by Hope Ramsay
After Colton left, she went up to her bedroom and cried for ten minutes until she decided it might be better to get angry. So she hurled Adam’s picture across the bedroom, breaking the frame and the glass. So stupid. She couldn’t afford to replace the picture frame. And so silly to blame Adam for dying in Afghanistan while serving his country.
Then, just to make her more miserable, Mrs. Thacker, the principal at Jackie’s school, called and wanted to see her right away. So off she went to the school, where she learned that Jackie had called Liam Solomons a “scurvy bilge rat.” The principal frowned on that sort of thing because, regardless of the words Jackie had used, the intent had been to intimidate, and the school had zero tolerance for bullies.
Mrs. Thacker insisted that Jackie needed help and even gave her a list of counselors, none of whom turned out to be a TRICARE provider. So Ashley spent much of the afternoon looking for someone who was on the military plan. Not surprisingly, once she found a provider, she couldn’t get an appointment until next month, and the doctor’s office was forty-five minutes away on the mainland.
And all that searching for a doctor left her no time to bake a cake for the Piece Makers, the name her grandmother had given to the quilting club that had been meeting at Howland House for decades. Ashley loved to bake, and she hadn’t minded carrying on her grandmother’s tradition of baking something every Thursday for the ladies, but today the quilters were getting store-bought apple pie.
Donna Cuthbert arrived first, around six thirty, and gave the dinky-looking pie the evil eye right before she said, “I thought you planned to make a German chocolate cake this week.”
“Sorry. I had a conference at the school this afternoon. They think Jackie should see a psychologist.”
“Oh no. Is Jackie all right?” Donna’s compassion immediately made Ashley feel guilty for not baking the cake. Which was ridiculous. Really, she needed an attitude adjustment, but she didn’t see the Piece Makers, a group of devout churchwomen with the average age of sixty-five, agreeing to a round of margaritas.
“He’s fine. They’re just concerned about Captain Bill.”
Ashley repeated this explanation four more times for Sandy, Karen, Barbara, and Nancy, all of whom accepted the store-bought pie with grace, followed by hugs that made her feel worse for some reason.
And then Patsy arrived, and instead of nonspecific sympathy, the woman gave her a hug and pronounced, “You don’t need a psychologist, honey. You need the Ghostbusters.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” Ashley said as she led the ladies into the solarium. “But I do not believe in ghosts.”
“You don’t have to believe. You can pretend, like Jackie and everyone else in this town does. And then you can market the heck out of your pirate ghost. I’m telling you, you’re missing a bet. Everyone wants to stay at a haunted bed-and-breakfast, especially if they think they might come face-to-face with the ghost of a famous pirate.”
“That’s not the kind of guesthouse I want to run,” Ashley said. “I know everyone in this town has turned pirates into kitschy tourist attractions. But I’m a Howland, and Grandmother would never approve of anything like that. Especially because of the family’s connections to the famous buccaneer. Besides, Jackie already has an imagination that’s gotten him into trouble with the principal of his school.”
“Where is the child?” Patsy asked.
“He’s upstairs, watching Star Wars for the umpteenth time. He’ll let us know if he needs anything.”
“He’s a surprisingly self-sufficient child,” Patsy pronounced as if that were a good thing. Patsy was particularly good at making pronouncements, and she was the only Piece Maker who didn’t have any children.
The ladies sat down in a mismatched assortment of chairs around the antique quilt frame, which took up much of the solarium’s floor space. They were working on a quilt designed by Karen Tighe, which she called “Gold Star Wife” because it featured eighteen large eight-point star blocks in gold calico, separated by smaller shoo-fly blocks in red, white, and blue cotton. The smaller blocks created a diagonal pattern that framed each of the stars. The quilt was a blatant homage to Ashley. But having to see those gold stars on a daily basis was a reminder of how drastically her life had changed. When Adam died, she’d refused to put a gold star in any of her windows.
She would be so happy when this quilt was finished and auctioned off at Heavenly Rest’s Christmas bazaar. She sat down in one of the chairs and started threading her needle. Almost before she could knot the end of her thread, Karen started speaking. “Ladies, I know we all loved Reverend Ball, but we’ve got a new vicar who’s supposed to be here any day, and near as I can see, no one has done one thing about cleaning the vicarage. It’s been empty for the better part of nine months. All these months with a different substitute minister every week, we’ve all forgotten that we have an obligation to provide housing. I think we need to organize a cleaning crew.”
Ashley cast her gaze around the quilt frame. There were a lot of guilty looks among the Episcopalians. The two Methodists looked down at their work.
“It’s all over town, you know,” Karen continued. “About how we’ve got a St. Pierre as our new minister. And I think we need to take responsibility to make sure this doesn’t turn into a disaster for the parish or the town. I’m glad the diocese sent Micah back to us. I remember him as a young man, worshipping with us. We don’t want to make him feel unwelcome. That sort of thing could get around and cause unintended and unnecessary trouble.”
“Exactly,” Patsy said, nodding. “I think we should all show up on Saturday with mops and sponges.”
“It’s going to take more than that,” Karen insisted.
“Well, then, we should think about starting a vicarage improvement fund with some of our weekly collection money,” Patsy said.
“We were always trying to get Reverend Ball to take some money for improvements to that house. I think we should spend the money now,” said Nancy. “And I’ll clear my schedule for Saturday morning. Who has a key to the vicarage?”
“I do,” said Ashley. “Grandmother was always running across the street when Reverend Ball got sick.”
“Good. Now that that’s settled, tell us all about Buddha girl,” Patsy said.
Ashley looked up from her row of stitches. “Buddha girl?”
“The one I’ve seen searching for nirvana or whatever on Rose Cottage’s front porch in the morning when I take my walk.”
“I don’t know much about her. She’s from New York, and she’s here for a month.”
“She’s from New York but she goes around town wearing a Boston Red Sox shirt? That’s odd, don’t you think?”
Ashley looked up. “You know, I never thought about that, but her driver’s license said New York, and her home address is in New York. I guess it’s possible for a New Yorker to be a Boston fan, isn’t it?”
“Not hardly likely,” Patsy said. “And don’t you think it’s strange that she’s rented the house for a month? In September?”
“Why is that such a surprise? It’s nice here in September.”
“True. But most people have to work. What kind of luggage did she have? Was it Louis Vuitton or Gucci?”
Patsy had an active imagination and probably could have written one of those cozy mystery books if she’d set her hand to it. Even when the truth wasn’t very interesting, Patsy could embellish, sometimes spinning speculative “stories” about Ashley’s tenants based on nothing more than their choice of luggage or sunglasses. Most of Ashley’s guests were well-to-do, of course, so it made it easier to paint a picture, but…
Jenna Fairchild was different.
“Well, to be honest, she didn’t have luggage. Just an old backpack that was—” Ashley bit off the rest of her sentence at the sound of footsteps coming through the back door into the kitchen.
Nancy giggled. “Looks like Buddha girl is making an evening cookie run.”
Jenna was restless after the hearing. Sh
e walked home, made herself a salad, and sat on the porch for a while thinking about Harry and Jude talking together, until it made her itch. She wanted to do something, but she could almost hear the voice of her teacher in Mumbai telling her that she needed patience. Better to wait for a way to open up than to go blundering in making holes that can’t be repaired.
Jenna was not a patient woman, which was why she’d embraced meditation when she was in college. Meditation was the only thing that kept her type-A personality in check, and her year-long study abroad had deepened her reliance on it. But tonight the activity at Howland House caught her attention.
The lights in the solarium drew her like a moth to a flame. Was Ashley’s quilting circle meeting tonight? She couldn’t remember which night of the week the group was scheduled. Maybe she could sit in and catch some local gossip.
She left the porch and headed across the garden and through the back door into the kitchen, where she scarfed another oatmeal cookie. But instead of continuing down the hall to the library, she turned right toward the solarium.
“Hi, everyone,” she said in a friendly voice. “I’m Jenna Fairchild. It’s nice to meet you all. And I just want to say that the quilts in the cottage are beautiful.” Jenna took another step into the room, drawn by the red, white, blue, and gold calico of the quilt they were working on. “Oh. That’s gorgeous. Is quilting hard to do? I’d love to learn how to—”
“Sorry, darlin’,” one of the women said. “Our meetings are private.”
It was like a slap in the face. Jenna took a step back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Ashley stood up and headed in her direction, ushering her back into the kitchen. “I’m sorry. The Piece Makers are kind of funny about outsiders.” She leaned in with another one of her smiles that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’re terrible gossips, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry I intruded.” Jenna backpedaled some more and pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “I’ll be in the library.” She turned to go but stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, I almost forgot. Would you thank Bill for the book? It was exactly what I needed.”
“Bill?” Ashley’s big brown eyes widened with a look of…what? Shock? Surprise? Horror? Wow. Like maybe she didn’t want people to know that she had a secret boyfriend or something.
“I’m sorry. I was talking about Captain Bill?”
Ashley’s face paled. “You’ve met Cap’n Bill?”
Jenna turned to face Ashley once again. “Um, no, actually. But Jackie…this morning…he told me that Bill left a book about sailing for me. In the library. I found it on the table, and I just assumed…you know…that Bill was your boyfriend or something.”
Ashley’s mouth fell open.
“Sorry. I guess I’m not supposed to know that. You can rest assured that—”
“No,” Ashley said, shaking her head, “that’s not it. Jenna, there is no Captain Bill. He’s a historical figure that Jackie has turned into an imaginary friend.”
Before Jenna could fully process Ashley’s words, one of the quilters strolled into the kitchen and said, “What did I just tell you, honey? You’ve got a ghost that you ought to be promoting.” She patted Ashley’s shoulder in a familiar way, and yet they didn’t look related.
The older woman was well past sixty, with short, almost platinum hair and a pair of tortoiseshell half-glasses perched on her nose. She wore pleated khakis, a navy-blue cotton cardigan, and a white man-tailored shirt open at the collar to expose a set of pearls. A red, white, and blue nautical-themed scarf, tied in a neat square knot, completed her ensemble.
Ashley turned and gave the woman an eye roll. “I’m sure there’s some other explanation. In fact, now that I think about it, our last guests were avid sailors. Mr. Taylor was always in the library reading our collection on sailboats. He probably left the book out on the table.”
Ashley turned back toward Jenna with another one of her innkeeper smiles. “I’m sorry for the confusion. And please, the next time Jackie bothers you, tell him to come on home. I’m afraid he has a big imagination. And he knows good and well that he’s not supposed to bother our guests.”
“Big” was not the word Jenna would use to describe Jackie’s imagination. She’d call it odd. Odd because it was strange for a six-year-old to tell a grown woman that she was “a prize worth taking.” The kid must have heard that somewhere. And even if Mr. Taylor had left the book on the table, how had Jackie known that she wanted to learn sailing terms? It was a mystery.
She shifted her gaze back to the woman in the Hermès scarf. “I’m sorry I gate-crashed your meeting. I didn’t mean to upset—”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t listen to Donna. She’s a Methodist with a bee up her butt. If you truly want to learn how to quilt, Louella Pender down at A Stitch in Time, the local yarn and fabric store, has weekly lessons on Saturday afternoons. They’re fun, and she’s a good teacher. I’m Patsy Bauman, by the way. Pleased to meet you.” The woman took Jenna’s hand and gave it a firm shake while Jenna’s heart rate zoomed into the stratosphere.
Patsy Bauman? Holy crap. Patricia Bauman was a member of Ashley’s quilting club. And here Jenna had been utterly consumed with her effort to meet her uncle without even once thinking about the woman who’d married him. How blind could a person be?
“Also,” Patsy said as she dropped Jenna’s hand, “I’m one of the believers.”
“We’re all believers, Patsy,” Ashley said on what could only be described as an exasperated sigh.
“Oh, I don’t mean believing in the Lord. I mean ghosts. I believe this house is haunted. In fact, Miz Fairchild, you should know that the ghost prefers to spend his time haunting the cottage. And when you leave here, you might want to tell all your friends about that. Ashley can use all the word-of-mouth advertising she can get.” Patsy gave Jenna a wide, genuine smile and then returned to the solarium. Out of sight.
“Please don’t,” Ashley said. “There’s no ghost, and I’m not that desperate.”
Except, for some reason, looking into Ashley’s big brown eyes, Jenna got the impression of a woman who was desperate. And maybe hanging on by her fingertips.
Chapter Six
Jude sat at his small desk at Barrier Island Charters waiting for Jenna to arrive. He kept an eye on the tacky marlin with a clock in its belly, which Daddy had put up during Jude’s junior year at Howard University. Jude had tried to get Daddy to take the damn thing down, but Daddy could be stubborn as a mule most of the time. One day, when Daddy wasn’t looking, he was going take that fish off the wall and burn it.
It was 9:45 a.m., and Jude was feeling oddly nervous about Jenna’s arrival.
Was he deceptive enough to lead her on? Last night at dinner, Greg had given him a long list of questions to ask, any one of which was likely to raise her suspicions. And Jude was a lousy liar.
He would much rather confront the woman and send her packing, but Greg didn’t want him to do that. Greg wanted him to tease out her secrets. Try to figure out how she intended to co-opt him or members of his family.
It all seemed a little clandestine to Jude.
The sound of someone banging on the front door pulled him from his sour thoughts. He looked up toward the front window, and there stood Jenna Fairchild, wearing a pair of cutoffs that officially classified as Daisy Dukes and peering through the window in the gaps between the fishing photos Daddy had Scotch-taped to the window when Jude had taken a vacation three years ago.
Well, here went nothing.
He got up and opened the door onto her big smile. Gone was the enigmatic Mona Lisa curl at the corner of her mouth. This smile was like a full-frontal assault. And it knocked him back. Damn. He liked her smile. And he liked the way the morning sun lit up all that gold in her hair.
“I’m here for my lesson,” she announced, her voice kind of bouncy or something.
And he suddenly didn’t want to play this game. “Look,” he said, stepping back into the office, giv
ing her room to follow him, “I’m not a sailing instructor.”
She cocked her head. “Oh no, are we back to that again?”
“Why did you come to me for lessons?”
Her smile faded, and she blinked a couple of times. She was one hell of a good actress because he got the feeling she was truly surprised by his attitude. “I picked you because you looked competent. And I admire competence.” She cast her gaze over the office, especially the stupid clock and the photos with their curling edges.
Jude flat-out hated that judgmental look in Jenna’s eyes. Like she was the high-and-mighty executive from Santee Resorts looking down her turned-up little nose at him and his small business.
Well, that was the last straw. Tomorrow he was taking down the redneck clock and the fading photos, and he didn’t give a crap whether Daddy liked it or not. It wasn’t as if Daddy was running the business these days. Jude suddenly wanted to take Jenna out on the ocean on Reel Therapy. The Striker might be older than a lot of other boats, but she was shipshape. Jude took a lot of pride in keeping her that way.
He squared his shoulders. He was not going to let this little slip of a woman get the best of him. “So, you’re a judge of sailing competence, then?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.
Her smile returned, a little smaller this time, maybe a little slier. “Um, okay, so you have me there. What if I told you I liked the cut of your jib?”
He snorted a laugh. “I’d say that you didn’t know what that meant.”
“And you’d be right. I didn’t at the time. But I do now.”
He shook his head. “I just don’t get it. What is it that you want from me?”
“Lessons?” Her eyebrows arched, and her expression was so adorably innocent.