I’m pleased to welcome Aletta Thorne to the blog with her new release 🙂
Autumn, 1982. MTV is new, poodle perms are the rage, and life just might be getting better for Alma Kobel. Her ugly divorce is final at last. Her new job as chef at Bright Day School’s gorgeous old estate is actually fun. But the place is haunted—and so is Alma’s apartment. Bartholomew Addison Jenkins’ ghost has been invisibly watching her for months. When he materializes one night, Alma discovers Bart—as he likes to be called—has talents she couldn’t have imagined…and a horrifying past. What happens if you have a one-nighter with a ghost? And what happens if one night is all you want—and you end up ghosting him? Some spirits don’t like taking “no” for an answer.
A Word From the Author
The Story Behind The Story
So my husband and I bought a house that was built in 1740. Not fiction: fact. And we spent three years renovating it, found the old wide-plank floors, and will never ever believe that those HGTV shows where they reno a home in a couple of weeks are for real.
Especially because they don’t mention ghosts. Or almost never do. Ken and I became aware of the fact that we were not alone the first night we slept in our new (but very old) place. It wasn’t a bad feeling, honestly. Maybe, we thought, we were just sensing the history of the place. Maybe we were just a bit suggestible. We laughed, and like the song says, let it go.
But then our house painter saw an old man standing on a road leading back into the woods near our place—the road that wasn’t really there anymore. Fellow had a cane, wore a beret—and looked, when our painter described him to us, an awful lot like pictures of the glass artist who had owned our home before we did. And the old man vanished as our painter stared.
We put a candle chandelier in the dining room. It’s pretty—but it swings back and forth when we have dinner parties, even when no one is walking around upstairs. And then there was the day we came back from making music at a funeral and someone or something knocked over the heavy brass floor lamp in the room behind my study as I sat at my computer. The thing went over so hard it took a nearby radiator cover with it—but the glass bulb in the lamp was not broken.
Linda Zimmerman, a local ghost investigator, found two spirits sharing our place with us. The night of her investigation, I’ll admit I slept with the light on. But since then, I haven’t been bothered by my spectral house mates. I find it cozy living in a house with ghosts. And when I set about writing my first romance for adults, I knew it had to be a ghost story.
It’s a long way from the spirit who tossed our floor lamp to Bartholomew Addison Jenkins. But writing the book was tremendous, sexy fun—and I hope you think so, too. “Write what you know,” goes the old piece of advice to novelists, and I think it’s pretty sound. But then there’s the imagination, and does it ever take off like a sky rocket!
So—what would happen if you had…say…a one night stand with a ghost?
“You’ll turn over the record. Oh, because you…”
“I do like to keep up. Who poured you wine from the … refrigerator? Although, I don’t understand why people of your age prefer it so icy.”
Alma followed Bart into the living room, still wondering why things didn’t seem odder than they were. She remembered the Casper the Friendly Ghost cartoons she’d seen as a little girl. This ghost was acting—well, perhaps a bit more flirty than friendly. He only glowed a bit as they walked through the dim hallway that connected her rooms. You can hardly even tell he’s translucent. What had he seen of her, though? She was glad her frustrating night with Sid had been at his place.
As Bart bent over the turntable and flipped the record, the reading lamp by her couch highlighted the silver buttons of his coat. She curled up on the couch and put her wine glass on the glass-covered orange crate she’d turned into a coffee table.
Bart sat beside her, suspiciously close. He put an arm over the back of the couch, and Alma shook her head again. That’s the old sneaky-arm trick—like a high school kid. It’s kind of cute. She pulled her legs up under herself, and they quietly listened to the music.
“You’re right,” she said after a few minutes. “‘Fountains’ is really good, too. I almost never listen to that side.”
Bart made a quiet harrumphing noise.
Do ghosts clear their throats? Apparently so.
“Dear lady,” he said. “Although I do try not to snoop, as you would say, I have indeed observed your solitude. Let me assure you, your life will soon be happier.” He slid even closer to her.
Okay. Now the ghost is absolutely coming on to me. This is really happening. Oh, hell—why not? He’s not bad—for a dead guy.
“Um, Bart?” she said. His eyes really were a startling color—almost bronze… “You can’t actually be…”
Bart set his fingertips on her cheeks, looked into her eyes, and sighed. Then he smiled. “You think this is a ridiculous situation. It’s not ridiculous,” he said. “Not at all. Allow me to demonstrate … with your permission, m’lady.”
Somehow, that was funny, and Alma giggled. “Granted.”
Bart’s hands were impossibly soft and gentle—and his touch had some of the same fire-and-ice buzz that she’d felt before in the kitchen when he’d tried to get her attention. He guided her lips to his, and gave her what would have been a tiny peck—from anyone else. It shot a bolt of fire straight through her.
“Oh,” she said. It took a minute to get her breath.
Aletta Thorne believes in ghosts. In her non-writing life, she is a choral singer, a poet, a sometimes DJ, and a writer about things non-supernatural. But she’s happiest in front of a glowing screen, giving voice to whoever it is that got her two cats all riled up at three AM. Yes, her house is the oldest one on her street. And of course, it’s quite seriously haunted (scared the ghost investigator who came to check it out). She is named after a little girl in her family who died in the late nineteenth century, at the age of two.