Southern Ghost

It was not the first time in their acquaintance, which wassurely long in content if not in time, that Annie was left staring at Laurel in hopeless confusion.

Alice?

Who was Alice? Had they been talking about someone named Alice?

'Alice?' she murmured uncertainly.

'Oh, my dear.' A wave of a graceful hand, the pink-tinted nails glossed to perfection. 'Certainly you know all about Alice.'

Alice Springs? Alice in Wonderland? Alice Blue Gown? Annie pounced on the latter. 'Alice Blue Gown?' she pro­posed hopefully. It was just offbeat enough to be the answer.

But Laurel was pursuing her own thoughts, which, under­standably, could well occupy her fully. Annie had seen the day when Laurel's thoughts had occupied many minds more than hers. But it was better not to dwell upon the past. Though that period—the one with saints—had held its own unique charms. It was at moments such as this, indeed, that Annie herself was likely to call upon the excellent advice of Saint Vincent Ferrer. (Ask God simply to fill you with charity, the greatest of all virtues; with it you can accomplish what you desire.) Annie surely needed heaps of charity in order to attain pa­tience, a definite requisite for an amiable relationship with her mother-in-law.

'. . . thirteen times backward. I know I did it right. I was counting.' Laurel gnawed a shell-pink lip in perplexity. 'An­nie, do you suppose I could have miscounted?'

'Certainly not,' Annie assured her.

Palms uplifted, despite the notebook and No. 2 pencil, Laurel exclaimed, 'Then it's quite beyond me! Because Alice definitely didn't come.'

Annie decided to explore this cautiously. 'You were ex­pecting her?'

Her mother-in-law dropped the notebook and pencil on the nearest table, opened her carryall, and pulled out a sheaf of Polaroid pictures, the bulky self-developing camera, and sev­eral road maps. 'It just came to me—you know the way things do'—an enchanting smile—'that it would be so useful

to take photos on the spot. And, of course, if anyone should be there, how wonderful to be able to show skeptics. Seeing is, as someone once said so cleverly, believing.' The golden head bent over the pile of photographs. 'I'm marking the exact date and time on the back of each picture. It's easy as pie with the tripod and one of those clever electronic controls—so magical, just like the television remote—so I can be in the pictures, too.' She beamed at Annie and handed her a photograph.

Annie was halfway to a smile when she felt her face freeze. Oh, God. It looked like . . . Surely it wasn't . .

'Laurel.' Annie swallowed tightly and stared at the photo of?

. . really, one of my better pictures. Of me, don't you think?'

—Laurel gracefully draped on a marble slab atop a grave, chin cupped in one hand, smiling wistfully toward the camera.

'It would have been quite perfect if Alice had come.' She stepped close beside Annie, and the scent of violet tickled Annie's nose. 'See. There's her name. That's all they put on the slab. Just 'Alice.' '

'Alice,' Annie repeated faintly. 'She's dead?'

'Of course she's dead!' Laurel exclaimed. 'Otherwise,' she asked reasonably, 'how could she be a ghost? And it would have been so convenient! It would be so easy to visit her often. It's a delightful trip from here to Murrells Inlet, and the All Saints Cemetery is lovely, Annie, just lovely. So many people have seen Alice after circling her grave thirteen times back­ward, then calling her name or lying atop the slab. I did both,' she confided. A sudden frown. 'Perhaps that was the problem. Too much. But'—a winsome smile replaced the frown—'I took some lovely notes.' She patted the notebook in satisfaction. 'I do intend to devote a good deal of space to Alice. After all, it's such a heartrending story, a young woman in love, separated from her beloved by her family because they thought he wasn't suitable, spirited away from her beloved home to school in Charleston. One final night of gaiety at the St. Cecilia Ball, then stricken with illness and when they brought her home, they found her young man's ring on thepale-blue silk ribbon around her neck, and her brother took it and threw it away, and while she was dying and delirious she called and called for the ring. Is it any wonder,' Laurel asked solemnly, 'that Alice is often seen in her old room at The Hermitage or walking in the gardens there? Everyone knows she's looking for her ring.' A gentle sigh, delicate as a wisp of Spanish moss. 'Ah, Love . . . Its power cannot be dimin­ished even by the grave.'

If there was an appropriate response to that, Annie didn't know it, so she tried to look sympathetic and interested while glancing unobtrusively toward the clock.

Of course, anyone attuned enough to subtleties to seriously expect to communicate with ghosts wasn't likely to miss a glance at a clock, no matter how unobtrusive.

'Oh, dear, I had no idea it was so late. I must fly.' Swiftly, those graceful hands whipped the photographs, camera, and maps back into the embroidered carryall. 'My duties are not yet done for the day.' Laurel backed toward the storeroom door, smiling beneficently. 'Give my love to dear Max. I know you two would adore to have me join you for dinner, of course you would, but I do believe that mothers, especially mothers- in-law, should remember that the young must have Their Own Time Together. I try hard not to forget that. Of course, with my commitment to my Work, it's unlikely that I should ever be underfoot.' Laurel had backpedaled all the way to the storeroom doorway. 'I do believe my book shall be quite unique. It's just a scandal that South Carolina's ghosts have yet to be interviewed. Can you believe that oversight? All of these books are told from the viewpoint of the persons who saw the ghost and I ask you, should they be featured just because they happen to be present when a ghost comes forth—that's a good term, isn't it'—the doorway framed Laurel's slender form for an instant—'perhaps that should be my title, Coming Forth. Oh, I like that.' She was out of sight now, but the throaty tone, a combination of Marlene Dietrich, Lauren Bacall, and wood nymph, carried well. 'Do have a delightful dinner, my darlings.' The back door opened and closed.

It seemed awfully quiet after Laurel was gone.

Annie, of course, had had plenty of time to call out and say Max wasn't coming home for dinner tonight and she and Laurel could drop by the Club.