Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
She only wants to talk about books? Fine, they’ll talk about books.
Frannie slams a stack of queer romances down at Michael’s usual dining table seat the next day.
She spent an hour combing through her collection last night, carefully picking five titles she thinks Hot Ghost Mom might enjoy that should give them days of conversation.
They’re going to replicate yesterday’s perfect Thursday afternoon.
She sits down at the other end of the table, unpacks her laptops, notes, and copy of Henry’s manuscript, and sets to work.
At ten, Bridgette pops in, says a cheerful hello, and flounces into the living room to watch Barbie as Rapunzel.
At about one, Michael shows up, grabs the Dakota Building book, and settles in the living room while Bridgette watches Barbie of Swan Lake.
By three, Frannie’s had to restart the work laptop twice because MS Word’s tracked changes keeps giving her the spinning pinwheel of doom, Bridgette’s made it to Barbie as the Princess and the Pauper, and Hot Ghost Mom still hasn’t showed.
Frannie’s cell pings and she checks her texts. There’s one from Gretchen: Chinese tonight?
Frannie bites back a sigh and texts back: Sure, sounds good!
Not that hanging with Gretchen won’t be fun, but she was hoping … she shakes her head and forces herself go back to her notes, pushing down on her disappointment.
It’s not like Hot Ghost Mom has ever come just to hang out, like the kids. Frannie can do her work and write her book without talking to her. She’s managed for three years.
It was a silly idea, anyway, that this glamorous, erudite woman would want to read any of Frannie’s romance novels. Hot Ghost Mom’s been … in existence for almost ninety years. She might not be interested in the exploits of Gen Z and millennial protagonists.
She might not be interested in anything Frannie has to offer, really. So she should just—
Hot Ghost Mom is sitting at the other end of the table, already at least twenty pages into Red, White most of romance, let’s be honest; and just about all of musical theater.”
Hot Ghost Mom’s glare melts as her eyes track up to the right.
“I’m a defender of miscommunication when done right, is all I’m saying,” Frannie says, waiting for a rebuttal. But one doesn’t come. She watches Hot Ghost Mom thinking for about a minute and then looks back at her own work.
She doesn’t want to push too hard. And she needs to finish editing this chapter, anyway, so she should—
“Into the Woods.”
“What?” Frannie asks, looking back over at her.
“Musical theater entirely based on miscommunication.”
Hot Ghost Mom is waiting, her eyebrow slowly arching, and Frannie just can’t. “That’s more of a misdirection than a miscommunication, isn’t it?” Frannie asks, despite her better impulses.
“It’s a deliberate miscommunication.”
“Deliberate, or forced?” Frannie challenges. Hot Ghost Mom’s brow wrinkles. “The Witch can’t tell the Baker and his Wife that they need the hair of the corn. I think that’s a misdirection rather than a miscommunication.”
Hot Ghost Mom opens her mouth, then shuts it, frowning. Frannie bites down on both of her lips to keep from smiling.
“All right, then what’s your example?” Hot Ghost Mom grumbles.
“Dear Evan Hansen,” Frannie says immediately.
Hot Ghost Mom groans. “That’s such an easy answer!”
“Easy, or correct?” Frannie needles.
Hot Ghost Mom huffs at her. “It may be correct, but it barely hangs together as a musical, and half the songs are just filler.”
“That’s an entirely different proposition,” Frannie counters. “If you want shows that represent the miscommunication trope and work as perfect musicals, you’re really limiting our sphere.”
“I just think if you’re going to be pedantic, you should have better examples,” Hot Ghost Mom says, pouting a little, which is doing things to Frannie’s breathing that are frankly unfair.
“Fine, you try again, then. And I’d argue that Dear Evan Hansen works perfectly on stage.”
“Well, it should work as a cast album, too, and it doesn’t. I expected him to be the villain of the show, but the movie suggests he’s not, so I’m not sure I take your point,” Hot Ghost Mom says huffily.
Frannie laughs. “Movie adaptations don’t count.”
Hot Ghost Mom frowns. “What?”
“They’re unreliable narrators. Like the Into the Woods adaptation cutting the most important deaths for time? It changes the whole show.”
“Maybe it’s the shows they’re adapting these days,” Hot Ghost Mom says a bit archly.
Frannie smiles at her disgruntled look. “Not a fan of twenty-first-century musical theater?”
Hot Ghost Mom stares at her. “You can’t actually tell me you think the past twenty-five years of musical theater can hold a candle to what we got in the twentieth century.”
“You’re going to discount Hamilton and Hadestown? Come from Away? The Light in the Piazza? The Merrily revival?”
Hot Ghost Mom purses her lips and narrows her eyes. “West Side Story, South Pacific, Gypsy, Camelot, My Fair Lady—”
“Did you see any of those live?” Frannie asks, the thought bursting out.
Hot Ghost Mom stares at her for a moment and then sits up a little straighter in her chair. “I saw all of them.”
Frannie can’t help it. She jumps out of her chair and scurries over to plop down right next to her.
The woman blinks in surprise, but then her lips rise in a smirk, her eyes crinkling. “Jealous?”
Frannie has to stop herself from reaching out to grab her arm in excitement. “Like you can’t even imagine. I don’t know what to ask about first! How—wait, so you saw all the Golden Age musicals? Were you in theater, or just a fan?”
“I dabbled,” Hot Ghost Mom says, that smile unfurling. “I wasn’t a big producer, by any means, but I invested in a fair few.”
Frannie feels her breath catch. “What?” she chokes out, pressing her hands between her thighs to keep from gesticulating.
“Joan and I,” Hot Ghost Mom starts, her voice hitching for a moment before she shakes her head. “We invested in Camelot and She Loves Me, and I put some money I certainly never saw back into Anyone Can Whistle. It was really for the best that I died before it opened.”
Frannie blinks. She’s not sure whether to laugh or offer an apology for that famous flop.
Hot Ghost Mom waves her off. “Did me a favor. I didn’t have to hear Joan say, ‘I told you so’ for the rest of my life.”
Frannie should dig in there, should ask about Joan, should slake the curiosity that’s been raging in her chest for weeks. But she so desperately needs to ask, “Did you know Stephen Sondheim?”
“Not well, but I attended a few rehearsals of his third original show. He wasn’t who you think of him as then. But I’m assuming you know the history, since you’re practically salivating.”
Frannie feels herself flush, then leans back in her chair to pretend at being a little more cool.
“Sorry. It’s just my parents are huge musical theater people.
I grew up on these cast recordings, and my dad and I are Sondheim fanatics.
Seeing Merrily with him two years ago is probably my favorite memory with him. ”
“Was it amazing?” Hot Ghost Mom asks. Frannie hesitates, and Hot Ghost Mom’s face softens. “I’m already jealous; you can’t make it worse.”
“I mean, it was the best thing I’ve ever seen, but … you saw everything first! I think I’ll be seeing green for weeks now. I can’t even—you saw My Fair Lady with Julie Andrews?”
Hot Ghost Mom laughs. “And she was spectacular.”
“God. That’s amazing.”
“Was the descent into hell in Hadestown really as astonishing as they say?”
“I thought the twenty-first century can’t hold a candle to your twentieth-century stuff?” Frannie teases.
Hot Ghost Mom rolls her eyes. “I’m just being petulant. It’s all sounded incredible. Missing Merrily would have made me physically ill, if that were possible.”
“I don’t think it’s petulant to want for things you can’t have,” Frannie says automatically.
Hot Ghost Mom’s face goes slack and Frannie winces. They were having a good time. Why does she always—
“You’re right.” Hot Ghost Mom smiles sadly at her. “It’s not petulant when you can’t change what you can’t have.” She closes Red, White & Royal Blue and stands up. “We should let you get back to your own book so you can have the career you deserve, and get the hell out of this thankless job. Kids!”
“Wait, really, I’ve gotten a lot done already—” Frannie starts, desperate to keep her there. Desperate to keep talking. Just … desperate.
“Bye, Frannie,” Bridgette says, skipping into the living room.
“Really, you don’t need to—”
“Can you get some Power Rangers, or Marvel movies? She’s going to strongarm me into all the Barbies,” Michael grouses, clomping into the dining room behind Bridgette.
“I think all the Marvel movies are on Disney, but truly, you guys don’t have to leave,” Frannie says, watching Hot Ghost Mom pluck Red, White & Royal Blue off the table, leaving the rest of Frannie’s offerings behind.
“We’ve got things to be doing, as do you,” Hot Ghost Mom says with a little smirk.
“But—” Frannie starts, words failing as she realizes she still doesn’t know the woman’s goddamned name. “You—Ghost—wait,” she stammers, reaching out to catch her wrist.
Hot Ghost Mom looks down at her in surprise. Static charges up Frannie’s arm, sharp and furiously tingling. Her wrist is cool to the touch, delicate and smooth, and perfectly solid. If she wasn’t glowing in the late afternoon sun, she wouldn’t look ghostly at all.
But her expression, shocked and maybe a little overcome, reminds Frannie that she is, in fact, a ghost, and hasn’t at all given Frannie permission to touch her. Frannie lets go immediately, blushing up to her ears.
The kids troop toward the door, completely oblivious, while Frannie and Hot Ghost Mom stay there staring at each other.
“Sorry, I—” Frannie starts, her voice choked.
“It’s Elsa,” Hot Ghost Mom says softly, her hand flexing down by her side.
“Oh,” Frannie mumbles.
Elsa’s face melts into a little smirk. She turns and heads through the kitchen, passing straight through the closed door.
And Frannie’s left sitting in Henry’s dining room, winded and alone, again.