Spirit Lost by Nancy Thayer Page B

She had made the crèche when she was thirteen and had sculpted the small pieces from clay and painted them herself, in brilliant colors. Her art teacher, who had doted on her, fired the pieces for her, and her parents had set these awkward, homely pieces in a place of honor on the marble mantel in their elegant living room. Now Willy set them up every Christmas and smiled to see her long-nosed Virgin Mary, her spindly Joseph, her lopsided and bucktoothed wise men.
    Later, she and John read the Sunday papers, then took a long walk on the beach, wrapped up in wool scarves, hats, coats, and gloves. It was cold and windy; winter was coming on. They ate thick, juicy cheeseburgers at the Brotherhood and watched Masterpiece Theatre . Willy went to bed then with a book, because John, who hadn’t worked all day, decided to go up to the attic to look over the painting he had just finished. He stayed there for an hour or so. When he returned, he was in a good humor, pleased with what he had accomplished that week, and he went downstairs to get them each a Courvoisier. They sat in bed like buddies, sipping their brandy and talking. There was no more mention of ghosts. A week had passed without any sign of the ghost, and while they had not forgotten the incident, it had faded in importance; soon it would be just a good story to tell.

    Another week passed, ghost-free.
    On Saturday morning, Willy nuzzled next to John as they lay stretching in their warm bed.
    “Guess what,” she said. “You’re taking the day off. Don’t argue. I haven’t seenyou all week, and I won’t let you work today. This is worse than when you worked for the Blackstone Group. I want to go Christmas shopping today. I want to walk around town with you and look at the lights and the shops. Come on, sweetie, be a sport,” she teased, running her hands over his body, touching him in persuasive places.
    John thought about it. He had finished the last feather-and-shell painting yesterday; he was at a good stopping place. “Okay,” he said. “I’m all yours today.”
    While he was shaving, he called Willy into the bathroom. “Look,” he said, pointing to his mustache. He hadn’t clipped it for a long time, and it was growing longer than he’d ever let it get before. “What would you think if I let it grow like this?” he asked, indicating with his hands how the mustache would droop down around the ends of his mouth.
    “I think it would look good.…” Willy said, cocking her head to one side, considering. “Sort of old-fashioned, perhaps. But you have an old-fashioned face.”
    John studied his face in the mirror and silently agreed with Willy. He liked his looks; he knew he was handsome enough. His dark hair was still thick and waved directly back from his forehead and temples. He sometimes thought he was the only man on the East Coast who didn’t part his hair on the left. This style suited him, showed off his broad brow, dark-lashed eyes, straight nose. He’d always had a mustache, but a well-groomed, clipped one. He thought now, eyeing himself in the mirror, that if he let it grow out longer, he’d look better, more romantic, more like an artist.
    “You’d look like Jesse James.” Willy laughed, watching him study himself. “You’re so vain. Come on, gorgeous, the world is waiting.”
    He pulled on corduroy trousers, a plaid flannel shirt, and a crew-neck sweater, one that didn’t have holes in it or paint on it like the ones he worked in. Willy was wearing gray tweed pants and a thick red pullover that showed off her bosom. She had stuck her hair into an elaborate twist.
    “We’re a fine pair!” John announced as he helped her into her fur jacket. He threw a white silk scarf over his sheepskin coat and watched Willy pull on her purple leather gloves. He whistled as they went out the door, and they were both caught up in a holiday mood.
    They spent the morning choosing their tree, bringing it in, and getting it set up in the stand. They