Read Online Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) by Charity Tahmaseb - Free Book Online
Authors: Charity Tahmaseb
Tags: Fiction
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and—”
He snorts, a response that encompasses his entire opinion of Malcolm. Then a cloud passes over Mr. Carlotta’s eyes. I see it, feel it, and kneel next to his chair.
“God, Katy-Girl, but I miss her.” He clutches my hand harder, as if that could bring my grandmother back.
“I miss her too.”
He was so in love with her. That he mourns—still—makes me just a little bit angry with her. She never encouraged him; it was true.
“It wouldn’t be right,” is what she always told me. “And it’s not something I can do.”
Before she died, I agreed. Mr. Carlotta’s gnarled fingers pass across the top of my head, tangling in a few wayward strands of hair. Now I wonder if it really would have hurt that much. I disengage, slowly, standing first, then giving his hand a squeeze.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” I say. “How’s Jack?”
At the sound of his grandson’s name, Mr. Carlotta’s spine straightens. The clouds clear from his eyes.
“Just passed the bar exam and got a job offer from one of those fancy law firms in downtown Minneapolis.”
“Very impressive,” I say.
“He’s a good catch for a girl, steady job and all. Hard to make ends meet as a ghost hunter.”
I swallow back the sigh. “Last I heard, Jack was engaged.”
“Flighty thing. I knew it wouldn’t work out.”
I went to school with Jack Carlotta. We were in the same graduating class, and he once set my hair on fire with the Bunsen burner in science class, although not on purpose. I adore Mr. Carlotta too much to tell him that it’s actually his grandson who’s the flighty one.
“I need to find Malcolm,” I say instead.
Predictably, I’m treated to another snort. “You tell him, for me, that I’ve got my eye on him. He mistreats you, Katy-Girl? Well, I’ll have something to say about it.”
“We’re business partners.”
“Yes. Of course.” He gives me a sly look. “How silly of me.”
Only after I turn toward the gymnasium do I roll my eyes.
At the far end of the gym, a platform sits beneath the basketball hoop. Except for an overstuffed chair in midnight blue, the platform is empty. From where I stand, the material looks like velvet and it matches the ruffle that surrounds the platform itself. The fabric—on the chair, around the platform—is so conveniently draped, it makes me wish I were five so I could lift it up, crawl beneath, and discover all the secrets that are no doubt hidden there.
But I’m not five, so instead I walk up the center aisle, gaze searching for Malcolm. I catch sight of his ebony hair first. He’s in the front row, chatting with a reporter from the weekly newspaper. I don’t want to sit in the front row. Indeed, nothing about the front row entices me, as a person or as a ghost eradication specialist. The back is the better option, the place where you might see the sleight of hand of the technical crew.
In the back, you can slip out and no one notices. In the back, you can see who is truly engaged from their posture. But Malcolm is in the front, so I continue my trek and take the chair two seats away from his.
When the reporter leaves, Malcolm eyes the space I’ve left between us, then skewers me with a look.
“What?” He raises an eyebrow. “Do I smell?”
Normally, yes, like Ivory soap and nutmeg. It’s one of the best things about working closely with him. But when he scoots over, I end up with a nose full of musk. I scrunch up my face.
“Yeah, you do smell. Are you wearing cologne?”
He pushes a strand of hair from his forehead. “A little.”
A lot . His white dress shirt bristles with starch. His loafers gleam. So does his hair. Extra product, I think.
“Are you going on a date later?” I ask at last.
He casts a glance at my stockings. “Are you?”
I look away.
Several banks of lights shut off, leaving the rows of chairs in the dark. A collective intake of breath echoes through the gymnasium. A hazy glow illuminates the chair in the center of the
He snorts, a response that encompasses his entire opinion of Malcolm. Then a cloud passes over Mr. Carlotta’s eyes. I see it, feel it, and kneel next to his chair.
“God, Katy-Girl, but I miss her.” He clutches my hand harder, as if that could bring my grandmother back.
“I miss her too.”
He was so in love with her. That he mourns—still—makes me just a little bit angry with her. She never encouraged him; it was true.
“It wouldn’t be right,” is what she always told me. “And it’s not something I can do.”
Before she died, I agreed. Mr. Carlotta’s gnarled fingers pass across the top of my head, tangling in a few wayward strands of hair. Now I wonder if it really would have hurt that much. I disengage, slowly, standing first, then giving his hand a squeeze.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” I say. “How’s Jack?”
At the sound of his grandson’s name, Mr. Carlotta’s spine straightens. The clouds clear from his eyes.
“Just passed the bar exam and got a job offer from one of those fancy law firms in downtown Minneapolis.”
“Very impressive,” I say.
“He’s a good catch for a girl, steady job and all. Hard to make ends meet as a ghost hunter.”
I swallow back the sigh. “Last I heard, Jack was engaged.”
“Flighty thing. I knew it wouldn’t work out.”
I went to school with Jack Carlotta. We were in the same graduating class, and he once set my hair on fire with the Bunsen burner in science class, although not on purpose. I adore Mr. Carlotta too much to tell him that it’s actually his grandson who’s the flighty one.
“I need to find Malcolm,” I say instead.
Predictably, I’m treated to another snort. “You tell him, for me, that I’ve got my eye on him. He mistreats you, Katy-Girl? Well, I’ll have something to say about it.”
“We’re business partners.”
“Yes. Of course.” He gives me a sly look. “How silly of me.”
Only after I turn toward the gymnasium do I roll my eyes.
At the far end of the gym, a platform sits beneath the basketball hoop. Except for an overstuffed chair in midnight blue, the platform is empty. From where I stand, the material looks like velvet and it matches the ruffle that surrounds the platform itself. The fabric—on the chair, around the platform—is so conveniently draped, it makes me wish I were five so I could lift it up, crawl beneath, and discover all the secrets that are no doubt hidden there.
But I’m not five, so instead I walk up the center aisle, gaze searching for Malcolm. I catch sight of his ebony hair first. He’s in the front row, chatting with a reporter from the weekly newspaper. I don’t want to sit in the front row. Indeed, nothing about the front row entices me, as a person or as a ghost eradication specialist. The back is the better option, the place where you might see the sleight of hand of the technical crew.
In the back, you can slip out and no one notices. In the back, you can see who is truly engaged from their posture. But Malcolm is in the front, so I continue my trek and take the chair two seats away from his.
When the reporter leaves, Malcolm eyes the space I’ve left between us, then skewers me with a look.
“What?” He raises an eyebrow. “Do I smell?”
Normally, yes, like Ivory soap and nutmeg. It’s one of the best things about working closely with him. But when he scoots over, I end up with a nose full of musk. I scrunch up my face.
“Yeah, you do smell. Are you wearing cologne?”
He pushes a strand of hair from his forehead. “A little.”
A lot . His white dress shirt bristles with starch. His loafers gleam. So does his hair. Extra product, I think.
“Are you going on a date later?” I ask at last.
He casts a glance at my stockings. “Are you?”
I look away.
Several banks of lights shut off, leaving the rows of chairs in the dark. A collective intake of breath echoes through the gymnasium. A hazy glow illuminates the chair in the center of the
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