But today was different. Today, Nellie Pearle’s ghost slid down from the photograph and stood right in front of Hannah.
Hannah leaned away from the bar and prepared to leave if necessary. “Oh, no. Not me, Nellie. Please go focus your ghostly godmother magic on someone else.”
“Hello, Hannah.” Nellie put her elbows on the bar and cradled her chin, bringing her eyes level with Hannah’s. “I remember your grandmother having a similar stubborn streak.”
“I am not stubborn.” While Nellie looked fully corporeal, Hannah felt the cold pressure that always surrounded a spirit. “And I am not talking to a ghost.”
“You talk to ghosts all the time – I should know.” Nellie leaned away and casually tossed a phantom boa over her shoulder.
“But my ghosts don’t talk back.”
“How about another drink?” Nellie’s ghost looked very different than her sideshow photograph. She looked like she did before she died: less than half her top weight and covered in colorful tattoos.
Hannah pulled her beer mug closer, wise to Nellie Pearle’s reputation. “I don’t need a love potion.”
“That’s what your grandmother said.”
Hannah needed to speak carefully. This was a crafty spirit. “I love my life exactly the way it is.”
Nellie toyed with the beer handles like they were musical instruments. Real beer dribbled from each spout when she touched the handles. “I believe that’s also what your grandmother said, but she turned out to be wrong.”
Hannah knew the love story about her grandparents. He had saved her during the Great Hurricane. She’d stubbornly stayed in her home when the rising tide swept over the whole island. He’d come through in a small boat after the storm subsided and found her unconscious but still clinging to a branch of an oak tree. He rebuilt her home, and the rest was history.
“Right or wrong – you are wasting your time on me, Nellie. I’m happy. I’m independent. I love what I do. I love having a place where people go to get away from their own troubles for a little while.”
“The inn keeps you busy enough to ignore your true feelings of loneliness. You did believe in love once.”
“And it turned out terribly.”
“Because he was not right for you.”
“Move on to someone who wants to play Cinderella.”
“Do you think love is the only request I fulfill?” Nellie raised two perfectly-painted eyebrows.
Hannah returned to her pumpkin beer, swallowing the last bitter sip. “I’m too old and practical to play princess, and I don’t want a white knight.”
“It’s not always about what you want.” Nellie moved around the bar and stood right behind Hannah. “Sometimes, it’s about what you need. What do you need?”
Hannah could feel the spirit hovering close, but the only reflection in the bar mirror was her own. A low hum vibrated in the room, radiating outward from Nellie Pearle’s intense presence. Hannah tried to ignore the cold pressure building around her and focus on shutting Nellie down. “I live on Pearl Key. Population: miniscule. I’m not looking for Mr. Right. If he was here, I would have found him by now. So, the answer is nothing. I’m not going to wish for anything or anyone. I intend to enjoy life exactly the way it is.”
I love a challenge!
The words echoed inside Hannah’s head and she nearly choked on her drink. “What? I didn’t challenge you. I didn’t say…” She looked everywhere, but Nellie Pearle was no longer in the room. Just Meg, standing in the kitchen doorway and looking at Hannah with that weird I-know-what-just-happened-to-you grin on her face. “Wait. Meg, I didn’t wish for anything. I avoided wishing. No wish words were spoken. There wasn’t even a wish going on in my mind.”
Meg just laughed. “Uh-huh.”
The cell phone in Hannah’s pocket vibrated. She was tempted to let it go to voice mail, but the ringtone indicated it was a business call. Her pragmatic mind was conditioned to respond and her body obeyed.
“Beachcomber Inn, this is Hannah. How can I help you?”
Chapter 3
“It’s Christmas and there’s room at the inn!” Jackson yelled to a dark and empty intersection. He tossed his cell phone on the passenger seat and waited for the light to turn green.
Finding this little island of privacy hadn’t been easy. With the wrong island tagged on his GPS, he’d spent several hours going too far south and too far north. He’d finally pulled off to eat and ask someone.
Pearl Key. And yes, the late-night cook at the diner knew exactly how to get there.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember the name of the inn. Since he didn’t want anyone to know where he’d gone, not even his agent, he couldn’t call anyone. He finally found one reference to it in an old email from Becky that he hadn’t deleted yet.
That brought him here, sitting in the middle of a one-light town along a dark road far off the main highway. To his right, acres of undeveloped land behind a fence marked with Private Property signs. To his left, a strangely old-but-colorful carnival sign promoting a sideshow museum that probably went out of business a few decades ago.
The light turned green, and Jackson went straight. Only a two-lane bridge ahead was left to cross to finally arrive at Pearl Key. How the hell had his fiancée even found this place to begin with?
Ex-fiancée.
He tried to ignore the bitterness that stabbed at him with a thousand tiny needles. He didn’t entirely blame Becky for ending their relationship. Hollywood couples were naturally cursed to begin with.
But it hurt.
It hurt to be the killed-off hero.
It hurt to enter his forties with pain in his joints, a side effect from doing his own stunts.
And it really hurt to be left at the altar, although technically they didn’t even make it to the church.
At the top of the bridge, Jackson pulled the car over and stopped in the narrow breakdown space. He pushed a button and the convertible top lifted, folded and tucked itself in. The midnight breeze was warm and yet had a crisp edge to it, like it wanted to flirt with the idea of winter but wasn’t ready to commit. The scents of salty ocean and earthy mainland clashed together in this spot.
The moon was high enough to cast its light on the bay and the Gulf. The long, skinny swath of civilization in between showed him the curve of the barrier island, Pearl Key.
He inhaled and exhaled deeply, casting out all mental baggage. This vacation was about regrouping and getting honest with himself about his future. It sounded dramatic, even for him. But it was either that or check into a rehab for actors cursed with bad luck.
This one main road led him through the island. Jackson obeyed the twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit, which gave him time to take in the smallness of everything around him. In his part of southern California, everything was bigger. Bigger houses. Bigger boats. Bigger egos.
This island looked like a perfect location for an episode of Dark Haven. Although he didn’t need to think about the show anymore, the quaintness of Pearl Key ignited his imagination and he wanted to sketch everything he saw. He soaked in the details and committed them to memory to draw later.
Multi-colored Christmas lights lit up shop windows and beach house balconies. The boats in the marina were so lit up he couldn’t tell which lights were real and which were reflections. Even the palm trees by the public beach were strung with bulbs and they danced in the breeze like fireflies.
He reached the end of the main road and thought he’d missed the inn. But as the breeze shifted a few palm fronds, he spotted it on his right. A faded sign with cracked wood and chipped paint proclaiming in Old English style lettering: The Beachcomber Bed & Breakfast Inn.
It wasn’t unwelcoming, just old.
Beyond the sign, the inn looked just as old, but proud. Between the moon and the holiday lights, Jackson could see the white-washed wood frame of the building, a mid-nineteen-hundreds three-story inn with a wraparound porch. Take away the palm trees and he’d swear he was stand
ing in Cape Cod.
He smiled to himself as storyline ideas played vividly across his mind again. Maybe it was time for him to create his own stories, rather than play a character in someone else’s.
When the convertible top finally locked into place, Jackson grabbed his duffel bag and stepped out. His shoes crunched across the sand and broken shells that filled the parking area. The front door was locked and the doorbell went unanswered. But he’d just spoken with the innkeeper. She knew he was coming.
But for now, he was alone. He drew in a few deep breaths and reminded himself that the innkeeper knew he was on his way. She would be here.
“Relax, Jackson. This is vacation.” He forced himself to go sit on the swing at the end of the porch.
A warm salty breeze cruised around the corner of the house and wrapped around him like a hug. He closed his eyes and savored an overwhelming sense of peace. Underneath the sounds of the wind and surf, he could hear the house making the kind of creaks and sighs that an old house makes.
The house welcomed him. It was the weirdest thought to ever come to Jackson’s mind, but it was the only way to explain it.
Old houses were filled with great stories. He loved a good story.
Yes. He’d made the right decision, to come to Pearl Key.
Chapter 4
Guilt stabbed at Hannah when she arrived to find her guest waiting for her on the porch. She’d heard him mention Tampa on the phone, and she’d thought he meant he was still in the city. She shouldn’t have had that last drink with Meg.
A bad first impression would be hard to change, but she readied herself for the challenge. “Hi, I’m Hannah.” She held her hand towards the man on the swing. “I am completely sorry to have kept you waiting.”
He stood and accepted her hand. “Apology accepted.”
The outdoor lighting might be dim, but it wasn’t dim enough to hide the good looks of her newest guest. Her grandmother would have said something flirty: My, what a tall drink of water you are. But Hannah couldn’t let go of the guilt. “I didn’t keep you waiting long, did I?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure. I was completely entertained with stories in my head.” An embarrassed smile lifted his lips. “My muse seems to be triggered by charming and quaint.”
Hannah had a hard time ignoring a dimple that appeared on the man’s left cheek. Then, she noticed a book in his hand. Tilting her head to see it better, she recognized her house in the sketches on the page. “You’re an artist? You’re very good. I was under the impression that you and your…” Hannah paused, filtering her words in order to say the right things. “That you were an actor.”
He frowned and the dimple disappeared.
“Oh, god. I owe you another apology.” Hannah put both hands over her heart, mostly to help keep it from beating right out of her chest. “The woman who made all your reservations stressed the importance of privacy. Her address was Hollywood and she used character names to book your wedding. So I assumed that she…that you...”
“Please don’t fish around for the right words – the politically-correct words – to say here. The situation sucks. No other word for it.”
“None better.” She nodded but wasn’t appeased by his matter-of-fact tone. Was he as okay as he sounded, or was he good at hiding a bitter heart? “Can we start over?”
“Absolutely.” He gathered his things and followed her through the front door.
The bright lights in the foyer illuminated the truth of exactly who her new guest was. She’d had many famous or recognizable guests stay at The Beachcomber, but this was the first one that was actively a tabloid target.
Like all of her guests, however, she owed him respect and privacy. Settling into her chair at her desk, she motioned for him to sit in one of the seats on the opposite side. She turned on her computer and put on her best hostess smile. “Welcome to The Beachcomber Bed & Breakfast Inn, umm…Mr. Dawson.”
“Mr. Dawson?”
Hannah swung the computer monitor in his direction so he could see the proof copy of the wedding sign that was never printed. “I was looking forward to finally seeing Miss Rose DeWitt Bukater wed Mr. Jack Dawson.”
An ironic smile curved his lips and Hannah’s eyes travelled slowly from one corner of his mouth to the other. “The main characters from Titanic. Becky’s favorite movie of all time.”
“It didn’t end well for Jack.” Hannah bit her lip again to keep from saying anything else without filtering it first. What was the matter with her?
He laughed, loudly. “It didn’t end well for me either. At least I’m still alive to tell the tale.”
Hannah glanced to the far window to see if her not-so-alive Mr. Darcy was as intrigued by their new guest as she was. He usually stood in his corner until dawn. But not tonight. His ghostly form was gone.
She reapplied her attention to checking in her guest. “Should I keep your registration under Jack Dawson?” She was on the receiving end of a very intense stare. For sure, he had very nice eyes, dark blue with a bit of smoky gray along the edge. Had she triggered his defenses? It was a harmless question, but maybe his sense of privacy had a short leash.
“You can use my real name. Jackson Moore.”
Hannah put her hand out again. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Moore. I’m Hannah.”
His palm slid across hers for the second time, but this time Hannah’s skin tingled. She chided herself for feeling starstruck.
Belly laughter echoed deep in her brain – laughter that could only be Nellie Pearle.
Chapter 5
Jackson pretended to listen to Hannah as she dutifully reviewed the typical guest information with him. He’d been in plenty of bed and breakfast establishments before. He knew the drill. He let the distracted half of his brain survey the room.
The inn had a very cozy living area arranged with plump leather chairs and an entire wall full of books and knickknacks. The kind that looked real, not ordered from Pier One and staged by an overpaid designer. He wasn’t close enough to tell if the Christmas tree was real, but every ornament, candlestick and garland had a vintage look.
Something Hannah said penetrated his brain fully. “Did you just say I’m the only guest? The inn is empty?”
“Yes.” He watched her fidget with the edge of her keyboard. “Well, your group booked the entire property for your wedding.”
“But we cancelled three weeks ago. You didn’t re-book any of the rooms?”
“No.”
He was floored to hear it, but most intriguing was the weird little forced smile on her face. “Is it slow season for you?”
Hannah shook her head. Again he struggled to read her expression. He felt certain that she was biting her tongue, so as not to say something aloud. He was probably overthinking it, but maybe she wasn’t exactly thrilled to have a guest for Christmas. He really wanted to know why.
“Your original reservation was for the honeymoon suite in the Carriage House, but under the circumstances, I’d recommend the third floor in the Main House for a fantastic view of the Gulf. And it has a private balcony.” Her voice was soft but crisp.
“Perfect. I’d rather not have a heart-shaped Jacuzzi in the middle of my room.” He tried to give her a wry smile. The first Hannah he’d met was warm, friendly, and blushed when she thought she’d said something wrong. This Hannah was professional and aloof. He preferred the first Hannah. How could he bring her back? And why the hell did he even care?
“I usually give a quick tour of the Main House, but since it’s after midnight…”
He knew an opportunity when it smacked him on the head. “What I would really like most is to sit outside and have a drink before bed. Do you have a great spot for that?”
Her professional smile was still in place, but softer. It gave him hope that he might have an enjoyable conversation with her.
He followed her to a screened porch with more plush seating areas and a wet bar where she opened a small fridge. “I’m not licensed for liquo
r, but I can offer you beer or wine.”
“I’m a simple guy. Beer, please.”
She opened a bottle and handed it to him.
“Where’s yours?”
“I already had mine tonight.”
“Please don’t make me drink alone.” He gave her his best pleading look, but she didn’t break until he went for a classic move – the manly pout. Not very manly, but it worked every time.
It made her laugh.
She opened a bottle for herself and led him out the back door. When she flipped a switch, the back patio was bathed in a soft glow from a few strands of festive lights around the trees. Simple and elegant.
Hannah sat on the rim of the fire pit, and he pulled a patio chair over to sit facing her. He propped his feet up and leaned back. The cloudless sky revealed more stars than he’d ever seen in his life. Had he ever stopped to look before?
“Why come here – to the place where you were going to get married?” He could hear the curiosity in her soft voice.
“First, tell me why you didn’t rebook this place after we cancelled.”
“I grew up right here, working the inn with my grandmother. The holiday was always a busy time for us.” He could tell she was choosing her words carefully. “It just seemed to be the perfect opportunity to have a Christmas vacation.”
Jackson sat up and put his feet down respectfully. “So my being here is keeping you from going on a vacation?” That explained her business-like manner. She didn’t want to come across as resentful and offend a guest.
“Not exactly. I wasn’t planning to go anywhere – just enjoy a peaceful holiday. Maybe join in a few of the community events.”
He sensed that she still wasn’t being completely honest. She was trying to be truthful but still trying to avoid making him feel uncomfortable. She deflected the spotlight back on him. “Your turn. Why did you choose to come here for Christmas – the place where you were going to get married?”
He struggled for words but for a very different reason. He had far more to get away from than an ex-fiancée. Photographers were looking to score a picture of the killed-off hero. Writers were looking for a scoop on the crazy super-fan that killed herself. But he didn’t want to talk about any of that. So how to turn a long story into a short answer? “I had nowhere else to go.”
Spirits of the Season: Eight Haunting Holiday Romances Page 30