Chapter 7 Selene
SEVEN
SELENE
Winnie didn’t seem to care that we were already late for school. She skipped half the way there, swinging her lunchbox and singing a made-up song about unicorn crackers. Austin strolled beside her like we were just out for a walk in the sunshine and not barreling toward an unexcused tardy slip.
I checked my watch for the third time in as many minutes. “We should’ve left fifteen minutes ago.”
Austin gave me a side glance. “We’re already on the way. Unless you’ve got a teleportation device stashed in that purse, I don’t think we can do much else.”
His tone was easy, teasing, which only made my anxiety spike harder.
I gritted my teeth. “I don’t like being late.”
Winnie slowed to a bounce in place while waiting at the crossing. Her curls frizzed into little wings on either side of her head, and one of her socks had betrayed her ankle completely.
“She looks like she was raised by wolves,” I muttered.
Austin grinned. “Nah. She’s free-spirited. There’s a difference.”
We made it just as the bell rang—one long, shrill note that felt like a judgment.
The teacher at the door smiled as we approached. “Oh, Winnie! Good morning, sweetheart. Cutting it close today, huh?”
Before I could respond, Winnie pointed. “This is Austin. He’s taking me to school now.”
The teacher—Ms. Evelyn, young, pretty, and exactly the kind of woman who probably drank water regularly and had time to exfoliate—turned her attention to Austin like a sunflower following the sun. Her smile widened. “Nice to meet you. Are you new to Star Harbor?”
I cleared my throat. “Austin’s our neighbor. He’ll be helping with school drop-offs this week—” I threw a glance at him.
“And pickups,” he added smoothly, offering a handshake that somehow looked casual and confident at the same time.
Ms. Evelyn took it, a bit too eagerly if you asked me. “That’s wonderful. Winnie’s such a delight.”
Winnie beamed. “I had sprinkles for breakfast!”
I set my shoulders. “She had real breakfast too,” I added quickly.
Austin gave her a wink. “Only the best for our girl.”
I didn’t miss the look Ms. Evelyn gave me after that—curious, maybe a little surprised. And why wouldn’t she be? I looked like a woman hanging on by a thread, and he looked like a walking Pinterest board of hot husband material.
She probably thought we were together. And worse—she probably thought I wasn’t good enough for him.
Which, objectively speaking, wasn’t completely inaccurate.
We said goodbye to Winnie, who launched herself through the classroom door without a backward glance.
We walked in silence for a few steps, the air already warming with early sun. My shoulder brushed his once. Not on purpose, but I didn’t move away.
He didn’t either.
After a while, he said, “So. Just to clarify. I’m not your employee, right?”
I huffed a laugh. “Please. I’m not even sure I can afford you.”
He looked over at me, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. “Then I guess we’ll have to negotiate my rate.”
Those playful words did something to me I didn’t want to examine. I swallowed hard and looked away. “You’re really good with her.”
His tone was quiet. “She’s a good kid. Fun.”
I fought a smile. “She likes you.”
“Yeah,” he said. “She makes it easy.”
We stepped up onto the porch. I hesitated at the door. “Do you want to come in? For coffee?”
He nodded once. “Sure.”
The kitchen was still a mess, but I didn’t bother apologizing. He didn’t seem to notice.
I poured the coffee this time and handed him a mug. He leaned against the counter, eyes scanning the space like he was already memorizing it.
I sank into a chair and rubbed at my temple. “I keep thinking I’ll catch up. That there’ll be a break, but the break never comes.”
Austin didn’t say anything at first. He just sipped his coffee and studied me like I was a riddle he didn’t want to solve too fast.
“Then I guess we hold the line until it does,” he said.
It wasn’t advice. It wasn’t a fix. Just a simple, solid thing to say. Like anchoring a tent in a windstorm.
His words lodged somewhere in my chest.
We sat there for another minute or two, silence stretching between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It just . . . was.
Eventually he stood. “All right. I should let you work. I’m heading to the job at Elodie’s place, but I’ll be back in time for after-school pickup.”
I walked him to the door. He paused on the threshold, like he was going to say something else, but he didn’t.
Austin tipped his chin and stepped out into the sunlight, and I watched the door shut behind him before sinking to the floor in a puddle.
The library’s community room smelled like old paperbacks and lemon-scented floor cleaner—the sterile freshness that never quite masked the scent of time.
The Keepers were already mid-chaos when I arrived, embroidery hoops and tea canisters spread across two folding tables like we were planning a very polite coup on a Friday night.
Elodie was perched at the head of the table, arranging mismatched china into neat little rows while the head Keeper, Helen, fussed with a lace tablecloth that refused to sit straight.
I moved toward a seat by the window and pulled out my needlework, though calling it that felt generous.
My sunflower looked like it had survived a small but devastating fire.
“You’re late,” Helen said without looking up.
I had known Helen since I was a kid. She was in her sixties now but just as youthful as I always remembered.
She was always smiling, her freckles dancing across the bridge of her nose as it crinkled.
Her dark-brown eyes seemed to twinkle with some secret knowledge.
Her salt-and-pepper hair had changed styles throughout the years, but lately she was keeping it in short twists that brushed her temples.
“I’m here,” I said, dropping my purse into a chair. “That’s the best I could do.”
“I saw your . . . helper today,” my mom, Angela, said with a grin, looping the word like a lasso and tossing it straight at me.
I kept my eyes on the teacup in front of me. “Helper?”
“You know,” she said, nudging my sister Elodie with an elbow. “Austin. The tall, handsome one who looks like he was carved out of someone’s daydreams. The man who picked up Winnie at school this afternoon and had every mom at the pickup line sucking in their stomachs.”
Elodie’s face twisted. “Why were you at the school?”
Mom blinked innocently. “I was just passing by on my walk. It’s important to stay limber and fit as you age.”
I harrumphed.
Mom was a busybody. Her walks were almost certainly a part of her mission to know everything about everyone in town, her daughters included.
“Austin is our new neighbor and is just filling in. Temporarily.” I clattered the teaspoons into the saucers a little louder than necessary. I gestured at the delicate porcelain in front of me. “What are we even doing here?”
Kit shrugged. “Tea party, obviously.”
“Oh, so he’s the manny,” Helen said brightly, not letting me change the subject so easily. “Lucky you.” She waggled her eyebrows.
“He’s not the manny,” I muttered, though admittedly the title was kind of hilarious.
Mom tilted her head. “No? Because from what I could see it kind of looked like he was walking Winnie out like he owned the place.”
“Is there any privacy in this town?” I inhaled slowly through my nose. “Austin is just helping out for a few days. It was Brody’s idea.”
“Mmm. Helping,” Mom echoed, not bothering to hide her smirk. “How chivalrous.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Can we please talk about something else?”
That only made them smile wider. It was a blood sport, really. One flicker of discomfort and they circled like sharks.
“Fine, fine.” Elodie poured the first cup of tea. “I vote we talk about the Lady instead.”
Thank god for small miracles.
A low buzz of oooh rose around the table like schoolgirls sharing secrets behind the bleachers.
Elodie grinned and pulled out her notebook.
“So here’s what we know: In 1903, a young woman’s body was found on the dunes with a locket with the initials A.L.
engraved on it, but there was no mention of the woman’s true identity.
Alma was engaged to William Lovell and wore a locket with the initials A.L.
, so it’s safe to assume the lady haunting Star Harbor is Alma. ”
Gentle hums filled the space. We were familiar with the lore of the Lady, but something about how Elodie was suggesting a new twist on a familiar ghost story was enchanting.
“But if they were only engaged, her name wouldn’t be Lovell. At least, not yet, right?” Kit asked.
“That’s true.” I nodded.
“Unless . . .” Elodie’s eyes sparked with delight. “The locket was a gift for his bride-to-be. A claim on her or promise of some kind with her soon-to-be married initials?”
“That’s sweet.” Kit sighed wistfully.
“Or controlling,” I grumbled, which earned me a few slanted looks. Kit bumped my shoulder and I playfully scowled at her.
“I have thoughts,” Elodie continued. “Helen confirmed that there are no records of William Lovell after that engagement announcement. It became assumed that he disappeared right alongside his lovesick bride-to-be.”
Kit shrugged. “So maybe he was the long-lost lover who died at sea—just like the legend goes.”
Elodie frowned. “Maybe. But”—her eyes flicked to Helen, who gave her a reassuring nod—“I have a different theory.”
The air in the library grew thick with tension.
No one dared to move as we all clung to my sister’s words.
“The engagement announcement never mentioned the woman’s last name.
I’m still wondering about Alma’s true last name.
I think there’s a very real possibility that Alma Lovell was really Alma Barker. ”
“The Barkers who owned the Drifted Spirit Inn?” Tara Smithton, another Keeper, asked.
Elodie nodded with wide eyes. “I think Alma Barker was engaged to William Lovell and the locket was a gift for his bride-to-be. But”—she held up a finger—“Alma had a secret.”
Elodie carefully spread faded paper across the table. I cringed, knowing how delicate the paper was.
“After the barn burned down, I found an old trunk in the root cellar. This letter, and others, were tucked inside—dated sometime around 1903, signed only with the initials A.B.”
Curious eyes roamed over the letters. The legend of the Lady of the Dunes was so well known in our town that new information was rare. A little thrill danced through our group, and we collectively leaned in.
“Her letter is odd,” Elodie added. “I think the legend is wrong—at least, parts of it. I don’t believe Alma was waiting for her lost love.” My sister set her shoulders. “She was hiding.”
That quieted the table.
Mom spoke up. “If she was hiding, from who? Or what?”
“That,” Elodie said, barely containing her excitement, “is what we need to find out.”
The group murmured, speculation already buzzing—jealous lovers, false names, disappearances. I leaned back and glanced toward the doorway, as if someone might walk in and confirm it all.
My fingers tingled. Seeing the faded, loopy cursive on time-worn paper was intoxicating. I couldn’t wait to examine it up close. “Maybe I could look into it a little. Nothing deep, just—see if I can dig anything up. Old property records, boardinghouse logs. That kind of thing.”
Helen raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you can see if there’s anything on William or even more about the Barker children.”
I shrugged, pretending not to notice the way Elodie tried—and failed—to smother her smile. “Winnie’s been asking about the ghost again. This might scratch the curiosity itch and keep it from turning into a full-blown obsession.”
“She can be in charge of dioramas,” Elodie teased.
“Exactly.” I smiled. “She’s five—that’s her version of a dissertation.”
“Still,” Helen said, focusing the conversation. “Do you really think there’s something there?”
I didn’t answer right away. The warm light caught on Elodie’s notebook, the pages filled with scribbled theories and sketches of old signatures. I thought about the mysterious letter—how something so small could unravel so much history.
“I think it’s probably nothing,” I said at last. “But I’ve got some research tools. We might as well put them to use.”
With a delighted squeal, Elodie raised her teacup. “To ghosts, gossip, and good intentions.”
The others echoed the toast with laughter, but I just sat there, smooth porcelain beneath my fingers, feeling the strange weight of the mystery settle into my chest.
I didn’t believe in ghosts.
Not really.
But I was starting to believe in unfinished stories—and the way they had a habit of pulling you back in, even when you swore you were done stitching them together.