Chapter Eight
Harriet
What do you think of ghosts?”
Sasha frowns thoughtfully as she twists her rag around the handle of a large serving fork.
She found a stunning silver set at an estate sale in Baltimore and we’ve spent the first hour of the morning trying to shine it back to its former glory.
It’s completely intact except for two spoons.
I like to think those two spoons are off in a drawer somewhere, nestled together and happy.
“What sort of ghosts?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Just ghosts.”
She considers the question. “My parents took me to see Casper at the Bengies Drive-In Theatre when I was a kid. I thought it was cool.” Sasha lifts her fork into the light, squinting at it.
“Not as cool as this fork, though. Doesn’t it sort of look like a trident?
” She thrusts it into the air. “Maybe we should put it in the medieval weapons section.”
“We don’t have a medieval weapons section.”
“We could have. If you bought that mace from that creepy guy.”
I grab the fork before she can stab me or herself.
“Would you listen to yourself? I was never going to buy a mace from a creepy guy. I had no way of authenticating it, for one. And two, he had a goatee. Never trust a man with a goatee.” I set the fork back in its designated place in the wooden case.
“And tridents have three spokes, not two. Tri means three. Polish the knives next.”
Sasha grumbles something under her breath that sounds like wish we had a mace as I let my mind drift.
I haven’t seen Nolan in five days. I’ve been waiting for him to pop up from behind one of the crowded shelves in the antiques store, or maybe knock on my door again, but it’s been complete and total silence since he disappeared with a wave of his magic in the middle of my living room.
Where did he go? What’s he doing? He said there was a deadline on this whole haunting business. Shouldn’t I be seeing him more regularly if there’s a deadline? Will he say goodbye, or will the Ghost of Christmas Present suddenly appear in my bathroom? I have no idea.
Maybe I have seen him, and I don’t remember. He did say ghosts skirt the edges of consciousness. Maybe he’s been in here every day, and I’ve forgotten him every time.
I stop twisting my polish rag.
“Why are you asking me about ghosts?” Sasha asks, picking up a dainty-looking butter knife. She flips it up in her grip, catching it at the handle. “Did you experience something?”
I think of Nolan’s hand around mine. The way he squeezes my fingers every time we visit the past. I think of the way I stumbled in the snow when my hand got stuck in my pocket. How he held me steady with my body tucked against his, my heart thundering in my chest.
He smelled like warm skin and salty air. Something darker.
Cloves, maybe.
I’ve experienced something, all right.
I shrug and reach for another spoon. “Just curious. We work in an antiques shop and we’ve never talked about it before.” I look over the aisles thoughtfully. “I bet some of this stuff is haunted.”
“Probably,” Sasha agrees. “I bet some of the people who owned this stuff met a grisly end.”
“Sasha.”
“What? That’s just, like, basic math,” she quips. “Should I get out a Ouija board? We can try to reach another dimension.”
“Do those things work?”
Maybe I can use one to get in touch with Nolan. Where did you disappear to? Is it because I asked you to show me your magic? Is it because you showed me your magic?
Did you knit those mittens yourself?
He’d probably take a lot of joy in slowly spelling out B-I-T-E M-E.
“I don’t know.” Sasha laughs. “My knowledge of the undead is contained to what I learned at preteen sleepovers. And marathon viewings of Unsolved Mysteries on Lifetime. I guess we could go in the bathroom, turn off the lights, and chant ‘Bloody Mary’ three times in a row. See what happens.”
I shiver. “No, thank you.” Now that I know Nolan exists, I imagine there are plenty of other spirits milling about. I don’t want to invite anyone named Bloody Mary over for tea, thank you very much. “Why would someone become a ghost, you think?”
Sasha sets one knife down and picks up another. “As opposed to …”
“I don’t know. Being at peace?” I wasn’t raised in a religious home.
My parents were the church-on-Easter-and-Christmas type of people, and only because it provided good networking opportunities.
My opinions on the afterlife are purely philosophical, at best. “Why would someone choose to hang out here?”
“Entertainment,” she answers. “Society is doing a fine job of being a shit show lately. Did you see that new reality show? About the people who are in relationships with inanimate objects? I might pass on the afterlife for that.”
“I’m serious, Sasha.”
She sets her polishing rag down and gives me her full attention, blinking at me through her thick glasses.
Her nails are bright, sparkly purple today, glittering at me as she adjusts her frames.
“Yeah, I can see that.” She frowns and turns back to her knife, expression thoughtful.
“Maybe it’s not a choice? I can’t imagine anyone choosing this over, I don’t know, a golden field with a never-ending sunset.
” She rubs her lips together, thinking. “All-you-can-eat churros. Nachos that don’t get soggy with salsa.
Oh! Bottomless brunches you don’t need reservations for. ”
Choice. My brain sticks on that word while Sasha continues to verbally list the amenities in her version of the afterlife, most of them food related. Didn’t Nolan say he thought there would be something else? Something better?
Maybe he didn’t have a choice. He said he’s bound to me for the holiday season, but maybe he’s bound to this place, too. Stuck until he does whatever it is he needs to do.
Until I atone for my supposed sins.
I frown down at the silverware set.
“My mom thought there was a ghost in our kitchen pantry,” Sasha continues.
“She said he had unfinished business with a bread recipe he couldn’t perfect, and that’s why he kept spilling flour all over the floor.
” She gives me a sly look. “But she didn’t know the flour was from my sister.
Elena had a fixation with the lollipops on the top shelf and the flour bag was the best makeshift step stool. ”
I laugh. “I’d expect nothing less of Elena. Or your mom.”
Where my parents are straight-laced and uptight, Sasha’s moms are free-spirited and welcoming. They come in every few weeks with fresh-baked organic cookies, delighting over the store’s newest finds. Sasha is always horrifically embarrassed, but I’m deeply envious. I’d love to be loved that loud.
“My mom went through a heavy sixth sense phase. She was convinced every disturbance was someone with unfinished business.”
She finishes the knife and sets it down. Picks up another. “Maybe that’s your answer. Unfinished business.”
“Hmm. Maybe.”
Nolan doesn’t fit in line with my ghostly stereotypes. He doesn’t seem driven by anger or malice. He’s not particularly enthusiastic or impassioned about his role. Or his magic. Or … anything, really. He seems like he’s just existing. Drifting along.
The front door of the shop creaks open. My attention snaps toward the door, but no one appears. A second later, a blur of orange streaks by.
My shoulders relax. I haven’t seen Oliver since the letter incident on my front porch. I was starting to worry.
Sasha snorts. “That cat is a menace.”
“Hush. She’s cute.”
“She’s playing you for your treat stash. And you’re nice enough to give in. Every time.” She reaches for the polish can and frowns at it. “We’re out of polish. I’ll go grab some more from the back.”
“Nuh-uh. I’ll grab it,” I tell her. I don’t need Sasha disappearing for half the day again. The last time I checked, she’d added string lights to her reading nook. It’s a miracle she ever comes out of there. “I’ll be right back.”
I grab the empty can and head toward the storage closet.
Unfinished business. Could that be why Nolan is here? He said he died young, that he never anticipated becoming a ghost, so maybe— Maybe there’s something he needs to help him move forward.
An object, maybe? Something in my shop. Maybe my poor decision making is only part of the reason he’s here. Maybe I can make up for my past transgressions by helping him. I could help him solve his unfinished business—whatever that looks like.
Maybe that’s my path forward.
Oliver weaves between my ankles as I wander to the back of the shop, arching her back and nuzzling her head against the top of my boot while I slap blindly at the light switch in the supply closet. She meows into the sudden burst of light, her small face turned up toward mine.
“Sorry, sweetheart. No treats today.” I bend at the waist to scratch at her head, but my fingers are covered with a sheen of polish.
Oliver hisses and darts off when it pulls at her soft fur, knocking over a small mermaid figurine in her hasty departure.
I sigh and try to wipe the cat hair/polish combination off on my skirt.
The light bulb in the center of the storage closet flickers and then blows out with a soft pop, cloaking the room in darkness.
“Of course,” I mutter, fumbling for the shelf with the polish. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and Bloody Mary will decide she’s bound to me for the holiday season, too.”
“I doubt it,” comes a voice close to my ear. Sea salt and spice. Coffee and cloves. “Mary isn’t exactly social, and she hates the holiday season.”
My hand shoots out and the box of silver polish goes tumbling to the ground. The cans hit the hardwood like raindrops on a window while my heart does its best to beat out of my chest.
Nolan stands behind me, his hands shoved in his pockets. In the dark, he’s mostly silhouette, but I’d recognize that low laugh anywhere.
“Hello, Harriet.”
I smack his shoulder. I don’t care about getting polish or cat hair on him. He deserves both. “I thought we talked about you scaring me!”