It was yesterday night, the night before Halloween, mind, a night dark and
wet like a duck’s behind, and I was scheduling blog posts, a rather dull
activity, in most cases, when I came across this title, which had been on my
list for a while. The Chef and the Ghost of Bartholomew Addison Jenkins. Very pretty
cover, remarkbly intriguing title. I started copying and pasting blurb, pictures, teaser.
An evening like any other, in a blogger's life, I thought.
"Hey," I said,aloud, to the cat, "Ever heard of a Bartholomew Addison Jenkins?"
And then someone coughed.
Nothing major, mind. There was no hint that someone might be
having a sore throat. It was a quiet, polite cough, and yet every hair on the
back of my neck stood on end and I went prickly all over. Holy smokes, I
thought, what the hell? I turned around and, there right behind me stood a…
man.
“Good evening,” he said, most politely.
“Um … good evening,” I said, and stared. At first I stared
because this guy was standing on my precious Persian rug wearing heavy black
shoes (with a silver buckle) which is heresy in this house. Then I went on
staring because he was … how shall I put it … translucent? Slightly
see-through?
He was only a little taller than me, wearing a pair of knee
knickers and a long, dark jacket. The knickers were tight around his
flat, hard belly, and his eyes were an extraordinary shade of light brown.
His hair, pulled back in a short ponytail, was a darker brown. His expression
was at once thoughtful and merry.
“Er … excuse me, you would be…?”
“Bartholomew Addison Jenkins,” he said, bowing. “I prefer
Bart. I do keep up.” He extended a
slightly transparent hand which I shook. His fingers were either very hot or
very cold. I couldn’t tell which. It tickled a little to touch them.
“O-ok,” I said, giving a quick look to the screen of my
computer to confirm it really was the same name as the cover of the book I had
just pasted. It was! “I didn’t realize you did live interviews,” I said, by way
of giving myself time to process this interesting turn of events. Then I bit my
tongue. Live interviews with a ghost … right.
Bart smiled. “My
lady,” he said.
Wow.
“Um, well, sit down, please… would you mind telling me a
little about you? Let’s start from the beginning. I can’t place your style at
all. Where and when do you come from?”
“New York State. The
Hudson River Valley,” he said. “A little
town called Englehook. Pleasant place,
not too terribly affected by the recent war, although of course there were
certain … disturbances.” He put his hands
in the pocket of his long, silver-buttoned jacket.
“War?”
“Between the United States and the Crown.”
“Oooh, THAT war. I
see. And how did you become, how shall I put it, defunct? Is that an
indelicate question? I am terribly sorry.”
Bart’s smile faded.
“You understand, m’lady, it is impolite to discuss that in better
ghostly circles. It assumes a
certain … intimacy.”
“Indeed! Oh dear, oh dear. I apologize. Ok. So now you are
haunting people’s apartments, I read. How is that working out for you? What is an average day in a haunted flat like?”
“It depends, of course, upon the tenants of those
rooms. Ghosts often sleep in the daytime
to preserve their energy for pleasurable activities in the evening, and that
was indeed a mercy before Alma moved in!
The previous tenants were untidy and uninteresting. Hippies.”
(I cringes, given my penchant for mandala curtains and
fringed things, but I let it pass. Helooked so courteous)
“Alma? I must admit I
am curious. What is it like for a ghost, to, well, you know, fall in love, I
suppose? I mean,” I gently poked at his chest, and felt something like a shock
of static electricity. “Is there a heart beating in there? What are the
symptoms of ghostly passion?”
Bart’s eyes gleamed.
They were light brown, almost bronze in color. “It is very much as it was in the flesh. A hot rush, an urge for release. But as in the flesh, there are certain…shall
we say dangers. And the requirement to
practice a sort of restraint, lest … oh, we needn’t discuss this now. Let me say that ghosts, like those on the
other side of the veil, have only a certain amount of energy to expend.”
“That’s intriguing. And all this prickling and hair rising
that you do to people… Do you do that on purpose, or does it just happen? What
are the physics of ghost-to-living-human interaction? And is there an etiquette
to it?”
“I am considered to be a master at those—as you
say—physics. And the etiquette is as it
always was and shall be. The lady must
be willing. Loving Alma is the first
time I sampled the pleasures of the boudoir with the living since I have
resided on their side. There is a warmth
and sweetness to her that I had almost forgotten. With other ghosts, lovemaking is more like a
lightning strike. But I am being
indiscreet.”
“Fancy that!! Ok, just a couple more questions … back to the
story. I have inside info that a, um colleague of yours is making an appearance.
Name of Geoff? Can you tell me a little about him? And the other ghosts in
your … er … circle? How does one becomes a ghost?”
“Geoff is a hot head.
I swear he did not know he was dead for decades! He is a master of the low jest and yet cannot
take a joke at his own expense. And I do not know how this fate befell either
of us. Not everyone who passes remains
here.”
“Do you mean we don’t all become ghosts? What are the rules?”
“We do not. And the
rules are those we discover as we proceed.
We do not need food, although we enjoy the aroma of it cooking. We appreciate beautiful music. And love—that we may enjoy, if cautiously.
There’s no real peril for the living in an involvement with us. No fear of—how do I put this
delicately—offspring. We are utterly
harmless, and we cannot…” He coughed
again. “I swear to you, lady, we are quite thoroughly harmless. We are.”
“Uh-ah?” I say, a bit doubtfully, but he smiles on serenely,
carefully not ignoring my skepticism. “Ok, the million dollars question… Albus
Dumbledore said, that to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great
adventure. What is your take on the matter?”
“Dumbledore! What a
curious name. An adventure, yes, and one
that may be delighted in.”
“Wow! Thank you! Well, I’ll be reading more about you in the
book soon, so I’ll leave it at that. I am sure you have a busy time, giving
interviews all over the globe. It was most courteous of you to pay me a visit.”
He took my hand and looked deeply into my eyes, and again I
could not tell whether his fingers were hot or cold. My arm prickled. And then he bowed. “My lady,” he said, and
vanished. The light on my desk went off,
and so did my computer. I hoped I’d remembered
to save the changes to my blog!
And so I was left alone in the room again. And not a speck
of dirt stained the Persian rug.
Autumn, 1982. MTV is new, poodle perms are the rage, and
life just might be getting better for Alma Kobel. Her ugly divorce is final at last. Her new
job as chef at Bright Day School’s gorgeous old estate is actually fun. But the place is haunted—and so is Alma’s
apartment. Bartholomew Addison Jenkins’ ghost has been invisibly watching her
for months. When he materializes one
night, Alma discovers Bart—as he likes to be called—has talents she couldn’t
have imagined…and a horrifying past. What happens if you have a one-nighter
with a ghost? And what happens if one
night is all you want—and you end up ghosting him? Some spirits don’t like
taking “no” for an answer.
Read an Excerpt at Evernight
or download a sample from Amazon!
Read an Excerpt at Evernight
or download a sample from Amazon!
