Ghostal Living by Kathleen Bridge

Author:Kathleen Bridge
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2017-03-30T13:38:10+00:00

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

When I entered the lounge, or the former-library-turned-lounge, I went over to the bar where Brenna was the barkeep. The inn didn’t need a library because of the greenhouse and all the rooms filled with books. Brenna offered me a bee’s knees.

I said, “Thanks anyway. I have dinner plans tonight. I don’t want my date finding my head in a plate of spaghetti.” I chose a bottle of Perrier. She poured it in a tumbler and added two wedges of lime.

The lounge had a flat-screen TV inside a huge mahogany cabinet. The polished, ornately carved bar was a recent addition to the room. Brenna told me it had been shipped on an eighteen-wheeler from a famous Art Nouveau–style Baltimore hotel bar that F. Scott Fitzgerald had frequented. Hal and Jordan sat on a tufted leather sofa holding hands. They each held a glass of rosé. Allan sat at a chess table with a bottle of thirty-year-old Macallan scotch. I knew the Macallan cost a pretty penny because it was my ex-fiancé Michael’s favorite. Allan’s recent hardcover flop, The Mars Project, lay on the table. He’d told me last week he was writing the sequel, even though his publisher wanted him to do a stand-alone book. He’d said, “A contract is a contract. If the sequel becomes a bestseller, it will boost the sales on The Mars Project, no matter what the reviews.”

I’d wished him good luck with that theory.

Franklin lounged on a leather wing chair and ottoman. His legs were covered with a beautiful crocheted afghan. He looked fragile, the dark bags under his eyes magnified by his thick spectacles. He didn’t hold a book or his pipe, but he did hold a bee’s knees.

Just as I breathed a sigh of relief that there was no obnoxious Ollie present, I looked out the window and saw him pull up—on a white stallion, no less. He tethered the horse’s reins to the porch railing on the side veranda.

As soon as Ollie walked into the lounge, he said to Brenna, “Brenna, where’s my well-deserved drink?”

And surprise of all surprises, Brenna handed him one. He sat on a bar stool and his not-broken-in cowboy boots rained dried clumps of dirt onto the parquet floor.

I immediately moved next to Violet and sat in a club chair that faced the fireplace.

Violet held a cup of tea. I’d never seen her touch a drop of alcohol. She wore her trademark shawl and a sheer paisley multicolored tunic, like something by ’60s designer Pucci that Elle might have in her closet.

I said, “Is that your special gold leaf tea?”

She stopped rubbing her fingers together and brought the cup below her chin. She looked in, like she didn’t remember what she was drinking. After a few minutes she said, “No. This is Tienchi flower tea.” She tipped her teacup in my direction. What looked like tiny broccoli florets swam in pale green water. “It’s a one-cup cure-all for a myriad of ailments. I wish Franklin would drink it. He doesn’t look well.

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