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January
The morning Archie Dowling’s husband of 40 years died, he woke with a bouquet of roses in his arms. Eoin was on his left, where he’d always slept, his cold hand outstretched across Archie’s chest. Eoin was on his right, that well-known sheepish grin on his face. “I really tried to deal with this,” he said, plucking at his body’s arm. His translucent fingers passed through.
“Don’t worry about that, love,” Archie responded. “Thank you for the flowers.”
“Oh, yes, I could touch those,” Eoin said. “And the money I left on the counter at the florist’s.”
“I have no doubt,” Archie said. He swung his bare feet to the floor and stood with a groan, carrying the flowers tucked in one arm as he headed for the kitchen. “Dead or alive, you’re an honest man.”
He picked up
