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Eleanor looks at me with a mischievous grin, “Joseph, are you trying to romance me?” She fakes a swoon, and I laugh.
“Ghosts and gateaus are quite the aphrodisiac,” I joke.
Saturday night, I let out a low whistle as Eleanor made her way down the stairs.
She’s wearing a red velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline clinging to her curves in all the right places. Her hair rests in loose waves against her shoulders. The glow of the chandelier makes it shine. Her cheeks are flushed. She’s glowing. Her hand rests on her stomach as she approaches me, and I realize she’s wearing chunky velvet heels. For the first time, we’re almost able to see eye-to-eye.
“You look divine,” I drawl. I’m wearing a dark dress shirt, a matte black sports coat, and tailored Gucci dress pants. A silver Rolex throws the light from my wrist, and I’ve gelled my hair back. Sacre Coeur is still a world-class restaurant, even if it’s stuck on this island.
“You clean up nice,” Eleanor quips. We grab our coats and scarves. Even though Thanksgiving is still a week away, the first thick layer of frost has arrived on the island. I help Eleanor down the slick stairs leading to the car.
“Such a gentleman,” she teases, kissing me as I open the passenger-side door.
“What can I say? You bring it out in me.”
We park on the street parallel to Weatherby Books. The weathered green building looks especially cozy in the cold, with frosted windows lit by the original fireplace. The building was originally a butcher. Then, it was a flower shop in the seventies before becoming Weatherby’s most treasured indie bookstore in the early nineties.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been here,” Eleanor exclaims as the bell above the door clangs. She examines the shelves carefully, running her hand along the spines.
“You get twenty-five percent off because you work at the library,” I add.
Eleanor quirks up an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yeah, it’s this, ‘community partners’ thing they started.”
“Okay, now I’ll be here at least once a week.”
I walk over to the magazine rack and thumb through an issue ofThe New Yorkerwhile Eleanor pursues fiction. She greets me twenty minutes later with a stack of books and nods at the sign reading “PARANORMAL” to my left. The sign’s written in a cheesy, creepy font straight out of a slasher movie.
“Do you think it’ll help?” I ask. Part of me wants to just ditch this whole scheme and go to dinner as if by ignoring the problem itself, I can somehow reduce it to a figment of my imagination.
“Do you have a better idea? There’s no harm in at least looking. Our reservation’s at eight, right? We have time.”
“Fine,” I grunt as Eleanor leads me into the nook of books. Most of the covers are purple or bright green, with titles in curlicued fonts boasting ways to reach “the beyond.” Eleanor picks up a large hardcover book with the word compendium in the title and starts flipping through the pages at breakneck speed.
“What are you doing? If you flip the pages any faster, they’ll catch on fire.”
“I’m trying to find a section about active spirits.”
“‘Active’? That makes it sound like Beatrix is training for a marathon.”
“Well, she’s certainly not passive. Oh! Here we go,” Eleanor lays the book open on a nearby table and starts to read silently. The page heading says, “UNWELCOME SPIRITS” in a blocky font, and I suspect Eleanor may be onto something.
“Well, what does it say? Is there a number we can call?” I’m only partially joking.
“No, but it says the first thing we should do is make Beatrix know that she’s not welcome,” Eleanor says.
“You think she would’ve inferred that we don’t exactly have a welcome mat in the foyer.”
“Well, it says you need to be clear and direct with ghosts.” Eleanor fishes her phone out of her pocket and takes a photo. “This is way too heavy to lug around all night; I’m coming back for this, and then we’re making a plan.”
“Sounds good. I thought you were about to give another speech about how knowledge is power.”
“Oh, I’m saving it for the restaurant. I don’t want us to miss our table.” Eleanor kisses my cheek, and then we pay for her stack of books just as I receive a text that our table is ready.
The lighting in Sacre Coeur is lush and romantic. A warm glow emanates from the vintage light fixtures, bathing the fine linen tablecloths in golden light. Eleanor looks divine. The lighting highlights the copper tones in her hair and her round cheeks.
“Joseph, it’s lovely to see you as always!” Marcus, the Maître’d intones. He escorts us back to a secluded table and pulls a chair out for Eleanor.
