Chapter Seven #3
Her mouth tilts in confusion. “I thought you said you bought them in 1976.”
Shit.
“Time is a fleeting concept for me,” I deflect. “There’s a lot I don’t remember.”
“If you’re sure,” she finally says, her words slow. She reaches behind her and places them on the arm of the couch. “Did you want— did you want to stay for a little bit?” She gestures at the half-empty mug on the small, round table by the tree. Her eyes grow hopeful.
“You could finish your tea. If you wanted. We could talk about … whatever you want to talk about. You don’t have to be lonely.”
I shake my head. The last thing I need to do is spend more time in this house that smells like peppermint and pine. These concessions to Harriet’s comfort need to stop. I’m not meant to be her friend. I’m meant to be her reckoning. “I should be on my way.”
“Okay,” she says softly and that makes me feel worse. Her easy agreement. She doesn’t look like the Harriet from the tree farm at all. This Harriet looks tired and broken down. Crumbling at the edges.
She tugs her arms free of her coat and drapes it over the back of the couch. She stretches her arms above her head and I get a glimpse of the smooth, pale skin of her stomach. The rise of her hip and the dip of her belly button.
I swallow hard and avert my eyes to the tree.
“Do you think—”
She stops abruptly. I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t.
“What is it?”
She peers up at me through her lashes. “Do you think—do you think I’ll be able to fix it? Whatever it is I’ve done wrong?”
I don’t answer, at a loss. I’ve never had an assignment ask if they could fix it. I’ve never been with anyone who’s even wanted to try. It usually takes until they’re faced with their third ghost and their unfortunate and/or untimely demise before they’re even willing to consider it.
She rushes to fill the silence, her face earnest. “Do you think I can be a good person again?”
I stare down at her, glowing in the light of the tree. I can’t think of a single thing to say. “I guess we’ll find out,” I finally say, repeating her earlier statement.
Her shoulders fall and she turns her face toward the floor. I’m struck with the irrational desire to cup her face in my palms. Tilt her chin up.
“I should be going,” I say instead, stepping backward. My leg hits the coffee table and our teacups rattle. “I’ll be in touch.”
She nods. “Where will you go?”
“When?”
She tips her face toward mine. Melancholy lingers in the smile she tries to force.
“When you’re not here. Where do you go? Do you have a part-time haunting gig at the cemetery?
” Her smile becomes less forced, delighted by her own joke.
“Do you float around the abandoned lighthouse at the inlet, moaning and groaning?”
“I have a home,” I answer. Though the lighthouse idea has merit. Maybe if I get bored, I can go down there with my bag of recycling and clang around a little bit.
“I’m glad,” she says. At my questioning look, she elaborates. “I’m glad you have a home.”
It’s fine. It’s a small row home on the other side of town with a view of the water that was condemned in the 1800s, I believe.
The city of Annapolis believes it to be a hovel, but the department has cleaned it up nicely.
I spend my days drinking coffee on the back porch and reading from one of the endless stacks of books that line my shelves.
I owned a television briefly in the early nineties.
Then I accidentally watched two episodes of The Jerry Springer Show, thought I somehow transferred myself to hell, and abandoned it on the front steps of the fire station.
My existence is quiet, small, and easily contained. Nothing like the home Harriet has made, filled with a tree she cut herself and ten thousand candy canes.
It feels good being here. It’s like—it’s like I’m absorbing some of her light.
Which is exactly why I should go.
But it’s hard to leave her when she still looks so defeated, standing alone in the middle of her living room with her arms wrapped around herself.
I could extend an olive branch.
If I wanted.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Harriet whispers.
The magic in my chest jumps at the sound of her voice, skittering through my bloodstream and settling in the palms of my hands. It’s an odd feeling. Not entirely unwelcome, but odd. My magic isn’t usually so fickle.
“I’m thinking about something.”
“What are you thinking about?” she whispers.
“Peace offerings.”
“Oh,” she says. Her eyes squint. “I don’t understand.”
“Just—be quiet for a second.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
I study her face as I try to find that place in my chest where the magic comes from.
That deep tug somewhere near my lungs. A smile flirts with the edges of her mouth and my magic jumps in my chest, a hot flare of something.
I grab a hold of the gold, glittering thread and tug, the ground rushing out from beneath my feet.
The last thing I hear before I use my magic to jump from her home to mine is her delighted laugh, almost as bright as the magic roaring through my bloodstream.