Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) by Charity Tahmaseb Read Free Book Online Page A

the other. I close my own eyes to hold back the tears. True, I’ve lost my grandmother to death. That she follows me now during her afterlife has been more of a comfort than I’m willing to admit. Now I fear the goodbye is for real.
    “Katy.” Malcolm’s voice is soft. “Look.”
    So I do. There, emerging from Nigel’s mouth, is a soft, shimmering glimmer, robust and able to withstand the breeze. Thirsty, perhaps, for a cup of coffee—two sugars, extra cream.
    “It’s the yellow cup,” I tell her.
    Before she swoops in for her reward, my grandmother’s ghost swirls against my cheeks and dries my tears.
    Malcolm holds his brother’s hand. “He’s breathing, his pulse is fast, but I think that’s to be expected.”
    “Should we—?” Before I can suggest calling 911, Nigel bolts upright.
    He coughs, a shudder convulsing his body. His eyes clear. “Malcolm?”
    Malcolm nods.
    “I ... I ...” Nigel surveys the parking lot, the coffee cups. His gaze follows the tree line. I see the instant the memories come flooding back. The chagrin on his face is painful to witness.
    “Oh, God,” he murmurs and buries his face in his hands. “I am so ashamed.”
    Malcolm hugs his brother, but Nigel won’t stop his litany of regret and shame.
    “I don’t know what I’ve done, and yet, I remember it all. I can’t explain it.”
    “You weren’t in control,” Malcolm says. “It was the ghosts.”
    “Oh, but I swallowed them.”
    Malcolm casts me a desperate look. I inch closer. My red and white striped stockings are ruined, so what’s a little more asphalt? I kneel and peer up at Nigel. Then I offer him my hand.
    “Hi, I’m Katy. You saved my life.”
    Now I have the attention of both brothers. And yes, the resemblance is there, although where Malcolm’s hair is a gleaming ebony, Nigel has a shock of pure white. Their eyes are dark, but Nigel’s have the look of a man who has seen far too many things.
    “I ... saved your life?” he says, each word its own question.
    “That thing.” I touch my neck. It’s tender, and I suspect a bruise is already forming. “It tried to kill me. It would have, or taken me over, or something. You crashed into me on purpose, didn’t you?”
    Nigel is silent.
    “You had second thoughts about it, didn’t you?”
    “I don’t know.” The words are rough and honest.
    “I think you did, and you didn’t have to save my life, but you did anyway.” I’m still extending my hand. I nod to it.
    He takes my hand, his skin nearly as warm as his brother’s. A second later, he exclaims, “You’re freezing.” He turns to his brother. “Malcolm, she’s freezing.”
    “I think there’s some tea left,” Malcolm says.
    We huddle around the tailgate and sip the last of Malcolm’s tea, my grandmother turning lazy circles in the steam from the samovar.
     
    * * *
     
    We return one last time to Lasting Rest Mausoleum. After Nigel gave up all the ghosts, a few mischievous sprites found their way inside. Apparently, they’ve been nipping at visitors and knocking over the fans. Personally, I think they liven up the place. But a client is a client, as Malcolm points out, especially with our cash flow the way it is.
    On our final circuit through the building, we find a discarded bed sheet, some fishing line, and what looks like a pulley from a child’s toy. The innocuous items feel menacing, but the air in the space smells merely recycled, not devoid of everything, not like before.
    Still, when Malcolm gathers the things, worry carves a frown in his brow.
    “Why bed sheets and bridal veils?” I ask both brothers later in the week. We’ve settled now into a new routine, one that includes Nigel. He lives with Malcolm, and knows his way around a computer. He plans to build us a ghost hunting database.
    To my surprise, it’s Nigel who speaks up first.
    “Sex and love,” he says. “That’s what most of them want, some form of it. Attention, love, acknowledgement, to be desired.”