He fixed me with a grim look. “You don’t want to move to Paris, or you don’t want to move to Paris with me?”
“I care deeply for you, Graham. I do. But I’m not ready for marriage, much less children. And the truth is, I’m not sure I ever will be. I don’t know that I want that anymore. Even though my marriage to Daniel wasn’t ideal, I already experienced that with him: I was a wife and a mother, and I loved some parts of it—like Caleb, obviously. But now Caleb’s about to go off to college, and I’m pretty happy with myself, with my weird dresses and my crew and my strange life . . . and even with talking to ghosts. I just realized, just right this second, that this is what I want. I want the life I have.”
“Without me?”
I took a deep breath. “I think we want different things. You’re fabulous, a really good person, and gorgeous and sweet and loyal. And you deserve to have someone meet you halfway.”
He blew out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Is this about that Landon character? The one who kept you from falling off the roof?”
“Why would you think that?”
“From the way you speak about him.”
“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel anything for him. But that’s not what this is about. It really is what I said: You and I want different things out of life. Don’t you want children?”
He nodded.
“I’m not sure I do at this point. And that’s a pretty huge issue for any couple.”
He nodded slowly and started carrying our dishes to the sink. Silence reigned for several minutes. Finally, Graham let out a long breath and said, “I tell you what. I’m going to take the gig in Paris, and maybe you’ll come for a visit. I’m not willing to give up on this. On us. Not yet. We’ll see what happens when you taste a pain au chocolat fresh from the boulangerie.”
I smiled. “You really are an amazing man, Graham Donovan.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
• • •
The next night, Luz and I found a miraculous parking space on California Street, not far from where I’d been last time. I had given Luz the short version of what happened with Graham and made her promise not to ask me about it for the interim. For the moment, it was all I could do to hold it together enough to deal with the ghosts in my life; my romantic prospects were going to have to wait.
“Okay, my friend, are you going to tell me why we’re here?” Luz demanded. “This is supposed to help me get over my guilt about spurning my dead grandmother? ’Cause I probably have better things to do.”
“You ever go to camp when you were little?”
She raised one eyebrow at me. “Where I come from, we spent the summers dodging bullets. Picking four-leaf clovers and singing ‘Kumbaya’ at camp wasn’t an option.”
“So you never heard the campfire story about the hitchhiking ghost?”
“I have a feeling I’m not going to like this story,” she said as she craned her neck to look in the backseat.
There was no one there. Yet.
“So usually, a hitchhiking ghost asks for a ride home. Then when the Good Samaritan pulls up to the address the ghost gave him or her, they find an abandoned house, or some elderly mother who tells them her daughter died ten years ago in a car accident. Something like that.”
“That is so frickin’ sad,” said Luz.
I nodded.
“So . . . are we looking for said hitchhiker?” she asked.
I nodded. “Flora Summerton, the daughter from Crosswinds. She ran away and became a missionary in Hawaii, but tried to come back to visit her father on his deathbed. But she was struck and killed by a cable car right along here somewhere, so she never made it home.”
“Is her father waiting for her? He’s the one haunting Crosswinds?”
I nodded. “I think they’re both seeking reconciliation. They won’t be able to rest until—”
I was cut off by a banging on the window. Luz and I jumped, and she rolled her passenger-side window down.
It was Deputy Doofus.
“Yes?” Luz said, her tone polite but not particularly friendly.
“Hi,” I said, looking around Luz at the rent-a-cop. “So nice to see you again.”
“You guys wanna move it along?”
“No.” Luz raised her window and turned her attention back to me. “As you were saying, her father’s still waiting for her?”
I nodded. “Sometimes she appears here, walking in the middle of the street. I guess a lot of people have seen her over the years, and some have tried to help her get home, but they’ve never managed. She always disappears before they get there.”
“And you think we can help her?”
“I hope so.” I brought out the envelope full of her photos, including one with Chantelle. “I’m hoping that Chantelle can help us, maybe talk to her from the other side.”
Luz perused the photos, then gave me a look.
“As always,” I continued, “I don’t claim to know what I’m doing. But it seems worth a try, don’t you think? I was thinking that with you, me, and Chantelle, Flora might not slip away this time.”
“Chantelle’s dead, right?”
“Yep.”
“Oookay, just wanted to be sure I was clear on this concept. So it’s you, me, and a dead woman looking for yet another dead woman. Sort of like freaky girls’ night out?”
“Something like that.”
“I don’t—”
“There she is,” I said quietly. “See, in the middle of the street?”
Luz opened her door and stood.
“Get out of my way,” she told the security guard. “Flora?” she called.
Flora turned around.
“Hey,” said Luz, clearing her throat. “We’ll, uh, give you a ride.”
A cable car passed in front of Flora. When it passed, she had disappeared.
“Get in, Luz,” I said. “This is how it happened last time.”
Luz got in. And when we looked back, Flora was with us.
I started driving. We had pretty much the same conversation as last time, with Flora asking us to take her home, and me telling her I knew the way. Luz’s eyes were huge but she hung in there, turning around and addressing the ghost directly.
Luz passed the photos into the backseat.
“These are beautiful photos,” Luz said.
The ghost looked shocked. “Papa took these. I wanted adventure, and he said this way I would live a thousand lives. I look very . . . young.”
Luz nodded. “Hey, Flora, you know how you always disappear when you get near home? Because it’s probably pretty overwhelming and scary. How about this time, you and I go in together?”
Luz, straight-talking spirit social worker.
I pulled up to the stop sign where Flora had disappeared last time, and looked back.
She was still staring at the photos. One finger brushed over Chantelle’s face.
“Do you know who that is?” I asked.
She nodded. “We’ve been introduced.”
“Stay with us this time, Flora,” I said, taking my cue from Luz. Might as well call a spade a spade, to the dead as well as to the living. “Don’t disappear. Your father’s waiting for you.”
She looked up, sadness in those big eyes. When I pulled up in front of Crosswinds, Flora was still in the backseat.
Luz climbed out and opened the back door.
“Let me take you in, Flora,” Luz said, reaching out to her. After a moment’s hesitation, the ghost put her hand in Luz’s. “Let me take you home.”
And hand in hand, they walked up the steps of Crosswinds, where Peregrine waited.
Chapter Thirty-four
Six weeks later, Andrew and I stood in the foyer of Crosswinds.
Sleek, sterile surfaces had given way to one p
aneled wall with ornate moldings and a large bookcase. I had replaced the modern fireplace surround with the one I’d found at Uncle J’s, featuring carved cupids; antique crystal chandeliers now hung from decorative plaster medallions overhead.
Crosswinds was now a surreal mélange of old and new, but the odd blend worked, somehow.
“The buyers loved the idea of the secret passage,” Andrew said. “The wife’s an amateur photographer, and the husband’s a real history buff.”
“That’s great, Andrew. I’m so pleased.”
“They want to keep Turner Construction on the job a while longer, to finish things up and make everything consistent.”
“I’d be honored. Please give them my contact information.”
He nodded, sadly, taking another long look around the room. I could hear far-off strains of a Strauss waltz, but decided not to mention it. After all the havoc, the Flynts had lowered the price on Crosswinds to a mere twenty-two million, and Karla had signed a lovely couple who would be moving in soon with their children and large extended family. They seemed positively sanguine about the strange goings-on in the house, which now consisted of occasional orchestra music and, every once in a while, a photograph of Flora Summerton appearing out of thin air.
George Flynt had recovered from what was, after all, a simple flesh wound and shock; Egypt was still nursing a broken leg, but her concussion had healed. George had hired her to work on the computer systems at Tempus, Ltd., reinforcing the firewall to prevent future hacking. George thanked me for my help that terrible day, and offered me free enrollment in a Tempus antiaging program. I thanked him but declined; I would take my aging as it came. I could use all the maturity I could get.
Landon Demetrius, for his part, was enjoying teaching at UC Berkeley and had decided to relocate permanently. He had hired Brittany Humm to find him a great house in the area, and was intent on teaching me to waltz. It wasn’t going well, even when I agreed to take off my steel-toed work boots.
“How is Stephanie?” I asked Andrew.
He shrugged. “I guess . . . Well, it’s simply devastating when something like this happens. Obviously. She doesn’t leave the house much. But she’s on a retreat now, at Green Gulch Farm. That helps. And believe it or not, Lacey went with her. They’re . . . newly close.”
“That’s good.”
“You know . . . Mason was always such a good boy. Such a sweet boy. He had some rough teenage years and had to be put on medication, but somehow we thought . . .” His voice grew faint and husky. “I guess we all thought he was over the worst of it.”
“I’m so sorry, Andrew.” That was all I could think to say. What on earth does someone say to a parent who has lost a child? Especially when that child was hell-bent on the destruction of others, including your contractor, and your own father? Words were woefully inadequate.
“Well,” he said in a forced upbeat tone indicating he was more than ready to change the subject. “I’m off to work. Nice to see you again, Mel.”
“You too, Andrew. Please give my best to your family.”
“Oh!” he said, turning back and taking something out of his briefcase. “I almost forgot. I found this the other day and Karla told me you might want it. Can’t imagine what for, but . . .”
He trailed off with a shrug and handed me an old sepia-toned photo.
It was Peregrine and Flora Summerton, standing on the roof of the turret, by the newly installed widow’s walk. The skyline behind them was modern-day, and included the Golden Gate Bridge.
Wind whipped their hair, and they both smiled into the camera.
Keep reading for a preview of the next novel in the bestselling Witchcraft Mystery Series by Juliet Blackwell,
A Toxic Trousseau
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“Good morning,” Aidan said as he joined us. “Lily . . . stunning as always. I do like that color on you. It’s as joyful as the first rays of dawn.”
“Thank you,” I said, blushing and avoiding his eyes. The dress was orangey-gold cotton with a pink embroidered neckline and hem, circa 1962, and I had chosen it this morning precisely because it reminded me of a sunrise. “Aren’t you just the sweet talker?”
You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, my mama used to tell me. Did this mean I was the fly and Aidan the fly catcher?
“Is everything all right?” Aidan asked. “Am I sensing trouble? Beyond the norm, I mean.”
“Dude, Lily just got served,” Conrad said.
“Served? I fear we aren’t speaking of breakfast.”
“A lawsuit,” I clarified.
“Ah. What a shame. What ever happened?”
“Oscar head-butted a customer.”
“That’s . . . unusual.” Aidan had given me Oscar and knew him well. “Was this person badly injured?”
“I wasn’t there when it happened, but according to Bronwyn and Maya, the customer seemed fine. But now she’s claiming she sustained ‘serious and debilitating neck and back injuries that hinder her in the completion of her work and significantly reduce her quality of life,’” I said, quoting from the document.
“That sounds most distressing. Might I offer my services in finding a resolution?”
“No. No, thank you.” The only thing worse than being slapped with a slip-and-fall lawsuit—the boogeyman of every small-business owner—was being even more beholden to Aidan Rhodes than I already was. Besides . . . I wasn’t sure what he meant by “finding a resolution.” Aidan was one powerful witch. Autumn Jennings might very well wind up walking around looking like a frog.
“You’re sure?” Aidan asked. “These personal injury lawsuits can get nasty—and expensive, even if you win. As much as I hate to say it, you may have some liability here. Is it even legal to have a pig in the city limits?”
“Don’t worry about it; I’ve got it handled,” I said, not wishing to discuss the matter any further with him. “Was there some reason in particular you stopped by?”
Aidan grinned, sending sparkling rays of light dancing in the morning breeze. He really was the most astonishing man.
“I was hoping we might have a moment to talk,” he said. “About business.”
My stomach clenched. Time to face the music. I did owe him, after all. “Of course. Come on in.”
The door to Aunt Cora’s Closet tinkled as we went inside, and Bronwyn fluttered out from the back room, cradling Oscar to her ample chest. She was dressed in billows of purple gauze, and a garland of wildflowers crowned her frizzy brown hair. Bronwyn was a fifty-something Wiccan, and one of the first—and very best—friends I had made upon my arrival in the City by the Bay not so very long ago.
“Hello, Aidan! So wonderful to see you again!” she gushed.
“Bronwyn, you light up this shop like fireworks on the Fourth of July.”
“Oh, you do go on.” She waved her hand but gave him a flirtatious smile. “But, Lily! Our little Oscar-oo is very upset, poor thing! I think it has something to do with the woman with the motorcycle helmet who was just here—what was that about? He’s never reacted this way to Sailor’s helmet. . . .”
“She was serving Lily with legal papers,” said Aidan.
“Legal papers?” Bronwyn asked as Oscar hid his snout under her arm. “For what?”
“Remember when Oscar head-butted Autumn Jennings a couple of weeks ago?” I said.
Oscar snorted when I said “butt.”
“Of course, naughty little, tiny piggy-pig-pig,” Bronwyn said in a crooning baby voice. “But I have to say she really was bothering all of us. But . . . she’s suing you? Seriously?”
I nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Well, now, that’s just bad karma,” Bronwyn said with a frown.
“You said she wasn’t hurt, though, right?”
“She was fine!” Bronwyn insisted.
“She fell into the rack of swing dresses. You know how poufy those dresses are—there’s enough crinoline in the skirts to cushion an NFL linebacker, and Amber Jennings is, what, a hundred pounds, soaking wet? I saw her just the other day when I brought her some of my special caramel-cherry-spice mate tea and homemade corn-cherry scones. Come to think of it, when I arrived she was up on a ladder, and she certainly didn’t seem to have any back or neck injuries. She was a little under the weather, but it was a cold or the flu.”
“When was this?”
“Day before yesterday, I think. . . . I thought I should make the effort, since you weren’t even here when it happened. I just wanted to tell her I was sorry. Plus, to be honest, I was curious to check out her store, after what she said about our merchandise. Very nice inventory, but if you ask me not nearly as warm and inviting as Aunt Cora’s Closet. The whole place was too snooty for my taste, by half. And expensive! Too rich for my blood.”
“Did anything happen while you were there? Did she say anything in particular?”
Bronwyn frowned in thought, then shook her head. “Nothing at all. She didn’t seem particularly bowled over by my gift basket, but she accepted it. But like I say, she told me she was a little under the weather, so maybe that accounts for her mood. She did have a very sweet dog, and I always say a pet lover is never irredeemable.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, blowing out a breath. “If you think of anything else, please let me know. Aidan and I are going to talk in the back for a moment.”
“I’ll keep an eye on things,” Bronwyn said, lugging Oscar over to her herbal stand for a treat. Oscar was a miniature pig, but he was still a porker.
In the back room Aidan and I sat down at my old jade green linoleum table. I bided my time and waited for Aidan to speak first. In witch circles simply asking “What may I help you with?” can open up a dangerous can of worms.
“I have to leave town for a little while,” he said.
“Really?” Even though I knew perfectly well that he had lived elsewhere in the past, including when he’d worked with the father who had abandoned me, in my mind Aidan was so associated with San Francisco that it was hard to imagine him anywhere else. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”
Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery Page 28