Emily's Ghost Read Online Free

Yellow Pages. Cara had reciprocated when Emily moved
to Boston. To Emily the secret to their friendship was obvious:
they'd never yet both desired the same antique. They came close
once -- an oak pharmaceutical cabinet for seventy-four dollars --
but after a few minutes Emily gave up wanting it. She had no place
to put it. And anyway, she didn't believe in bric-a-brac; what
would she have kept in it?
    When Cara arrived at the
small Spanish café tucked in one of the step-downs on Newbury
Street, Emily was waiting for her. She was still dressed like a
frilly peasant gypsy, and Cara nearly passed her by.
    "Emily!" she said, doing a
double take. "I love you in that. It's a whole new
look."
    "-- but the same old me;
don't get your hopes up," Emily said, laughing.
    "Well, you ought to give
in to that side of yourself more often; you'd meet more men. So.
What's the occasion?"
    "I was on a job
assignment, and it turned out well. I'm celebrating," she said,
holding up a glass of sangria. "Can you join me?"
    "Ooh, that could be
dangerous -- antiquing under the influence." Cara slid into the
chair opposite the tiny table and tossed back a mane of softly
curled brown hair. "I don't dare buy anything more -- I've been
sending things off to Sotheby's for auction as it is. I'm trying to
clear space for a studio." She motioned for a waiter.
    "Cara! You've gone back to
painting."
    "Mmmm, not painting.
Painting didn't really express ... wasn't really the -- couldn't --
well, I've taken up sculpture. It's so much more, I don't know,
essential as an art form."
    While she was ordering,
Emily thought, Oh, yes. I can see why I
wanted to be with her right now. She's another one of those types
who forever struggle with the mystical essences of
things.
    Not for the first time,
Emily wondered why she herself did not. Life seemed to Emily a
pretty straightforward affair. In general her mother was right: You
were born, you worked, and then you died. If you were lucky you
fell in love with a great guy and had a couple of kids. So far she
hadn't been so lucky.
    Which brought her back to
her original view: you were born, you worked, and then you died. It
was very important to be kind and fair -- it was almost an
obsession with Emily. But for the life of her, she could not
understand why some people had to have a mystical experience every
time they ate a cheese sandwich.
    "So tell me about your
assignment," Cara said as she plucked the cherry out of her
sangria. "What poor crook have you set your sights on this
time?"
    "He's not exactly a
crook," Emily answered with a wry smile. "He's just hopelessly
misguided -- and you wouldn't even think he was that."
    "Something to do with the
astral plane?"
    Cara had tossed the
question off casually as she eyed the plate of crispy shrimp
rissoles that was being placed between them. But she'd hit a bull's
eye, and Emily was extremely impressed. Stan Cooper was right: Cara
probably was the
telepathic one.
    "Not even close," Emily
lied, a little shaken. "And anyway, I can't talk about it until
after the interview in a couple of weeks."
    "Fine with me." Cara bit
into the hot fried appetizer and went into a swoon of pleasure.
"These are out of this world," she cried, and then: "Okay, let's
talk about men. You first. Find any?"
    Emily's mouth was full.
She shook her head.
    "I did. A doozy." Cara
rolled her eyes and tossed off the rest of her sangria. "I met him
at one of daddy's bank things. From across the room I thought he
was the most handsome man I'd ever seen. From a foot away he was
even better. Snappy dresser; sexy drawl; bluer eyes than mine.
There was only one little hitch ...."
    "He was
married?"
    "He was investigating
daddy's bank." Cara dropped her head into her hands, then looked up
with a hopeless, tragic smile and motioned for a refill on her
wine.
    By the time they left two
hours later, Emily and Cara were both convinced that for a tragic
situation, Cara's dilemma was pretty darn funny. Feeling mellow