19
Demi
Grace Slick is wailing “Somebody To Love” through my station wagon’s speakers, and I’m wailing right along with her.
I’m taking myself on a little road trip to Holly Cove, a small town about an hour away that hosts one of the best flea markets for vintage collectors.
It’s my favorite market of the year. I’m manifesting a gold mine of rare finds.
It’ll be worth it for the vibes alone, though.
Along the drive, the trees are just starting to go golden, and the early morning sun rolls like amber over the hills.
The station wagon’s windows are rolled down, with the breeze whipping through the car and smelling like a mixture of freshly cut grass and bonfire.
My hair floats around my head, wild and free in the wind, and I can’t keep the smile from my face.
As I sing along to a band that headlined Woodstock, my thoughts drift to Tristan, who was there, photographing the concert all those years ago.
My thoughts have been doing that a lot lately, drifting to Tristan.
Even when I’m not at home, I find myself being reminded of him throughout the day.
Music tips me off most of the time. I’ll be at Gold Dust Woman, organizing records and finding a band that he photographed in the seventies.
I’ll be listening to music in my car or in the shop, and a lyric will run its finger down my spine in a certain way, itching at some sensibility under the surface that somehow feels like the man—the ghost—in my house.
He’s handsome. More handsome than the pictures I found in the Manor. More handsome than a man has any business being, honestly. Those gray eyes and that pensive, sad-boy set to his jaw, and that chestnut brown hair.
And his hands . When I was sick, lying in bed with him, and pressing my palm to his, I couldn’t look away from how much bigger his hand was than mine.
Long fingers, veins, and tendons standing out in sharp relief on the back.
I wonder what those big hands would feel like on my body, on my skin, for real.
I like the way he looks, and I like the way he looks at me.
There has to be some level of delusion I’ve sunk into to be imagining the things I’ve been imagining about a ghost. I know that we can never be together in any real way, but the more I’m around him, the harder it is to remember that he’s a dead man.
He’s quiet and contemplative, maybe a little shy.
He seems perfectly content just to observe what’s going on around him, to observe me .
I’m curious how much of that introspection stems from his years alone, and how much is just his nature.
I think he sees the world in a different, deeper way than I do, and I don’t think it’s just because he has the big-picture perspective of someone who’s both lived and died.
Tristan Beaumont is as soulful as he is reticent. Taciturn, not because of his ego but because he lacks the ego to draw attention to himself intentionally. The strong, silent type. An artist. And someone who’s been alone for a very, very long time .
My station wagon is from the eighties, too old to have Bluetooth or even a CD player.
The Jefferson Airplane cassette tape ends, so I pop it out of the deck and reach across the cream leather bench seat to drop in the old milk crate on the passenger side.
I rummage in the crate and blindly pick out a new tape.
With a passing glance at the case, I open it with a smile and pop the cassette in.
Joni Mitchell, Blue. The album my sister was named after.
Lucky for me, I never rewound the tape after the last time I listened to it, and “A Case of You” starts crooning out of my speakers.
Something about love songs lately…
An hour later, I pull into town just as the flea market stalls are opening up. The giddy anticipation bubbles up inside me at the thought of the potential treasures out there today.
One thing about me: when it comes to vintage finds, I’m a goddamn shark. I can sniff out my prey like blood on the water, and when I find what I’m looking for, I don’t stop until it’s in my grasp.
It’s a perfect fall day. The sun is shining warm and mixing with a cool breeze to make it chilly enough for a good, chunky sweater, but not so cold that I need a jacket over it.
Holly Cove’s Mainstreet is lined with birch trees that are all turning bright, mid-September yellow, and I can see even from a distance that they’re all strung with twinkle lights.
The cafe’s doors are open, infusing the outside air with the homey scents of coffee and seasonal baked goods.
The smell is like a siren song, calling me inside.
It’s designed like a charming woodland cabin, with a cozy fireplace surrounded by worn-in armchairs and deer-antler chandeliers hung from the reclaimed-wood rafters.
I order a chai latte and a maple-glazed sweet roll, and as the friendly barista hands me my items, I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. Juggling my drink and pastry, I pull my phone from my pocket and wander toward the open doorway.
Unknown number: Isn’t the flea market in Holly this weekend? Want some company?
Unknown number: For old time’s sake.
Ugh, Owen.
We used to go to this flea market together when we were dating; it’s held every September on the same weekend.
It turned into a little tradition for us.
Although for years before I even met him, the Holly Cove flea market had been my ?tradition since I started collecting rare records and books.
He just sort of co-opted it when we met.
I started collecting when I was in high school, and by the time I graduated, I had a nice little side hustle reselling my finds online. That side hustle put me through college and built the foundation for my brick-and-mortar shop.
Yet somehow, Owen started to try to take credit for my interest in music and records.
Because he was a musician . Any time we were in a social situation with new people, and they asked about my career, he never missed an opportunity to make my passion about him.
It didn’t really bother me at the time — it takes a lot to bother me —but in hindsight, I can see the narcissism and insecurity as clear as day .
Shoving my phone back in my pocket, I step out onto the sidewalk and collide with a person turning the corner into the cafe.
“Oh, shit!” I exclaim, pivoting just enough that I manage not to spill my chai all over myself. My sweet roll, unfortunately, is crushed in its paper bag between my body and this stranger’s.
A tall, solid stranger. Who smells like warm laundry. Whose hands are on my waist to steady me.
I look up and find a handsome face staring down at me. Brown hair so dark, it’s nearly black. A thick mustache over his lips, and a day’s worth of stubble along his jaw. Chocolate brown eyes.
Well, damn.
“You okay? I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going,” he says, his voice a deep timbre.
“I’m good,” I say. “To be honest, I wasn’t paying attention either.”
“Sounds like we’re even, then.” He smiles, then seems to realize his hands are still on my waist. He removes them and holds them up as if in surrender.
Okay, cute.
“My breakfast would beg to differ.” I wave my pastry at him, its white paper bag now stained with maple glaze and crushed beyond recognition.
The corner of the stranger’s mouth lifts in a smirk. “Well, that’s a tragedy. Let me buy you a new one.”
“No, you don’t have to do that,” I reply with a chuckle.
He nods and strides to the counter. “What did that pretty blonde order, Vera?” he asks the barista, looking back at me over my shoulder .
“Maple-glazed sweet roll,” Vera replies. She’s an older woman with faded auburn hair and a sort of mother-of-the-town kind of vibe. She winks at me.
“Two of those, and a black coffee, please,” the stranger says.
Vera plucks out two more sweet rolls from the bakery case, each in a separate bag, and pours him a coffee. He pays in cash and tips well, slipping a ten-dollar bill in the tip cup near the register.
“You have a good day, now, Nick,” Vera says, then her gaze slides to me. “You, too, pretty blonde.”
The stranger, Nick, hands me a pastry bag, and I use it to give Vera a little salute. “Thank you,” I tell her, then turn to the tall man with the mustache and smile. “That was sweet, thank you.”
“Happy to do it. You shouldn’t have to suffer on account of my being all big and clumsy.”
“That’s a little dramatic,” I quip.
He shakes his head. “Have you ever had one of Vera’s pastries?”
“I’ve been here a couple of times over the years,” I reply.
“Then you should know that you’d absolutely suffer without one.”
“Fair enough,” I concede.
And then we’re walking together, side by side, out of the cafe and onto the sidewalk.
I take the opportunity to get a good look at him as I take a long sip of my chai.
Tall, dark, and handsome. He’s wearing a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and I can see he has tattoos on his thick forearms, some kind of winter scene.
“In town for the market?” he asks .
“I am. I’m guessing since you’re on a first-name basis with Vera back there, you’re from Holly Cove?”
“Yep. Born and raised,” he says, looking over at me. It’s his turn to drink me in. His dark eyes do a quick sweep of me, from head to toe, and I watch the way he smiles when his gaze finds its way back to my face. “Where are you from?”
“Ivy Hollow, small town about an hour away,” I reply.
Nick nods. “I’ve been there. Cute town. There’s an awesome record shop there. I think it’s named after a Fleetwood Mac song?”
“Gold Dust Woman?” I ask, trying to hide at least a little bit of the excitement and pride I’m feeling at his mention of my shop.
“That’s it!” he exclaims.
“That’s my shop,” I reply.
He stops walking and turns to me with a look of surprise and a grin. “No shit? You’re Gold Dust Woman?”
“I guess you could say that,” I laugh.
“At least half of my record collection came from your shop,” he says. “You have really good taste in music.”
“That’s a really good compliment,” I say.
The smile Nick gives me is genuine and warm.
“Do you find all your rare records at flea markets like this?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“Sacred trade secrets. If I told you, I’d have to… well—” I pantomime dragging my finger across my throat, and it makes Nick bark out a loud laugh .
Once he’s recovered, he leans in, close enough for me to smell the coffee on his lips, and whispers conspiratorially, “Come on, you can trust me.”
“You don’t even know my name,” I whisper back with a wink.
“Touché. So, what’s your name?” There’s heat in his eyes, in the air between us.
“Demi,” I reply.
“Hi, Demi, I’m Nick.”
“Hi, Nick.”
The moment holds, suspended like a heavy pause between us, until the town clock chimes out a tune that sounds vaguely Christmassy.
“Damn, I’m gonna be late,” Nick says. “I have to run, but can I get your number? I’d love to take you out sometime.”
“I’m not local,” I reply.
He smirks, pulling out his phone and unlocking it before holding it out for me. “This might be kind of a flex, but I do ?have a car.”
“Impressive,” I chuckle.
For a split second, I hesitate. Tristan’s face blooms in my mind, and I feel a sort of pull back home. But I realize it’s yet another instance of my forgetting that he’s a ghost.
So, I take Nick’s phone and give him my number.
“How does this week look for you?” he asks.
“I’m free most evenings.”
“Cool, I’ll call you, and we’ll set something up,” he says with a grin. “I’ll come to you. In my car. I’ll even open the door for you when I pick you up.”
I can’t help the laugh that comes out of me. “It’s a date.”