Grandghost Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Nancy Springer

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Nancy Springer

  SECRET STAR

  SKY RIDER

  PLUMAGE

  SEPARATE SISTERS

  BLOOD TRAIL

  DUSSSIE

  SOMEBODY

  POSSESSING JESSIE

  MY SISTER’S STALKER

  DARK LIE

  DRAWN INTO DARKNESS

  THE ODDLING PRINCE

  GRANDGHOST

  Nancy Springer

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY

  This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2018 by Nancy Springer.

  The right of Nancy Springer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8792-4 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-914-6 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-970-1 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  I answered the phone on the third ring. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Beverly, it’s Kim.’

  My Big Apple agent. At once, my heart rate doubled. Inanely, I asked, ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine. Beverly, we need to talk.’

  This meant she did the talking, in her rapid-fire New York voice. Listening made my eyes feel old and weak and watery behind my trifocals, because she was talking about my last-ditch effort, my rather desperate very best try, and she was saying it wasn’t good enough. She was rejecting it. Not that I couldn’t handle rejection, but by my own agent? So much worse than being rejected by an editor.

  My heartbeat slowed to grow sluggish with despair. Leaning more and more heavily against the countertop while wishing for a chair, I stood in the kitchen (necessarily, as I still have a telephone that is fastened to the wall), but peering through the Florida room into the studio, past the easel, I could see outside via the picture window. I could see the sunshine, the green mimosa fronds and some Gulf fritillaries, long-winged subtropical butterflies, hovering orange over yellow-and-lavender lantana blossoms. That glimpse of my teeming, subtropical backyard helped me clear my throat and speak.

  ‘So you don’t think it’s marketable.’

  ‘Beverly, yet another rehashing of a rather grim Grimms’ fairy tale? No, I don’t think so, no matter how beautifully you illustrated it.’

  So much for a year’s work. Hanging on, I managed to protest, ‘But I don’t think anyone else has done The Six Swans lately.’

  ‘For good reason. The princess burning at the stake while she hands out jackets she wove from nettles? It’s brutal and too hard to understand.’

  As a child, I had loved brutal stories that were hard to understand, but it was no use saying so. ‘Would you send it along to Benson anyway?’ The one remaining editor with whom I had established a working relationship.

  ‘Not unless you can get it to me in digital format. Benson’s art director is not going to deal with a stack of paper. None of them will anymore.’

  ‘All righty, I’ll see what I can do, Kim.’ Thus, mendaciously, I ended the one-sided conversation with all the gung-ho I could muster, but without asking whether anyone from any publisher’s art department had put out feelers in my direction. I didn’t ask because I already knew the answer. It was a big fat hairy NO.

  Not that anyone would spell it out to me, but each day more and more I was reading the writing on the wall: publishers didn’t want me to illustrate their picture books anymore. Throughout my adult life I had assumed I would keep doing what I did best until I died, but I was wrong. Starkly put, I had gone out of style, no matter how versatile my touch with my acrylics, my ability to render anything from watercolor effects to impasto. My expert impressionistic realism was out. Phthalo was in. Two-dimensional bling was in. Slick, quick stuff extruded from a computer like plastic from a manufacturing machine was in.

  ‘Goddamn everything,’ I told my kitchen fiercely to prevent my hot eyes from leaking tears. ‘Goddamn technology.’ I focused on the venerable black Bakelite rotary phone for sympathy; with its circular dial, it seemed to have a face of sorts, or at least a big nose. ‘It’s not like my social security is going to cover fancy software or a scanner, much less, whatchamacallit …’ I knew exactly what I meant by whatchamacallit, which I would need to replace my dial-up modem if I were ever to send digital images at the speed New York required, but I couldn’t think of the damn name, and when I have brain blips like that I get really scared I’m going to be like my mother, who had Alzheimer’s all the way for her last couple of decades. I mean, I had already lost enough without losing my mind. I’d lost my waistline, my self-esteem, my eyebrows, my sense of well-being, my best friend aka my husband …

  I felt my eyes go from hot to scalding, but it had been two years since Jim had died – throat cancer misdiagnosed until it was too late – and dammit, I had cried enough. Rather than accrue any more weepy time, I opted for hard labor, turning to slam out of the kitchen into the heat of the summer day, grab a shovel from the garage and go dig up some more bricks, which for some curious but baffling reason were almost as plentiful in the ground around my place as armadillo holes.

  Even in my post-rejection depression, with heavy canvas work gloves on my hands as I pushed a wheelbarrow across my jungle of a yard, I loved this place, gift of Jim’s life insurance money. I loved the fresh flower-scented air, the wide sky, the towering longleaf pines and the
soaring cumulus clouds and, small in the midst of it all, the little concrete-block bunker of a house that was now my refuge from ever having to survive blizzards and Seasonal Affective Disorder again. My Florida home’s picture windows and terrazzo floors, all the rage back in the fifties, combined with excellent natural light, made the best studio space I’d ever had. Too bad my career seemed to be over.

  Spotting the burnt-ochre corner of a brick sticking up from the sandy yard, I stopped to dig it out and heft it into the wheelbarrow, my idea being that someday, with less interruption from bricks and fire ant hills, invasive privet and wisteria determined to conquer the world, I might have a lawn of sorts. The bricks scattered everywhere had gifted me with hours of pleasant, ghoulish speculation about the previous occupants of the house. What the heck had they been doing – throwing the things at each other?

  I noticed a chalky white oyster shell, detritus of some long-ago cookout, and I picked it up and pocketed it. If it cleaned up nicely, I would put it in a shoebox with other found objects I was collecting for no reason.

  A bit farther on, attracted by a scattering of doll daisies, I saw an area fairly bristling with bricks, and I welcomed the discovery. Grunt work was just what I needed right now. I attacked with the spade, dislodging whole bricks and broken bricks, heaving them into the wheelbarrow, never mind sweat and dirt …

  ‘Neighbor,’ a voice twanged like a banjo from behind me, ‘what the Sam Hill y’all doing out here in the heat of the day?’ By ‘y’all’ she meant ‘you.’ The ubiquitous Southern ‘you-all’ had encroached from second person plural to include, quite illogically, second person singular.

  As I needed to roll my eyes, I did so before I showed my face, before I stood up and turned around to answer the speaker. ‘Hi, Wilma Lou. It’s only about ninety.’ Same as her age. A skinny, hunched and peering wrinkly person, my nearest and, indeed, my only neighbor, she spotted movement in her yard or mine like a chicken hawk. I avoided her when I could, because she sold religion and Avon products with great and equal fervor.

  But today she was carrying neither a tract nor an Avon catalog; she lifted a knobby forefinger in admonition. ‘Y’all’s just asking for heatstroke!’

  ‘You’re out here with me, and you’re not falling over yet.’ However, my hands felt even hotter than the rest of me, so I pulled off my work gloves and tossed them into the wheelbarrow.

  ‘Well, ain’t y’all afraid of snakes hiding in them bricks?’

  Everyone I met in this area seemed to be innately terrified of snakes. The answer was no; I trusted snakes to scoot when I came klunking around, but Wilma Lou didn’t give me a chance to answer. ‘Ain’t y’all got no kin can do that kind of work for you? I need chores done around my house, my children or my grandchildren take care of it.’ She wore a spotless print shirtwaist dress as always, and she gave my grubby shorts and T-shirt an accusatory glance. ‘Ain’t y’all got no family?’

  ‘Not here.’ My two hard-working daughters, ages forty-three and thirty-nine, lived in New York and New Jersey respectively.

  ‘Your grandchildren ain’t nearby?’

  ‘My grandchildren are non-existent.’

  To my own surprise, I sounded astringent, almost acid, and I felt a veritable alligator of bitterness bite down on my heart. All right, I was in a funk because of The Six Swans, but something deeper and more fiery in my chest demanded my attention.

  Apparently, Wilma Lou noticed nothing sharper than usual in my Yankee accent. Instead of bristling, she merely blinked, uncomprehending. ‘What for kind of grandchildren y’all got?’

  ‘I don’t have any. But when I phone my friends, they tell me all about theirs.’

  ‘Well, ain’t that nice.’

  I did not find it nice, not at all, and it kept me from staying in contact with those friends the way I should, but a lucky brain spasm saved me from retorting. I exclaimed, ‘HughesNet!’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘HughesNet. That’s the stupid word I couldn’t think of. Excuse me, Wilma Lou, I think I hear my phone ringing.’ This was a spontaneous fabrication allowing me to flee to the house, jogging.

  ‘Grandchildren,’ I muttered along the way, feeling an odd pang still stinging my heart. ‘Oh, what the hell. In another ten years I wouldn’t be able to remember their names anyhow, if my mind is slip-sliding away as it seems to be.’

  I washed sweat off my face at the kitchen sink, had a drink of water and then, feeling a need for comfort, I ambled into the studio. The best thing about my life was the way my job gave me relief from Wilma Lou or almost any other kind of bad news, personal or global. My best personal gift was the way I could rest in my own art. Not that professional-quality painting wasn’t hard work; it most certainly was. Sometimes it felt impossibly difficult. Yet the joy and challenge of painting made everything else seem dismissible, even when I was just visiting my vocation, as now.

  I relaxed in my favorite multicolored, overstuffed chair to spend some time with my latest baby, the unfinished portrait on the easel. I had started it practically the moment I had come home from the post office after mailing The Six Swans to Kim. Hoping for a final success yet anticipating the rejection that would be one too many, I had begun my rebellion ahead of time: a life-sized depiction of the head and shoulders of a child. An imaginary child, approximately age five, she would be a lovely, idealized, wide-eyed little girl such as Jessie Willcox Smith used to portray, and I fully intended to give her blond hair, violet eyes like Elizabeth Taylor’s, and clothe her in the prettiest ruffled, lacy, lavender dress I could imagine.

  During the past forty-some years, I had illustrated picture books with lop-eared bunnies wearing jackets, chipmunks living in houses, skunks going to school and badgers sick in bed, and parakeets, caterpillars, bumblebees … I had anthropomorphized just about every conceivable kind of animal, and enjoyed it. But for the most part publishers and art directors had not allowed me to depict actual human beings. Political correctness intervened: supposedly, children could deal with talking alpacas more readily than they could with cultural diversity.

  Screw all that. To hell with politics and profit margins, and if publishers didn’t want me anymore, fine. In my dotage I would paint whatever I pleased.

  I leaned back where I sat, contemplating the translucent underpainting of thin sepia, the extent of what I had done so far on my little girl. With her vestigial eyes she contemplated me in return. I smiled at her, and my mind toggle-switched into its default mode for the studio, starting to drift like a heart-shaped pointer on the Ouija board of my psyche, processing data and making surprise connections. Kim, my agent, thumbs down, no sale. No more career. It would be all loss and no gain from here on, except maybe in regard to my weight. The kind of apron I had, nobody wanted. My belly felt like a baby on my lap when I sat down. It felt that way right now. It felt good. Screw skinny people, especially shallow skinny people like Jim’s sister, Gayle, my socialite-in-law, who wouldn’t believe this place where I lived now – no shopping malls, no theaters, no bookstores/coffee shops, no art galleries. For me, no … future?

  ‘What are people my age supposed to do?’ I whispered rhetorically.

  Devote themselves to their grandchildren, that was what.

  But I had none. Damn everything, what was I myself supposed to do?

  The little girl on the easel, inchoate in thin raw sepia but already quite defined and alive to me, gazed back at me fondly; as the creation dearest to my heart right now, she was me because of the way she had issued out of me. And, a sudden blush of my heart told me sweetly, she was also my daughter Maurie when she was about five, and Cassie – yes, she was both of my children as I remembered them from decades ago.

  ‘You’re my kin,’ I told her, and then my Ouija-board heart and mind glided like the two wings of a butterfly slantwise into artist’s prerogative. ‘You’re my first grandchild,’ I told her. ‘My very first. And after you, I can have as many as I want, and we can all live together.’
/>   There. I’d get along financially with Social plus increasingly pitiful royalties plus rent money from the house I’d left behind in Montclair, New Jersey, and I knew what I’d be doing with myself: painting imaginary grandchildren. I’d take care of my future in my own kooky way.

  Feeling centered and content, I stood up to go explore the kitchen for something by way of supper. ‘You can help me think of a name for you,’ I told the little girl as I passed her. ‘OK? We’ll work on you in the morning.’ Without feeling the least bit silly, I blew her a kiss as I left.

  After supper, the tilted golden light of sunset lured me back outside. Seen between the tall, balletic bare trunks of the longleaf pines, sunset’s slow-waltzing horizontal display seemed more glorious every day, as if it were growing closer. At such times I feel a sense of deity, not as creator, but as the sunset itself, and the skein of ibis crossing it, and the trees it gilded, and the grass, and I suppose the entire universe.

  I guess I am a pantheist of sorts, which feels better than being the uncomfortable agnostic I was for many years. My parents had made half-hearted efforts to raise me Christian, but I wasn’t having it. Crucifixes – those with carved figures of Jesus in agony on them – made me physically ill, as did the Sunday School descriptions of what he went through, and I could not get past my horror. Since when did torture signify love? Besides, the more I thought about life after death, the less it made any logical sense. I gave up on organized religion, but throughout my teenage years and beyond, spiritual feelings wouldn’t let me alone. Now, at age sixty-seven, I still could not believe in my terrifying childhood God, but I definitely believed in something that swelled my heart when I saw the sunset.

  As the bright clouds lingered, I walked down the backyard to get my shovel and wheelbarrow and put them away in the garage. But the old-gold afterglow on the bricks seduced me to pull a few more out of the ground. With sundown, the day had cooled to eighty-ish, a breeze had sprung up from thunderheads moving in from the Gulf and altogether I felt motivated to continue digging bricks for as long as daylight lasted.