Chapter 13 Jane
JANE
Jane stood in the doorway of the great ballroom, letting her eyes adjust to the soft, gray light.
Even with all the Christmas bulbs glowing on the wreaths and the velvet ribbon wound up the staircase, the ballroom always felt like a pocket of dusk.
Maybe it was the blue-painted walls, or the shadows thrown by the grand pillars, or the way the air stayed so cool, even on warm days—like the room had decided long ago to keep its own weather, separate from the rest of the world.
She stepped inside and closed the door until it was just shy of the latch, leaving a slim triangle of hallway visible in case anyone needed her.
The inn was quiet after dinner, with the guests all tucked into their rooms or out exploring the downtown lights.
She listened for the ocean; sometimes, if you stood in the very center of the floor, you could hear the surf behind the walls, low and constant.
If you were very quiet, you could almost pretend the ballroom was floating, anchored only by salt and history.
Jane craned her head up to look at the chandelier.
It hung like a fossilized constellation: dozens of arms, each draped in glass teardrops, the bulbs coated with a fine layer of dust and a few dead moths.
Once, it had sparkled so brightly it made guests shield their eyes when the lights were first switched on.
She remembered her grandfather, climbing the extension ladder every December to polish each crystal.
He always wore gloves for that, to keep the oils from his fingers off the glass, but would hum a Sinatra song so loud it echoed up into the rafters.
They still decorated the ballroom every year.
That was the tradition. But no one had hosted a real event here since her grandfather died.
Ten years, she realized. She reached for the nearest velvet curtain, running the fabric between her fingers.
The curtain was plush and slightly greasy from age, but the color still held—a deep blue that matched the original paint.
She pressed her palm flat against her stomach, just below the ribs.
A habit she’d tried to break, but it crept up on her in empty moments: the ache of something that had never been, that would never be.
Darren had also loved this room; she let herself remember for a moment.
And the baby, if it had survived, would have been old enough to run circles around the dance floor, like she used to.
Her eyes blurred, and she let her hand drop. What was the point of all this tradition if no one remembered it? Jane sometimes wondered if she was only preserving the ghosts. Maybe that’s all she was now—a keeper of ghosts.
She was about to turn off the lights and go find the boxes, making a mental note to get her father to bring the ladder because this year, Jane was determined to polish the chandelier, when she heard footsteps in the hall.
They were soft and light, followed by a cautious tap on the door as it was pushed a little farther open.
Jane startled, then straightened, brushing dust from her jeans.
“Who’s there?” Jane called cautiously with a frown marring her brow.
The door swung open, spilling a wedge of warm lamplight from the hallway.
Trinity stood in the gap, hands tucked behind her back, hair in a tangled ponytail. Her cheeks were pink from running up the stairs. She gazed at the chandelier, mouth open, then looked around the room like she’d found a portal to Narnia.
“Wow,” she said, every syllable round with awe. “This is incredible.”
Jane tried to smile, but it felt like moving a scar. “It’s just the ballroom,” she said. Her voice sounded brittle, so she tried again, lighter: “We don’t use it much anymore.”
Trinity took a few steps in, her sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. She wandered a slow circle, arms out, as if measuring the room’s boundaries. “Do you use it for weddings and other celebrations?”
That was something Jane had entertained in the past two years since she’d come back home. She’d thought about doing that to create another revenue stream for the inn.
“No, usually just dancing. Big dinners. Sometimes there were concerts or lectures. But mostly the Winter Ball.” Jane tried to recall the last time they’d done it right.
She could see the tables crowded with people, the coats draped over every chair, the girls in swirling dresses, and the boys in borrowed ties.
There had been so much music, so much laughter, you could barely hear yourself think.
“I bet it’s haunted,” Trinity said, twirling once, then pausing to watch her own reflection in a gilded mirror. “I mean, not with ghosts. Just…memories.”
Jane’s throat tightened. She forced a chuckle. “That’s probably accurate.”
Trinity came to stand beside her, eyes fixed on the high windows. “I saw this room last night from the outside. I thought it was, like, a museum or something.” She looked up at Jane, green eyes bright. “Is there going to be a function here? Or do you just decorate it for fun?”
“Fun isn’t exactly the word,” Jane said.
She hesitated, weighing how much to explain.
But there was nothing secret about it. “It’s tradition.
Every year, we decorate the ballroom, even if there’s no party.
My grandfather said it was bad luck to let the room go empty at Christmas.
” Her voice grew quieter. “He started the Winter Ball when he was young. They had it every year, right through hurricanes and power outages, even when the roof leaked.”
Trinity’s brow furrowed. “Do people still come to the ball?”
Jane looked at her, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “No. Not since he died.”
“That’s really sad,” Trinity said. She walked to the center of the room and tipped her head back to stare at the chandelier, arms held out like wings.
“He’d probably want people to use it, not just look at it.
” Her young voice dropped. “I think the room is…” She walked over to a pillar and ran her hand over it as if soothing it. “It’s sad.”
The words landed hard. Jane blinked, and for a second, she could see her grandfather standing in the center of the floor, arms spread, calling out to her to “take a lap, Janie!” when she was a kid. He used to say a ballroom was happiest when full of dancing.
“You’re right,” Jane said, barely above a whisper.
Trinity smiled, pleased. “Are you going to decorate it tonight?”
Jane glanced at the box of supplies she’d left beside the door. It wasn’t the box she wanted, as those boxes were still in the attic waiting for her to collect them.
“I was going to.” She smiled at Trinity. “But I need to get the boxes from the attic first. This year…” She glanced around the room, feeling excitement shiver through her. A feeling she hadn’t had in two years. “This year I’m going all out to make it grand.”
“Really?” Trinity’s hand shot up like she was in class. “Can I help?”
Jane’s first instinct was to say no. This was the one thing she let herself do alone, the one tradition she’d kept sacred since the accident.
She always worked in silence, putting up the garland and listening to the echo of her own footsteps, letting herself remember every year she’d helped her grandfather.
Decorating with someone else, even a kid as sweet as Trinity, felt like inviting another person into a closed room of her heart.
But when she saw Trinity’s hopeful face—so open, so eager—something in her softened.
“If you want,” Jane said, already moving to the supply box.
“But it’s going to be boring at first. There’s a lot of untangling lights and taping up wires, and sorting through the ornaments to weed out the broken ones. ”
“I’m an expert at untangling and weeding out things,” Trinity said, coming to stand beside Jane. “And I can tape stuff. My dad makes me help wrap care packages for his unit, and I’m not allowed to use the bubble wrap anymore.” She giggled. “I just can’t resist popping it.”
“Me either,” Jane confided with a conspiratorial wink.
“But I’m really good with tape,” Trinity said proudly.
Jane grinned despite herself. “That’s the most useful skill anyone can have during the holidays.”
“What’s in that box?” Trinity pointed to the one just outside the door.
“The wrong ornaments,” Jane told her. “Do you mind attics?”
“No.” Trinity shook her head. “I’m fine in them.”
“Okay, then, do you want to help me get the ornaments for this room this year?” Jane found herself asking.
“Yes, I’d love to,” Trinity said, excitedly.
“Okay, then, let’s go to the attic.” Jane ushered them out of the room, smiling as she closed the door gently behind them, leaving the ballroom bathed in soft, golden light. “Do you need to let your grandmother know where you are?”
“No.” Trinity shook her head. “I told her I was going to explore the inn as she was going for coffee with your father, and Aunt Charlie is still working with a client.”
“Oh dear,” Jane sympathized with the tween. “Well, come on then, let's go find those ornaments.”
The attic stairs were narrow and steep, the kind of climb that made you wary if your hands were full or your ankles weak.
Jane led the way, balancing a small flashlight and a set of keys.
The old banister was cool and slick with decades of polish.
She listened for Trinity’s feet behind her, half-expecting the girl to bail before reaching the top.
But Trinity was game, bounding up the steps two at a time, her breath clouding in the chilly air.