Joe blinked. He looked at Genevieve, then back at the little rise. They were gone, of course. A cloud had dulled the brilliance of those last rays.
“Do you ever think that maybe, just maybe, she escaped death the first time because she was meant to do, because she was still needed here?” Genevieve asked softly. She squeezed his hand. “Maybe someday we’ll see them again,” she said pensively.
“What?”
“I’m just being whimsical,” she murmured.
He couldn’t help but look back again. The cloud was gone, but so was the last of the light. Maybe they were there, together, two wonderful beautiful people, impossibly in love with each other.
He looked at Genevieve.
“Did you really see…something?” he asked her. “Do you think it’s possible…?”
Genevieve laughed softly. “Know what I believe is possible now? Anything. Everything. Now come on. Buy me that drink.”
She started toward the road. He followed.
Suddenly, he knew why he had come to the cemetery. To see a ghost. To ask a ghost to forgive him, to assure him everything was just as it was meant to be.
He groaned aloud. It wasn’t going to become a thing now, was it? Was he going to see them all the time now, know where they were, what they wanted?
Hell.
Maybe he was.
He hurried, caught Genevieve’s hand. She looked up at him and squeezed his hand as they walked into the neon light and vivid energy and sheer life of the New York City night.