but the thin, frail ghosts in my room
― Jean Rhys
When I go into the Apple store I get rattled. The Genius Bar rattles me; the lineups rattle me; the techy atmosphere rattles me; everything rattles me.
Okay, I’m not Stephen Leacock, but you get the idea. I don’t want to talk to any of the ‘geniuses’ in the store because I know they’ll make me feel the fool—the way I do when I order Chinese food at the local restaurant—but that’s another story.
Nevertheless, I am rattled and desperately need an answer as to why my iPhone is talking back to me.
I’m waiting my turn and the nerd who looks like Sylvester on Scorpion goes for break and a beautiful redheaded girl replaces him.
Lucky me.
“Can I help you?” she smiles.
You already have, I smile to myself
I turn on the charm. “Hi, I’m Paul Randall.”
Her eyes dance. “I’m Cindy. Have you got a problem I can help you with?”
I’m not going there, even inside my head.
“Actually, you can probably help me.”
I show her the last text.
I’m lonely.
Her eyes grow huge
It dawns on me she’s thinking this is a pick-up line.
I color slightly. “I’m showing you this as an example of the auto-responses I’m getting on my phone.”
She eyes me dubiously. “I see.”
Now I’m really getting rattled.
Her eyes are still huge, but maybe it’s involuntary; you know—pupil dilation—the look of love?
“So, Cindy, can you figure out the problem?”
She’s wiping the grease marks off the glass i-phone cover.
Yeah, I’m messy. It makes me loveable.
“Well, looking at the version of this phone, you shouldn’t be getting any auto responses and certainly not texts like this.”
She looks at me narrowly again as if sizing me up. I wonder if they have a silent alarm button just below the counter like in the bank.
“What are you saying?” I ask.
“Perhaps someone’s playing a joke on you. Entering messages when you’re not looking.”
“Really? At 3am when I’m all alone in the house?”
Her eyes are dancing again. She laughs. The girl likes me. “It is kind of spooky. Maybe you have a ghost.”
That just unnerves me. Beautiful or not, that was the wrong thing to say. I grab my phone and head for the door.
She calls out, “Sorry I couldn’t help.”
And I believe her—I really do, but this is one time sorry doesn’t help.
I leave the mall and civilization, and drive for two hours back to my century house in the country. All this commuting is killing me.
I crack open a beer and flop down on the sofa. It’s raining again. I think it’s rained every day since I moved to this berg.
“A small town will stimulate your creativity,” Melody said.
Melody Bride’s my book shepherd and literary agent. And when she’s not within earshot, I call her my assistant.
I blame all this on her.
Apparently, I was ‘called to Winslow.
You don’t choose it—it chooses you.
At least that’s what Ella James, the town’s naturopath and Matchmaker thinks. That’s right—Matchmaker.
People in this town have strange ideas.
And I think there’s an unseen presence lurking in my house. Melody finds it fascinating, but then again, she would. She doesn’t have to live here—Oh, and yes, I tried, but she won’t stay over night.
My nerves are frazzled. Here’s what’s been happening:
A dark lady in a portrait I bought at the local Antique Barn haunts me.
The local librarian has shown up in the background of some photos of mine going back ten years—long before I even moved here or set eyes on her.
And now this.
Jeez—I’m being sexted by a ghost.
“I think you like drama,” Melody laughs, kicking back on the sofa chair.
She’s dressed in tight white shorts and a sexy, sleeveless black tank top. There ought to be a law against enticement—especially when she contributes to my distress.
She tilts her head and lets the rope of her red hair swing gently from side to side. The girl’s incredibly beautiful and knows it—another reason for despair.
“Maybe you should ask Ella about the house—she knows everything.”
“Yes—Oprah says do this,” I say derisively. “Maybe I’ll listen when Ella gets her own syndicated talk show.”
“Try network,” Melody laughs.
The girl’s like Teflon—then again, maybe she has to be, to put up with me.
Going to talk to Ella may not be a bad idea though. If it helps me to sleep at night, I’ll give it a shot—otherwise I’m investing in motion detectors and cameras—and if that fails, I’m outta here.
“C’mon,” I tell Melody. She’s munching on a Granny Smith apple and nearly chokes.
“You’re seriously going to see Ella?”
I toss her flip-flops to her. “Don’t have any other options.”