Hungry Ghosts Read Online Free PDF Page A

Eamon to invite you. There’s tea in the fine pot he’s provided and something to nibble on. Look around. Ask me anything you like. I am Leo Garson, the priest here, by the way . . .”
    I was impressed with Leo’s ability to make everyone welcome, giving credit even as he detached himself from any responsibility for the surroundings, yet at the same time indicating it was his place and he was in charge.
    Hands were extended, names given. Dark-suited attorneys with drawnfaces mixed with tan-clad architects and languid gallery owners, along with more colorful dealers in antiques, designer furniture, and tribal carpets. I found myself following Leo’s example, listening as Jeffrey Hagstrom, who ran a shop down the street, explained why our building had survived the great earthquake and fire that destroyed much of the city in 1906: “Barbary Coast. Built on rock, so the earthquake didn’t do much, built with brick, so the fire wasn’t bad. That’s how come we’re standing here, how come this building’s still standing.” A short, square realtor who made a steady living on the turnover on this block alone predicted: “Be here at Christmas and you’ll be the old-timers. The thing . . . is . . .” She stared at the doorway.
    Behind us conversations faltered. With everyone else, I turned to the open doorway. I gasped.
    Mike.
    There he was! Alive, healthy, smiling.
    I couldn’t breathe; my heart banged against my ribs. I couldn’t move; I could barely keep myself from throwing my arms around him and hugging him for every one of the long-gone years, waiting for him to nudge me and do that flicker-of-an-eye thing I had called the cut-rate wink, to tell me everything—how sorry he was, how hard he’d tried to contact me. Memories, emotions, reactions broke over me like waves in a hurricane. Tears welled. Through them, I could see his hair was still as dark a red as mine, but that he was thicker than he’d been at twenty, wore a black jacket over jeans that was more San Francisco–conservative than he’d ever have imagined for himself. We’d go down to the dunes just like we did as kids and laugh about it later.
    My tears blurred him. He was slipping out of focus.
    I wiped my eyes, and the instant was gone. He wasn’t Mike at all, not even what Mike might have looked like, had he chosen a career in realestate or finance. I took a sip of tea and desperately wished my cup was filled with Dad’s Irish, the stuff Mike and I siphoned from the bottle “to keep us warm” during our major life discussions out in the dunes beyond the Great Highway.
    Behind me people were laughing. The reception had come to life again as if someone had hit Play. The man who had to be Eamon Lafferty moved out of the doorway toward Leo. His walk was not Mike’s lope of adventure, but the stroll of the laird. His red curls, tighter than mine, sneaked over his collar. He greeted Leo with a westernized bow, and drew Leo’s attention to the room as if asking his opinion. That need for reassurance made me like him better. The guests were talking again, but they hadn’t completely taken their eyes off Mike—off Eamon Lafferty —as if all of them were as transfixed as I.
    Even Leo was riveted.
    â€œWho is she?” asked the short realtor, whom I’d totally forgotten.
    Now I realized that the guests weren’t enthralled with Mike—with Eamon !—but by the woman he was introducing to Leo.
    Eamon Lafferty stepped back, opening a clear shot to the woman. All the fuzziness cleared; the picture shifted into its proper alignment. I laughed. The woman was about my height, 5′7″, my age, very thin, and altogether stunning. She was Tia Dru, and as long as I had known her—since we were fourteen—she’d had that startling effect on people. She was the only girl who’d ever left Mike speechless.
    â€œTia!” I