Read Online Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) by Charity Tahmaseb - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charity Tahmaseb
Tags: Fiction
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Sadie’s temples.
“Ah, yes. I see your ghosts, my dear. The philandering husband. Am I right?”
“We have to stop this,” I say to Malcolm.
“It’s common knowledge. Everyone in town knows.” He’s still gripping my wrist as if he’s worried I’ll charge up on stage. He should worry, because I’m this close to doing so.
On stage, Sadie gulps a plaintive, “Yes.”
“I count one, two … oh, my, five affairs.”
I spear Malcolm with a look. So Mistress Armand wants to talk cruel? This is cruel. Sadie’s lower lip quivers. She shuts her eyes only to have Mistress Armand snap her fingers in front of her face.
“No, my dear, you must face your inner demons, stare at them straight on. For this business, we keep our eyes open. Always .”
Mistress Armand goes on, although the details hardly matter. Malcolm is right. Everyone in town already knows. Everyone in town, except perhaps my grandmother, was party to the deception. When Mistress Armand is done, Sadie is in tatters, her mascara carving two dark rivers down her cheeks. Bits of tissue dot her skirt.
Mistress Armand clutches hands to her chest and turns her gaze toward the ceiling. “Wasn’t that cathartic?”
“Actually it was horrid,” I say, not caring who hears me.
Mistress Armand’s jaw twitches.
“Now, my dear,” Mistress Armand continues, “you will see the benefits and a distinct lack of ghosts. Mark my words on that.”
Sadie makes her shaky way down the stairs. The assistant manager from the Coffee Depot helps her down the final steps and she gives him a wan smile. When she passes my chair, however, Sadie refuses to even glance at me.
“Who’s next?” Mistress Armand calls out. “Who else wants the benefit of ridding their lives of ghosts?”
This time around, the forest of arms is not quite as thick. Still, plenty volunteer. To my surprise, Malcolm releases my wrist.
Then he raises his hand.
“How about a gentleman this time. You there, sir, are you haunted?” She points a red-lacquered nail at Malcolm.
“Constantly,” he says.
She gestures toward the stairs. “Then Mistress Armand awaits you.”
Oh, I bet she does. I cross my arms over my chest, then cross one leg over the other. Without Malcolm at my side—on my side—things feel wrong in a way I can’t pinpoint. Mistress Armand doesn’t lead him to the chair. Instead, she has him stand center stage, then circles him as if he’s something she might like to buy.
“Oh, dear,” she says. “Such a sad tale, such a heavy heart. Do you want to tell Mistress Armand all about the girl you left behind?”
“Yes.” And Malcolm breathes this word more than says it. It’s as if someone has hit him in the stomach. “The girl I left behind.”
The what ? I come undone, or at least, unfolded. My mouth? Hanging open. Yes, Malcolm’s past is murky. I’ve only just learned of—and met—his brother. Still. Have I been too focused on my own mourning and the business of ghost catching to notice he was suffering from a broken heart?
I don’t think so. But ever since Mistress Armand first uttered her breezy proclamations—just this afternoon, no less—I’ve started to doubt a great many things.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she murmurs, her voice like velvet. She cups his face, fingers caressing his jaw. Malcolm stares at her, mouth agape, expression rapt.
I push from my chair and head, not toward the stage, but down the aisle. I can’t take anymore. In fact, I may have taken too much already. I doubt I can scrub the image of her hand caressing Malcolm from my mind. At least, not any time soon.
I push through the gymnasium doors. Before they shut completely, Mistress Armand’s lilting voice follows me.
“There are always unbelievers.”
* * *
Police Chief Ramsey is standing in the lobby outside the gymnasium, arms folded over his chest, his serious-police-business scowl firmly in place. For a moment, my mood lifts. Yes! Mistress Armand is a fraud
“Ah, yes. I see your ghosts, my dear. The philandering husband. Am I right?”
“We have to stop this,” I say to Malcolm.
“It’s common knowledge. Everyone in town knows.” He’s still gripping my wrist as if he’s worried I’ll charge up on stage. He should worry, because I’m this close to doing so.
On stage, Sadie gulps a plaintive, “Yes.”
“I count one, two … oh, my, five affairs.”
I spear Malcolm with a look. So Mistress Armand wants to talk cruel? This is cruel. Sadie’s lower lip quivers. She shuts her eyes only to have Mistress Armand snap her fingers in front of her face.
“No, my dear, you must face your inner demons, stare at them straight on. For this business, we keep our eyes open. Always .”
Mistress Armand goes on, although the details hardly matter. Malcolm is right. Everyone in town already knows. Everyone in town, except perhaps my grandmother, was party to the deception. When Mistress Armand is done, Sadie is in tatters, her mascara carving two dark rivers down her cheeks. Bits of tissue dot her skirt.
Mistress Armand clutches hands to her chest and turns her gaze toward the ceiling. “Wasn’t that cathartic?”
“Actually it was horrid,” I say, not caring who hears me.
Mistress Armand’s jaw twitches.
“Now, my dear,” Mistress Armand continues, “you will see the benefits and a distinct lack of ghosts. Mark my words on that.”
Sadie makes her shaky way down the stairs. The assistant manager from the Coffee Depot helps her down the final steps and she gives him a wan smile. When she passes my chair, however, Sadie refuses to even glance at me.
“Who’s next?” Mistress Armand calls out. “Who else wants the benefit of ridding their lives of ghosts?”
This time around, the forest of arms is not quite as thick. Still, plenty volunteer. To my surprise, Malcolm releases my wrist.
Then he raises his hand.
“How about a gentleman this time. You there, sir, are you haunted?” She points a red-lacquered nail at Malcolm.
“Constantly,” he says.
She gestures toward the stairs. “Then Mistress Armand awaits you.”
Oh, I bet she does. I cross my arms over my chest, then cross one leg over the other. Without Malcolm at my side—on my side—things feel wrong in a way I can’t pinpoint. Mistress Armand doesn’t lead him to the chair. Instead, she has him stand center stage, then circles him as if he’s something she might like to buy.
“Oh, dear,” she says. “Such a sad tale, such a heavy heart. Do you want to tell Mistress Armand all about the girl you left behind?”
“Yes.” And Malcolm breathes this word more than says it. It’s as if someone has hit him in the stomach. “The girl I left behind.”
The what ? I come undone, or at least, unfolded. My mouth? Hanging open. Yes, Malcolm’s past is murky. I’ve only just learned of—and met—his brother. Still. Have I been too focused on my own mourning and the business of ghost catching to notice he was suffering from a broken heart?
I don’t think so. But ever since Mistress Armand first uttered her breezy proclamations—just this afternoon, no less—I’ve started to doubt a great many things.
“Oh, you poor thing,” she murmurs, her voice like velvet. She cups his face, fingers caressing his jaw. Malcolm stares at her, mouth agape, expression rapt.
I push from my chair and head, not toward the stage, but down the aisle. I can’t take anymore. In fact, I may have taken too much already. I doubt I can scrub the image of her hand caressing Malcolm from my mind. At least, not any time soon.
I push through the gymnasium doors. Before they shut completely, Mistress Armand’s lilting voice follows me.
“There are always unbelievers.”
* * *
Police Chief Ramsey is standing in the lobby outside the gymnasium, arms folded over his chest, his serious-police-business scowl firmly in place. For a moment, my mood lifts. Yes! Mistress Armand is a fraud
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