him with a slight smile.
He nods, then goes on his way, reluctantly, and I make my way back behind the front desk, where I start to straighten up the printer area.
Then I hear the door open and close again.
For the love of . . . If this boy doesn’t learn his lesson soon, I’m definitely going to lose my temper.
“Raymond.”
I swear to the spirits surrounding this city.
“I’m tired. I don’t have time for this to-”
I spin to give him a serious talking to this time, but when I see Maggie Shaw’s son standing there looking at me - just like she said he would - I lose my words for a moment or two.
It’s him.
He’s nothing . . . and everything that I expected. And more.
His eyes aren’t bright but they shine all the same and they tell me that he’s lost his path somewhere along the way. That he wants to find his way back. That he needs to.
“Night.”
We’re connected, looking at each other like we’ve both lost the ability to speak for a minute or two and I feel something building inside of me like I haven’t felt before.
Ever.
My heart speeds up and my stomach free falls like I’m on a roller coaster. My palms are sweaty and my mouth is dry. I feel my cheeks get hot and suddenly, I’m jittery. Like a rabbit fleeing a fox. I look away to try and regain some composure, but when he starts to introduce himself, I cut him off without thinking.
“I know who you are,” I tell him, excited and anxious.
“You do?” he asks. He seems confused. Relieved, maybe or... no.
Wait.
He’s scared.
The healer inside me reaches for him when I see resolve in his expression. He looks like he’s getting ready to be lead to the gas chamber or something. I want to hurry over to him and hold him. I want to tell him everything his mother told me in my dream and that I’m here to help. Here to guide him.
A whisper stops me.
“He’s not ready yet, Finnley.”
It’s Maggie again, warning me. Only this time, I’m not asleep and I have no idea how she’s doing that, but regardless, she’s right. If I go telling this man who I am . . . what I am, he’s bound to go running off somewhere and never come back. So I cover up what I’ve already started with flippancy.
“Seems like every other Tom, Dick and Harry in the media’s shown up already. You may as well join ‘em.”
“You think I’m-?”
“You’ve got paparazzi written all over you,” I tell him.
I wait impatiently to see what his reaction is, and he seems to buy it. I can tell by the defense mechanism that kicks in with his next statement.
“I’m not—”
“The funeral’s not for another week, you know,” I tell him, then I start punching in randomness into the computer to busy my eyes away from staring at him.
I can’t stop staring at him.
“You’re mistaken,” he pushes, but I’m pretty sure he is, despite his denial. On some level though, I think he believes what he’s saying.
“Really.” I say it with as little interest as possible but my tone sets him off a little, I guess.
“Yes. Really,” he tells me. I have to look up now, I can’t help myself. When I look into his eyes, I have an uncontrollable urge to tell him he’s full of shit. That I know more about him than he probably knows himself. And that if he would just be honest, I could give him some direction.
But I don’t. For Maggie.
“In town for the festival then?” I ask him, changing the subject all together in hopes that we can just drop it for now. I type into the computer again and clear my throat. I’m pretty sure it’s raised up an octave or two in the past few minutes.
I hope to appear nonchalant about him and anything he has to say from this point forward. Which has turned into absolutely nothing for what seems like an eternity. It’s like he didn’t hear a word I said.
When I peek up from the terminal, I find him staring at me with a scowl in his expression.
Maybe he didn’t understand the question.
“Soooo . . .”
“What?” he snaps and I restructure my inquiry.
“Do you have a reservation?” I ask him, thinking maybe this will give him an opening to explain why he’s here, but he doesn’t take the bait.
“No,” he tells me, short and simple.
He drops his bags next to him and rests his elbows on the counter. His eyes close and his face falls into his hands. My fingers reach out to comfort him, then I pull them back.
It’s too soon.
When he doesn’t come back to life for a while, I wonder if he’s had anything to drink before arriving tonight. I can’t smell it on him like with Ray, but I know from experience that some people hide their problems better than others.
“Helloooo,” I call out gently to wake him from his momentary slumber.
He lifts his head and I decide to just ask away. The one thing I don’t need is another round of a Ray Moss type episode. I can’t say I get that kind of a vibe off this man but I ask him anyway.
“Are you drunk?”
“What?”
“Because I’m not in the mood for—”
“I’m not drunk,” he assures me with a sharp edge to his tongue. When we lock eyes for a stare down, I feel a pull toward this man that’s becoming more and more difficult to ignore.
He seems like he’s waiting for someone to tell him what to do, or maybe more like he needs someone to. I can’t say for sure if that person is me or not but I want it to be me. As I open my mouth to tell him everything, right here and now, once again, I hear Maggie Shaw inside my head.
“Please, Finnley. Not yet.”
Her plea is heartbreaking in a way that I just cannot bring myself to let her down, so I resolve to keep this particular conversation neutral.
“Name?” I ask, and go back to typing into the computer, hoping it’s not obvious I already know the answer or that I love the way his eyes change a little when he looks at me.
“Um . . .” he replies as though he has to think about it. And when he follows up with, “Cole Stone,” I freeze.
Because I couldn’t have gotten this wrong.
It’s him.
I know it’s him.
I did my research, dammit.
“Cole Stone?” I repeat, giving him the opportunity to correct himself. Only he doesn’t.
“That’s right,” he says and now I’m confused. But not. I’m certain this is Cooper Shaw, but why would he lie?
“You sure?” I ask him, and he snorts at me.
Snorts.
“Yes.”
I play along, because I’m curious now, as to why he’d pretend to be someone he’s not. Then I wonder to myself, if he even knows who he really is himself.
I’m staring too long again, I realize, as I debate his intentions, so I push over to another terminal and enter the name he’s given me.
“So . . . not in town for the festival?” I ask, yet again to give him every opportunity to come clean here.
Still, he refuses to confess.
“I didn’t say that,” he says, defensive again. I watch him close as he delves deep into his own thoughts while I try to figure out just exactly what he’s up to.
“Well, then are you—?”
Only he cuts me off at the bit. Again.
“Seriously,” he blurts out, “Do you always talk this much?”
Touchy.
Gran says I’m very intuitive about things. A lot more than most people. She also says that’s no excuse to come off as a know it all, so once again, I ignore the urge to tell Mr. Stone that he’s a big fat liar.
I shrug.
“Just asking.”
I give him the price for his room and pull the book out for him to sign. He hands me a credit card and when I take it from him, I notice him noticing my infinity tattoo.
Instinctively, I pull my hand away and push my bangle bracelets over it. Gran doesn’t mind it all that much, she gets why I had it done, but she says it’s better safe than sorry to keep it hidden around guests because you never know who’s gonna get offended by what.
Cooper Shaw slash Cole Stone loses interest after that, thank goodness. When I catch him fiddling with some of the brochures on the desk, I decide to give him yet another hint toward telling me who he is.
“You should go see the Witch House. It’s the only remaining structure left in the town from the witch trials of sixteen hundred and—”
“I’ll try to make time for it,” he informs me with a polite tone. A little too polite if you ask me.
So I try again.
“How about the Essex Museum then? It’s one of the largest in the area you know?”
Nothing.
“It’s got everything,” I urge. “From art, to culture, to . . .”
I’m disrupted from a rant about the place when I notice Cooper looking slightly pale.
This time, I don’t stop myself from putting a hand on top of his to try and reassure him everything will be alright.
He’s cold, and not responding, so I whisper another latin word I learned from Gran, once. I probably shouldn’t do this in front of him but I feel an urgent need to help him.
“Viglio.”
It means awake.
When he doesn’t respond, I push a little further.
“Hey, you okay?”
He comes out of the trance he fell under and glances around a bit before he realizes where he is. When he notices my hand on top of his, I remove it slowly.
The warmth in my cheeks is returning and I don’t like feeling this vulnerable around people who don’t want to tell me who they are, so I play it off like I’d do this for anyone that wandered in.
“You look a little pale. If you’re gonna be sick—”
“I’m fine,” he tells me, even though it’s plain to see he’s not.
He doesn’t trust me. Or anyone probably. I’m getting flustered with every sentence he speaks so finally, I give up.
“Well,” I hand him his key. “Here ya go, Mr. Stone, second floor, last room on the right.”
I try to smile for him, to let him know that even if he trusts no one else, he can trust me.
I don’t know if he believes it.
He takes the key and after a small hesitation, he heads for the stairs. Then I remember.
“Hey wait!”
He stops but doesn’t turn around right away. His shoulders slump a little and I can see just how tired he really is.
From life.
When he twists around I offer him his credit card back and try to lighten the mood.
“I’m guessing you’re not gonna get too far without this.”
I laugh at my own pun and I think he’s going to as well at first, until he notices me.
All of me.
In such a way that it makes me uncomfortable.
“Shoot.” I try to cut at the tension, assuring him, “I don’t usually leave the front desk. I just figured you might need that.”
I point to the card in his hand and he inspects it, then me.
“Not a problem,” he mumbles, then continues on up the stairs with a drag in his feet and an annoyance in his voice.
“Need help with those?” I offer, but whatever rapport was between us is gone.
Maybe he got a good enough glimpse of the tatt after all.
Maybe he doesn’t like it.
Not that I care.
“No thanks,” he says without looking back.
Frustrated, I head back over to the front desk again.
He’s so stubborn. And I’m unseasoned in my knowledge of how to deal with the dead . . . or their children.
“Why me, anyway?” I ask Maggie, just in case she’s listening.
“I mean clearly he doesn’t want to be here, and he certainly doesn’t like me, much less want or think he needs my help or anyone else’s for that matter.”
I pick a pen up off of the counter and begin to doodle in the guest book margin next to his name.
“He’s grouchy. And a liar,” I tell the ghost.
“I doubt I’ll even see him again,” I mutter, trying to make myself feel better about not being able to follow through.
I stop drawing when I see what I’ve inscribed next to Cooper’s fake name over and over and over again.
Infinity.
Then I slide the pen across the table with force and curse Maggie for getting me involved in things that are none of my business.
“It’s too hard,” I tell her.
“And useless,” I tell myself.
“He doesn’t even want my help,” I tell the both of us.
But he needs it.
“I mean maybe, maybe, if I thought there was a chance that I’d have reason to see him again. Maybe I could try this from square one, so it wouldn’t seem so . . . I don’t know, obvious . . .” I begin to explain. “So I could ease him into it somehow, or . . . find my own way through helping him . . .”
I’m in the middle of trying to come up a few lame excuses for confronting Cooper Shaw again.
Then the front desk phone rings.
