The Ghost and Mrs. McClure Read Online Free Page A

bookshelves over there. And put my novels on that bookshelf. Where’s your brain? In your backside?”
    “I’m so sorry, Mr. Brennan,” I said, praying the sudden heat on my cheeks didn’t come with the usual accompanying scarlet flush. ( Feeling humiliated was one thing, but having one’s own coloring announce it to the world was beyond excruciating.) “I didn’t realize that your talk was being taped for television, or that you’d require a special arrangement of the space.”
    The truth was, George Young, the beloved and knowledgeable sales rep for Salient House who was based in Boston but handled all the independent bookstore orders for the state of Rhode Island, had gone off on a well-earned cruise vacation. Before he left, George advised us to call Salient House directly and ask for Shelby Cabot, the manager handling the publicity tour for Brennan.
    I’d called, all right. Not once. Not twice. But six times. Six times I’d left messages in an effort to get the correct information. Nobody, not Shelby or anyone else, bothered to return my calls. I wanted to scream all of this back at Brennan, I really did, but I knew Brennan would find a way to turn things around and claim I was simply trying to get Shelby into trouble. Believe me, I’d encountered this sort of unfortunate blame game countless times while working in New York City publishing. There was no winning it.
    “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled again, feeling like the wimp of the century.
    “You should be,” said Brennan. “This place is a mess, but my daughter Deirdre and her husband, Kenneth, over there know how to fix it. They’ve done this many times before.”
    Another folding chair crashed to the floor. Kenneth, who was moving the refreshment table, almost tripped over it.
    “God, Deirdre, your husband’s such a klutz!” Brennan barked, kicking the chair out of the way.
    I tried not to wince as I lifted the chair and set it upright. I turned to see what else needed to be righted when I noticed Deirdre glaring daggers at her father’s back. Her husband, Kenneth, looked ready to strangle him.
    I braced for the blowup. But none came. Deirdre’s and Kenneth’s features simply contorted, then relaxed again, as if enduring such assaults was a regular occurrence, as if giving in had become a habit.
    As I already mentioned, I’d gone through the same thing back in New York—not just in my job but also in my marriage. Some battles you’d already fought and lost so many times that it suddenly seemed a waste of energy to even try fighting anymore.
    Someone took my arm. I saw it was Shelby. She patted it and pulled me away, steering me toward the main bookstore as she quietly said, “Don’t you worry now. Let me handle it. I’m a publishing professional.”
    “I’ve got it, Shelby!” A fresh-faced young man in khaki pants and a blue blazer rushed up to us brandishing a small paper bag.
    “Good, Josh. Heel, boy,” said Shelby. Josh narrowed his eyes at the polished publicity manager but said nothing.
    Snatching the bag, Shelby reached inside and brought out a bottle filled with green liquid. “Thank God you got the right brand.”
    “What is that?” I asked, curious.
    “Throat spray,” said Shelby.
    “Brennan won’t speak without it,” said Josh.
    “That’s fine, Josh,” said Shelby through gritted teeth. “Now be a good boy and help us get this room fixed the way it should be.”
    “What way is that, pray tell?” asked Josh, batting his eyes and smirking.
    “Okay to come in now?” called a man’s voice.
    Curious customers started wandering through the archway from the main store area. I rushed forward, embarrassed by the chaos of fallen chairs, a messed-up refreshment table, and a still-irate Timothy Brennan.
    “Everything’s all right, folks,” I announced, shooing them back into the store area. “We’ll have the room ready in a jiffy.”
    Glancing back, I saw Deirdre, Kenneth, Shelby, and Josh gathering up the fallen