Heather Silvervale
Is Robert Greenstone dead?
That’s the only logical reason he’s seated at the crowded sidewalk café. Especially midday on a mild seventy-five degree Saturday in October. A day so sublime, the tourists have flocked to the bustling downtown.
Despite my suspicions, I plop my purse down on the tiny table next to the famous actor’s. But I don’t dare make eye contact. I’m not about to risk encouraging a conversation. The last thing I need is folks debating my mental health.
His reflective glasses, which make him look more alien than ghost, help with my quest to avoid eye contact.
Oh, but that makes me pause, too. Why would a ghost wear sunglasses and that ridiculous Dodgers baseball cap? I give in and peek over at him.
Even the baseball cap, shiny sunglasses, and silvery stubble can’t mask his classically handsome face. It’s been at least a decade since his last movie, but I remember the exact shade of his blazing blue eyes.
His famous “kissable” lips, always a second away from his trademark sultry smile, are a mere three feet from me. If he’s not dead, this is the closest I’ve been to a celebrity. Plus, Robert Greenstone’s not a random celebrity. He was my fifth-grade crush, which makes him a silver fox my age. This is why he must be a ghost.
Needing to be sure, I pull out my phone, open my camera, and check my appearance. I stopped adding makeup over sunblock years ago, so I’m just making sure my hair isn’t misbehaving. I’m as satisfied as any sixty-five-year-old woman can be about her appearance. Holding my phone near my cheek, I glance oh-so-casually over at the movie star.
“Robert? Is that you?” My extra-low voice, like a bullhorn seeping past heavy fog, reaches him but doesn’t alert those around us.
The silver fox slowly turns to face me, his cup of coffee hovering halfway between the table and his mouth.
He’s not the only one shocked into a motionless stupor. I’m suddenly realizing I’ve never seen a ghost drink coffee before.
Impossibly, remarkably, the corners of his mouth tilt up. “Nan Dickens? Is that you?” He sets his coffee on the table.
Play it cool. There is no reason for Robert Greenstone, star of numerous top-grossing movies, to be here, dining by himself in Everbrier Bay. Even if I knew him long before he became a star, generations ago in elementary school. No, he must be a ghost. The hazy white-haired lady sitting across from him certainly is.
Out of a sudden, acute desperation, I type in a question for ChatGPT. Seconds later my phone blasts in an AI voice: “Robert Greenstone, age sixty-six, recently divorced, is very much alive.”
My mouth drops open. I twist around to face him. “You’re really here.”
He pulls off his sunglasses. “Did you—did you ask if I was dead?”
I’m unprepared for the slow, sexy grin spreading across his lips.
I barely stifle an inward gasp. Those baby blues. “I . . .uh . . .um.” How do I explain that not only can I see ghosts, but sometimes they talk to me? Simplest answer: I don’t.
I also ignore his companion’s stare.
“You look amazing.” He follows his shocking announcement with his famous grin.
And all intelligible thought evaporates. “Thanks?” I should return the compliment, but he probably hears them all the time.
His ghost companion catches my eye again. I’ve seen her before. But no, I need to focus on him. “Wh-what brought you back?”
“I’m here cleaning out my grandmother’s house where my aunt lived for years. It’s like two lifetime’s worth of stuff to go through.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I had to go through my mom’s house recently. It’s tough.”
“So does this mean you still live here?”
“Of course. I own the bookstore down the street. Books in Our Belfry.”
His world-renowned blue eyes widen. “You own a bookstore?”
Why does everyone from my youth act like I couldn’t read?
Robert gives a little shake of his head, as if laughing to himself. “Imagine that.” He takes a sip of his coffee.
I’m intrigued by the sincere interest in his eyes, so I continue, testing the waters. “My daughter works at First Street Inn, and my other daughter teaches at the high school.”
“Wow. So, you really have a life here.”
“Oh! I wouldn’t say that. Their father’s dead to me.” But oh no. Now I’m thinking about my ex-husband pestering me in his post-life. “I mean, we divorced ages ago. He’s remarried a few times now.”
Robert nods as if the one word divorced links us. “I wish I had stayed here longer.” His words drift out as if unaware of their impact.
“Well, you can move back.” Do I sound too hopeful?
Robert Greenstone tilts his head, and if we were in one of his movies, his hair would glow in golden sunshine. “An intriguing proposition.”
“Wow. Wait. I’m not proposing anything.”
He beams at me.
More shocking, the ghost next to him nods her approval at me. Ah, I see you, Aunt Ruth.
“Of course not.” The crinkles around his mouth, eyes, and cheeks make my insides all jittery. “I just meant that maybe I can settle down in a small town like this without causing a commotion.”
His Aunt Ruth nods again, as if she agrees with him, but Robert Greenstone can’t walk in a town of ten without causing commotion. But I’d sure like to see him try. I bet she wants that, too.
“With that settled,” I say with a gentle lift of my eyebrows, “would you like to join me for lunch?”
Robert Greenstone, the famous actor and my childhood crush, moves over to sit in the chair next to me as if he were an ordinary man joining an ordinary woman for an ordinary lunch.
I predict an extraordinary romance in our future.
Her debut romance series, Haunted Holidays, are stories packed with humor, heart, and just enough supernatural chaos to keep things interesting. The first novel in the series, the Halloween romance Ghosts and Roses, is available on eBook now.
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