The Ghost and The Graveyard (The Monk's Hill Witch) (2 page)

Michelle squealed on the other end of the phone. We were both expecting a dump. I mean, after I had to crawl to my real estate agent dad for help, I kind of thought the unsellable place he gave me to stay would be a punishment. Compared to my last apartment—or worse, the dorm room Michelle and I lived in at college—this place was a palace.

“Hold on, I’m going to check out the rest of it.” I walked to the front of the house and opened the curtains, bathing the main floor in natural light. The place had an elegant dining room and a family room with a flat-screen television. The living room’s floral print screamed old-lady, but I wasn’t complaining. The furniture looked new. I talked Michelle through the tour, bounding up the stairs two at a time to check out the bedrooms. Besides a little dust, the place was meticulously maintained.

On the second-floor landing, I tossed back the curtains to have a look at my new backyard and was so distressed by what I saw I dropped my phone. I tried to catch it with my other hand but it bounced off my palm. Thankfully, the thick carpet of the landing saved me from certain communication purgatory.

“Grateful? You still there?”

I scrambled to return it to my ear. “I think I figured out why this house hasn’t sold yet,” I said.

“Why? Is the yard small?”

Turning back toward the glass, I tried my best to remain calm. The yard sloped from the house toward a scrollwork, wrought iron fence that bordered the property. Behind the fence, row after row of tombstones stretched across the landscape, with the odd mausoleum thrown in for good measure. The graveyard I’d seen driving into town extended all the way to my back door.

“My backyard is a cemetery,” I deadpanned.

“Seriously? Is that even legal?”

“I’ve gotta go, Michelle,” I said. “I need to take this up with my real estate agent.”

“Okay. Say hi to your dad for me.”

* * * * *

I paced the floral living room, trying to keep my voice from climbing to the octave of hysteria. I was pretty close. Any higher and dogs would come running. “Dad, you could have told me.”

“Sweetheart, it’s nothing. Keep the drapes closed and no one will ever know.”

“Don’t you think an important piece of information to share with a potential homeowner is the number of dead people buried in the backyard?”

“Now, don’t overreact. First of all, may I remind you that you are not the homeowner, but a custodian, so to speak. And think of it this way—your neighbors are quiet, keep-to-themselves type of people.” I heard a muffled chuckle.

“I can hear you laughing,” I said. “I’ve told you before, putting your hand over the receiver does not work. Can’t you understand why this might freak me out a little? I’m here all alone.”

“I’m telling you, a few nights there, and you’ll forget why you were ever worried,” Dad said. “Plus, if you get scared, the caretaker of the cemetery lives just over the bridge from you. Come to think of it, he would probably give you a tour if you wanted. Maybe that would put you at ease.”

“Oh sure, a tour of the cemetery with some old, creepy caretaker is just what I need to feel at home!” My voice was rising again. I was painfully close to looking the gift horse in the mouth.

“Grateful, I love you.”

“I know, Dad.”

“I wouldn’t put you in harm’s way.”

“I know, Dad.”

“I stocked the wine cellar and the refrigerator for you.”

Like that mattered. We were talking about dead people here. “This place has a wine cellar?”

“In the basement.”

“Awww, you’re the best.” I guess there was no resisting Daddy’s charm.

“So you’ll give it a few nights?”

“Sure.”

There are few things in this world I won’t do for a really fine bottle of Shiraz, and fewer still that I won’t do for my dad. I wasn’t going to let a bunch of dead people ruin my chances at a new life. He was right. I could do this.

I ended the call and raced to the little door behind the kitchen that led to the basement. To my pleasant surprise it was a finished walkout; too bad if you walked out it would be straight toward the dead people. I tried to ignore the view and veered toward the wine cellar. It was as big as a bedroom, with separate sections for reds and whites to keep them at the optimal temperature. Looking over the rows of bottles, their labels turned upward, my mood significantly improved. Dad hadn’t let me down; my favorite label was at eye level. I grabbed the familiar bottle of Shiraz from the reds and headed upstairs.

Dad had come through on the food as well. I found a plate from Valentines, my favorite restaurant. Salmon fillet, perfect for one, some red potatoes and fresh asparagus. I popped it into the microwave. Cooking with wine is my specialty, so I grabbed a glass and reached for my old friend, Mr. Shiraz. Unfortunately, the bottle in my hand was Pinot gris.

“That’s weird,” I said to myself. I could have sworn I’d grabbed the red. Odder still, the white was cold. I didn’t remember going into the refrigerated section at all.

I revisited the cellar. The bottle of red that I’d wanted was back in its spot. I replaced the white in its space in the cooler and ran back upstairs with my Shiraz, double-checking the label. Man, I was losing it.

I uncorked the bottle and poured myself a glass, admiring the clarity and subtle scent of berries while I walked it into the dining room. I drained my glass with an unladylike swig. Who cared anyway? Like my dad said, the neighbors wouldn’t be talking. That’s why I was more than a little surprised when the doorbell rang. I set the bottle and glass down and approached the door cautiously. It rang again.

“Can I help you?” I yelled through the etched glass oval of the door. A man’s silhouette sliced the twilight, and there was no way I was opening up without some credentials.

The man’s muffled voice filtered through the door. “Hello? I’m Rick Ordenes, from up the street. Your dad asked me to stop by and check on you.”

“Up the street?” I hadn’t noticed any neighbors.

“Yes, I live across the bridge. I’m the caretaker.”

“Oh. Hold on.” It was nice of my dad to send the old guy over to check on me. I unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door.

And came face to face with the chiseled Adonis from the side of the road.

I Break My Own Rules

“I
s this yours?” he asked, holding the box I’d forgotten on the porch.

“Yeah.” With some effort, I lifted it from his hands and dropped it ungracefully into the corner of the foyer. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Even more striking up close, I wanted to snap his picture so I could post it on Facebook along with the status,
Getta load of my new neighbor
. Outlined in my doorway by the orangey purple sunset, it was like the sky was blushing at the sight of him. And what a sight it was. He was taller than me with dark, wavy hair and a straight white smile that contrasted nicely with his Spanish complexion. Masculine, with a long-muscled grace, he reminded me somewhat of a matador or Flamenco dancer. Almost regal.

“Rick Ordenes.” He extended his hand. “I’m the caretaker.”

I shook it. “Has anyone ever told you, you don’t look like the typical cemetery caretaker?”

“What does a typical caretaker look like?”

“I don’t know. I was expecting old and gray.”

He laughed. “Believe it or not, it takes
resilience
to do my job. An aged man would struggle with the work.”

“I never thought of it that way.” I hoped I hadn’t offended him.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not what I expected, either.”

“Oh, you mean based on my father’s description of his deadbeat daughter,” I said, grinning.

He shook his head. “Actually, he said no such thing. He didn’t even tell me your name.”

“Oh, um, I’m Grateful.”

“You’re grateful he didn’t tell me?”

“No! I mean, that’s my name. Grateful. Grateful Knight.”

A slow smile spread across his lips and his gray eyes twinkled. “I suppose it’s fitting that a rare beauty have an equally rare name.”

The compliment captivated me. Not just the words themselves but the way he said them. With a hint of a Spanish accent, they tumbled over his full lips in a silky smooth ripple, like moonlight spilling over still water. I caught myself staring at his mouth.

My cheeks warmed. Oh. My. God. Had I reverted to an awkward fifteen-year-old blushing at the hint of male attention? I mentally slapped myself.

“Would you like to come in?” I opened the door a little wider.

“Are you inviting me?”

I blinked in his direction. “Um, yes. Where I come from, ‘Would you like to come in?’ is an invitation.”

“In my experience, it’s always best to make sure,” he said, teasing me with that lopsided grin. Bending, he retrieved a vase of the ugliest wildflowers I’d ever seen from beside the door and handed them to me. “Sage and garlic, to ward off evil spirits.” He stepped into the house, eyes darting around the foyer with the curiosity of a tourist.

“Oh, thanks. How thoughtful. My dad must have told you the cemetery kind of freaks me out.”

He ignored my comment but turned the full weight of his attention on me. “Do you go by Grateful, or something shorter?”

“Yes, Grateful. You can’t really shorten Grateful. Unless I went by a single letter like G, and I’m not a music mogul or one of the Men in Black, so Grateful it is.” I led the way into the dining room, where I placed the vase at the center of the table. “And you? Is Rick short for Richard?” Or maybe, wanton sex god?

“Enrique. My parents were Spanish. But call me Rick.”

Our eyes met and there was an awkward pause while we soaked each other in. Delicious warmth unfolded deep within me. I was surprised the drapes didn’t melt down the walls.

“It smells good in here. Were you cooking?” he asked.

“Yes, actually. I just sat down to eat.”

“Oh, I’ve interrupted your dinner. Please, continue.”

“Have you had something? I could whip up a plate for you?” I had no idea what I would do if he said yes. I couldn’t actually cook and I wasn’t sure my dad had left sandwich fixings.

“I’ve eaten, thank you. But, please…” He pointed toward the kitchen.

“Okay. But don’t feel like you have to leave.” I retrieved my plate from the microwave and took a seat at the dining room table across from him.

“Can I pour you a glass of wine?” I asked.

“Yes. What do you have there?”

“Shiraz—” I froze as I looked at the bottle in front of me. A circle of red stained the bottom of my glass but next to it was not the Shiraz I’d opened. Instead, the Pinot gris faced me, sealed and dripping with condensation. My scalp prickled.

“What’s wrong? You’re as white as a ghost.” Rick moved to my side.

“Th-this is not the wine I was drinking. Look.” I showed him the top of the bottle. “It’s sealed. I put this bottle away in the cellar.”

Surely Rick would think I was crazy, but I was too majorly creeped out to maintain the I’m-perfectly-normal facade.

He gingerly took the bottle from my hands, as if it might sprout legs at any moment. Tilting his face toward the ceiling, his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a flat line. “I was hoping this wouldn’t start so soon.”

“What wouldn’t start?”

Rick leaned forward and whispered into my ear. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think this house is haunted.”

It took me all of three seconds to break into laughter. “Oh, come on. Haunted?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You don’t believe the house could be haunted?”

“No. Not really. I mean, the wine is weird but there has to be a rational explanation.”

“There is only one way to know the truth.” His face was inches from mine now, and I caught him glancing down the v-neck of my T-shirt.

“Blonde paradox,” I whispered under my breath.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I just asked what—what is the way to know the truth?”

He held up the bottle and focused his dark eyes on me as if it was ninety degrees and I was a tall glass of ice water. I wriggled in my chair from the intensity. Pressing one hand to his chest, he said, “We must drink this ghostly wine late into the night, and I must stay with you to protect you from any unholy visitors.”

I took one look at his exaggerated theatrics and said, “I’ll get a corkscrew.” Hell, I wasn’t doing anything anyway. I walked into the kitchen to grab one off the counter and gasped. My bottle of Shiraz was corked, next to the refrigerator. What the hell was going on?

“You know,” Rick called from the dining room, “Pinot gris is the better choice with salmon. Shiraz is too heavy of a red for fish.”

I may be blonde but I am not stupid. The pieces snapped together. Of course Rick must have somehow changed the bottles. Maybe this was one big pick-up line:
Hey baby, your house is haunted. Can I spend the night?
Of course, that was it.

I walked back into the dining room. “You haven’t been completely honest with me, have you?”

“You see through me,” Rick admitted. He lowered his chin. “Your father didn’t ask me to check on you. That was my own idea.”