Gretchen smiles, relief flushing the worry from her system. “Yep, he’s in there.”
The couple rushes out the front door, the man’s arm protectively circled around the woman’s shoulders, her face buried into his chest. The real estate agent glances over her shoulder repeatedly as she trails behind them. Charlie hurries over to catch her, the engine of her Mercedes already remote started.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Oh, yes, fine.” The nervous smile pasted on her face says otherwise. “You have a lovely property here, Mr. Waybill. My clients just... uh... decided farming isn’t a good fit for them after all. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
“But—”
The agent and her clients speed away as fast as they can without damaging their vehicles on the unpaved road, a cloud of dust obscuring their getaway.
“What the hell was that about?” Charlie asks the farm at large.
“Everett must have done something to really freak them out.”As she says this, Gretchen is struck by an immense sense of pride. If she and Everett are a team, she suspects that ridiculous ghost just won them their first match.
Charlie makes a sarcasticafter yougesture, so she opens the door and steps into the foyer. “Ev?” she calls out. “Where ya at, babe?”
No response. No handsome, annoying man in 1920s garb chilling half-inside the couch. No trace of him at all.
“Hmm. He must’ve touched something and poofed,” she says, peeking around into the other rooms on the first floor to see if she can find anything broken or out of place.
“He what?”
“Poofed. Disappeared into the Nowhere. It’s what happens if he uses too much energy at once to make physical contact with something, like when he pushed me into the mud puddle.” Gretchen speaks with authority, as if she didn’t only learn about this herself a couple days ago. She strolls to the kitchen, Charlie following behind. “He’ll be back in ten minutes, give or take.” She turns around, almost hitting her nose on Charlie’s chin. He’s standing so close, looking so intense. Gretchen has the sudden urge to reach up and smooth his furrows and stroke away the clench of his jaw, but she knows her touch would have the opposite effect. Strange how much she wants to ease this man’s burden when he’s made it very clear that she currently makes up a significant chunk of it.
“Well, since we’re both here and it’s lunchtime, how about a fancy grilled cheese?” she asks instead. Maybe feeding Charlie will be enough to scratch this annoying itch she has to take care of him. Pay him back in some way for all of the small ways he’s taken care of her since she arrived. “And by fancy, I mean I can put some tomato on it.”
He doesn’t respond, only watches as her lips stretch into a practiced self-deprecating smile.
His voice comes out as a whisper. “If you could just be honest with me...”
“I know it’s not exactly easy to believe, but Iambeing honest with you, Charlie.”
“Are you? I doubt you’ve ever been completely honest with anyone in your life.” One of his hands slowly comes to her face, and he tucks a strand of hair that’s freed itself from her ponytail back behind her ear. The contrast between the tender gesture and the harshness of his words is almost painful, like coarse grit sandpaper rubbed against the delicate skin of the inside of a wrist. “Maybe not even with yourself.”
Gretchen swallows, attempting to suppress the emotions rising inside her. That isn’t true. It can’t be. The part about not being completely honest with anyone? Maybe. Maybe that’s the case. Yolanda is the closest thing she has to a confidant, and she still keeps so many things from her. Or sometimes she tells her half-truths, just to maintain the distance between them when she worries they’re at risk of growing too close. But Gretchen is not lying to herself. She would know if she’s been lying to herself.
Wouldn’t she?
“So is that a no to the grilled cheese?” she asks, trying to sound vaguely amused instead of shattered.
Charlie lowers the hand he hovered over her cheek and tucks it into his pocket. “Yeah, I’ll take one if you don’t mind. Thanks.” He somehow manages to imbue the polite words with bitterness.
Gretchen turns to open a drawer and pulls out two paper plates, avoiding having to try to reach the stoneware ones in the cabinetagain. The silence feels open, like Charlie might still choose to fill it. But then the window for more shuts tight and she’s left with her head in the fridge as she searches for sandwich ingredients.
Everett’s head joins hers in there after a moment, though his comes in from the side. “Hey, doll. Looking for me?”
“Why would I be looking for you in the fridge?” She whispers so Charlie won’t overhear. “No, I’m looking for the mayo.”
“Back here,” he says, pointing to a blue-lidded jar.
“Thanks.”
Gretchen balances the cheese, mayo, and an anemic out-of-season grocery store tomato in her arms and closes the fridge door with her hip. Charlie’s footsteps signal his departure from the kitchen, which hurts her feelings more than it should. At least now she can talk to Everett without worrying about how he might react to their conversation.
She drops her sandwich ingredients on the counter. “Those people left in quite a hurry. Great work, whatever you did.”
“Ha, yes. Good job... me.” The way he says it, with a light, forced-sounding chuckle and an odd hesitation, makes Gretchen turn to face him.
