Proposal by Meg Cabot
“Because she’s a lying bitch!” Zack screamed, trying to lunge at me. But Jesse’s grip was too strong for him, and all he ended up doing was hurting himself. He did fling a few other choice swearwords at me, however, that caused his father to thunder at him, “Stop it! I will not have that kind of language in my house!”
Then Dr. Farhat turned to the mayor and chief of police and said, politely, “I apologize. I don’t know what’s come over my son. Maybe it’s the storm. Or maybe . . . well, he’s had a great shock. Truthfully, he’s been acting this way ever since the death of his cousin—Jasmin Ahmadi. He’s taken it—we’ve all taken it—very hard.”
Mrs. Farhat was looking down at me, compassion—and resignation—in her beautiful dark eyes. “Are you all right, my dear?”
“Not really,” I said. I didn’t want to do it—especially to her, because she seemed so kind—but I had to. I’d promised Mark. And killing monsters is my job. “I took a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom, and your son and I ended up talking, and then all of a sudden, from out of nowhere, he flew into a homicidal rage and tried to kill me.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Farhat murmured, even as her son once again screamed that I was a liar.
But this time everyone ignored him. The chief prosecutor held out a hand and helped me to my feet. I could feel Jesse’s worried gaze on me, so I tried not to lean too heavily on the tall man’s grip, even though I wanted to. Instead, I leaned casually against the wall once he’d released my fingers, trying to appear as if I normally leaned against walls and was not in the least sore from the ass kicking I’d just received.
I could tell from Jesse’s expression that he, at least, was not fooled.
“I thought about cancelling the party,” Mrs. Farhat went on, her gaze downcast. “Perhaps I should have. But it’s always so popular, and raises so much money for charity—”
“No need to apologize, ma’am,” the chief of police said. “We understand.” Having stooped to lift one of the photos of Jasmin, he now turned it over in his hand. It had become rain spattered, the edges torn from the battering it had received by the wind. “I can see the kids were very close.”
“Well, yes,” Dr. Farhat said, distractedly. He still seemed to be trying to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing, as if his youngest son was a heart he’d opened up on the operating table, only to find that it was diseased beyond repair. “As very young children. Not so close as they got older, of course, but—”
“That’s your fault,” Zack sneered. “Maybe if you’d been more strict with her—if her parents had, too—she’d have done what she was supposed to, and said yes to marrying me instead of that—”
He then said a word so foul, it caused every head in the room to turn sharply in his direction, particularly the chief prosecutor’s, since he, along with Mark Rodgers, happened to belong to the race it slandered.
That’s when Mrs. Farhat took two swift strides forward and slapped her son across the face. Now that the rain had stopped—and the party downstairs had gone strangely quiet, as well—the only ambient noise was the rhythmic pound of the ocean waves below, so the cracking sound the slap made was shockingly loud. It seemed to stun the people in the room more than the word Zack had used.
“How dare you?” Mrs. Farhat demanded, her dark eyes fiery with rage. “How dare you use that word in my house?”
“But it’s true,” Zack insisted, his own eyes shining—not because he was ashamed of himself, I knew, because he was incapable of shame. His tears were a mere physical reaction to the pain his mother had inflicted. “She was going to disgrace our family. She was going to humiliate us all—especially me. She was going to humiliate me. Can’t you see that? Why can’t any of you see that?”
The chief of police and chief prosecutor saw something, that’s for sure. I know because of the sharp glance they exchanged. Then the chief of police cleared his throat.
“Um, excuse me, son,” he said, with elaborate nonchalance. “Do you happen to remember where you were the night your cousin died?”
“With your wife,” Zack replied with a sneer.
Dr. Farhat buried his face in hands. “Zakaria,” he murmured. “Oh, Zakaria.”
Mrs. Farhat had regained some of her color . . . and her maternal instinct. “My son is a fool, it’s true. But there’s no proof that he’s a murderer.”
“Actually, there is.” Jesse’s deep voice was gentle.
And before the boy could resist, Jesse pulled on one of the gold chains around Zack’s neck, until the object hanging from it popped out from beneath his shirt collar.
It was a ring. A diamond solitaire on a gold band.
The prosecutor was across the room in a split second flat, holding the ring in his strong fingers.
“This is the engagement ring the Rodgers kid gave to the girl,” he said, to no one in particular. He bent to examine it more closely, even as Zack squirmed to get away. But Jesse held on to him more tightly. “It’s got their initials on the band exactly as the boy described. MR and JA 4EVA.”
Mark, who’d finally moved away from the French doors toward the center of the room, mouthed the words along with him. Tears plainly glistened in his eyes behind the lenses of his glasses.
“I worked two jobs after school to pay for that ring,” he said. “It cost two thousand dollars. But Jasmin is worth it.” He choked a little. “Was worth it. Diamonds are supposed to be forever.”
He broke down, weeping.
“I suppose you have a good explanation as to where you found that ring, kid,” the police chief said, laying hold of Zack’s arm and giving Jesse a nod to make it clear that he’d be taking over from here.
“Perhaps your wife gave it to him,” quipped the prosecutor. “While they were in bed together the night of the accident.”
“That would be some feat,” the police chief said. “Seeing as how she was with me, watching the Lakers game.”
“Don’t worry, Zakaria,” Mrs. Farhat called, as her son was led away, struggling, by the two men. “We’ll get you the best attorney money can buy. Rashid”—she punched her husband, who was looking dazed, in the arm—“call your brother.” Glancing at me before she left the room—almost as an afterthought—she asked, “Are you really all right?”
Jesse had crossed the room to slide an arm around me. I probably could have stood unaided, but it was nice to have a strong, masculine arm to lean on—especially one that was attached to such a tall, attractive body.
“I’m fine,” I said, though this was an exaggeration. I was going to be sore tomorrow . . . even sorer than I was now.
Still, she was a nice lady, and she had enough to worry about.
“I’m glad,” she said, and managed a smile that was at once both warm and regretful. “I’m so sorry about . . . about . . . well, about my son. I have another boy—Zakaria’s older brother. He’s away at university, like your friend.” She glanced at Jesse, the smile turning into a beam. “We’re very proud of him. Only he's studying to be a concert pianist. He's very talented. But Zakaria—” The smile faded. “Zakaria has always been a worry. And now . . .” The smile disappeared altogether. “Tell me . . . will you be pressing assault charges against my son? I’d understand it if you did. But I’d like . . . well, I’d like to be prepared.”
“No,” I said. “I won’t be pressing any charges against your son, Mrs. Farhat.”
She looked relieved . . . but only until I added, “But Mrs. Farhat, I think you do need to prepare for something else. Have you paid for any repairs on your son’s truck recently? Has he had the paint touched up, or the bumper replaced? Things like that?”
“His truck . . .” A dark cloud—darker than any that had loomed outside during the storm—passed across her face, and I knew that she knew the truth now, beyond a shadow of a doubt. The ring was o
But the repairs to his truck—which I’m sure the Farhats had unquestioningly paid for, as they did all their son’s bills—were something else. They would never be able to dispute what those were for. Credit card charges for auto repairs, like diamonds, were forever.
And because of them, Mrs. Farhat would do her duty—not to her son, but to Jasmin—and make certain that Zack got what he deserved.
“God help us,” she said. “Yes. Yes, I see. Thank you. I’ve got to be going now. You can show yourselves out. Have a good evening.”
Then she was gone, leaving Jesse and me behind in her son’s broken bedroom . . . with the ghost of the boy he’d killed, and who’d been trying all night to kill him in return.
Doce
“YOU DID IT,” Mark said. “I didn’t believe you when you said justice would be served. But you did it.”
He was growing fainter by the second, the paranormal glow around him less and less bright. Part of that was because of the tremendous amount of psychic energy he’d exerted, summoning that storm.
But another, greater part was because he felt ready now. He felt ready to go wherever it was his soul was meant to be.
“I didn’t do it,” I said, wrapping an arm around Jesse’s waist. “You did, Mark. Zack would never have admitted to any of it if it hadn’t been for you scaring the living daylights out of him with that storm. The thing with the French doors? That was very excellently done for a BDP.”
Mark looked confused. “What’s BDP?”
“Beginner Deceased Person.” I felt he’d earned the upgrade in title from Non-Compliant Deceased Person.
“Trust me, Mark,” Jesse said. “You don’t want to move past the beginner stage.”
“He’s right,” I said. “Although you didn’t do so badly yourself tonight, big guy.” I gave Jesse a little squeeze. “You burst in at the perfect time.”
“Timing has always been my forte,” he admitted modestly.
“Everyone did pretty well tonight,” I said. “Even our friends in law enforcement. Heck, even the media.”
“I never thought I’d hear you utter those words,” Jesse said, returning my squeeze with the supportive arm he’d slid around me.
“Well, they did hold back a description of the ring,” I admitted. “Otherwise, Zack could have made a copy and been wearing that, and we’d never have been able to convince anyone what a psycho he is. I mean psycho in a thoroughly diagnostic way, of course, not pejoratively.”
“Of course,” Jesse said.
The ring. The ring. What was it about the ring that was bothering me—had been bothering me—so much?
“So I guess . . .” Mark had drifted toward the balcony. The temperature had already begun to rise, warming the night air. “I can just move on now, like you said.”
“Well,” I said, following him, gratified that Jesse hadn’t released me. I was lucky, he never would. “If there’s nothing holding you back. I’m pretty sure Zack’s not going to be putting any more flowers on Jasmin’s grave, that’s for sure. That prosecutor seemed to hate his guts, so I’m guessing he’s probably going to charge him with everything in the book. What will probably happen is—”
“Mark?”
The voice, sweet as nectar, seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once.
And then I saw her—just an amorphous glow, at first, like mist rising from the sea. Then she became more solid, the mist shifting into the shape of a beautiful slender girl—a girl I recognized, because I’d been looking at pictures of her all night.
Jasmin.
“Mark?” she said again, and smiled when she saw him. “Oh, Mark, there you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
It didn’t matter that she was floating twenty feet in the air, just off Zakaria Farhat’s balcony. It didn’t matter to Mark, anyway.
When she lifted her slender hand toward him, he raced to take it, floating as lightly as she was. You’d never think he was the same guy who, a few hours before, had very nearly killed me, first by unleashing a meteorological nightmare on me, then by swearing to kill his murderer, and causing that murderer to turn on me.
Well, I’d caused Zack to turn on me, I guess. But it had been for a good cause.
Now Mark was in Jasmin’s arms, softly murmuring her name, as she crooned his back. A moment later, there was a celestial burst of light—their two souls joining as one—and they both disappeared, together forever, into the afterlife.
“God,” I said, when I was sure they were gone—and equally sure the tremble in my voice wouldn’t betray the fact that I’d been weeping a little as I watched them. “I hate Valentine’s Day.”
“I know you do, querida.” Jesse took my hand firmly in his own. If he suspected I’d been crying, it didn’t show. “Let’s go home.”
We were driving past the beach—the one where he’d planned on proposing to me—when I finally realized what it was that had been bothering me about the ring.
“Stop the car!” I commanded.
He slammed on the brakes. “What is it? A cat? Did I hit it?”
“No, you didn’t hit a cat. Pull over.”
“Susannah, I can’t pull over. Can’t you see? It says no parking here. We’ll get a ticket.”
“Jesse, it’s nearly midnight on the night of one of the biggest storms of the century. No one is around. We’re not going to get a ticket. Just pull over.”
He parked illegally, then followed me as I leaped from the car and ran to the steps that led down to the beach. “Susannah, I don’t think this is a good idea. The tide is very high, and there’s no moon. It’s—”
“You have a penlight. Come on.”
“How do you know I have a penlight?” He sounded bemused.
“Because you’re a medical student. Hurry.”
He was right about it being dark, of course, and about the tide being high. The waves were still agitated from Mark’s storm, though the surf was dying down a little.
Still, there was only the tiniest slice of beach on which to stand, and even then, the wind from the sea was more biting than bracing. There was no possible way to make a bonfire, because all of the driftwood was soaking wet from the rain, and of course we had no picnic basket, because we’d left it—and the sparkling wine—back in my dorm room at the Virgin Vault.
But we had privacy. There was no one else anywhere on the beach, because no one else was stupid enough to come near the bay in weather like this, in the middle of the night.
“Susannah,” Jesse said, wrapping his arms around me as the wind whipped my long hair against us both. “What are we doing here? It was much warmer in the car.”
“Aren’t you glad you can feel cold, though?” I asked, hugging him back. “You used to not be able to. You used to not be able to feel cold, or hot, or anything.”
“I could still feel, Susannah,” he said, holding me closer. “Just emotions. Not the weather. Which actually there was something to be said for.”
“Where did you get the ring?” I asked.
“What?”
“Where did you get the ring?” I shouted so that he could hear me above the pound of the surf. “Really? I know you said it was your mother’s, and before that, it was your grandmother’s. But Jesse, I know you came here with nothing. Nothing except the clothes on your back. I was with you. So where did you get the ring?”
He pushed me away from him—but not because he was angry, which was my first concern, but so that he cou
“Is that what upset you about my proposing?” he asked, the corners of his lips twisted upwards. “Where I got the ring?”
“I can’t understand it,” I said. “I thought we didn’t have secrets from one another. Well, not real secrets.” I had secrets, plenty of them, but only the kind that would hurt instead of help. I would take them to my grave—well, cremation urn—before I’d tell him about them. I didn’t want him to turn into a murderer like Mark had almost been. “Where did you get it?”
“Oh, Susannah,” he said, and pulled me close, then kissed the top of my head. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I’m saying so now. The only ring I know of you owning was the one you gave your last fiancée, Maria.” I didn’t like saying the name any more than Mark had liked saying Zack’s. “But that was back in the 1800s, and you never got it back, because you ended up here . . . or murdered and a ghost, whichever parallel universe you care to believe is the right one. Unlike my stepbrother David, I don’t really enjoy thinking about that kind of thing. Either way, you never ended up with your mother’s precious ring.”
“Ah,” he said, and reached into the pocket of his jeans. “But I did. And do you want to know how I did?”
“Not really.” I was feeling sick to my stomach. I wasn’t sure if it was from the sight of the ring, having been rammed so hard in the gut by a murderous high school boy, or not having eaten anything since lunch except radishes. “But I guess I asked.”
“Father Dominic found it for sale on something called eBay. There. Are you happy? Now will you marry me?”
I stared at him, aware that my mouth was probably hanging open, but unable to close it. I couldn’t do anything, really, but stare at him. “What?”
“EBay,” Jesse repeated. “It’s a website where people go to buy and sell almost any—”
“I know what eBay is,” I said. “I just . . . how did . . . how could Father Dom have—”