Chapter 10 Selene
TEN
SELENE
The storm had passed just before bedtime, leaving the windows streaked and the air heavy with the scent of wet pine and pavement. Thunder had rolled through earlier like a giant dragging furniture across the sky, but now only the occasional drip from the gutters broke the quiet.
Winnie padded down the hallway ahead of me, her blanket trailing behind like a cape, one fuzzy sock half off her foot.
She clutched the book we’d checked out earlier from the library—The Legends of Star Harbor—her fingers smudging the worn cover.
The library tag was worn at the corners, and the binding had nearly come undone.
I’d found it tucked between old maritime histories and out-of-date census ledgers in the reference section that no one but retirees and weirdos like me ever touched.
Winnie had spotted me looking through it and begged to take it home.
I almost said no—ghost stories weren’t exactly on my list of calming bedtime reads—but she’d been so insistent, so sparkly-eyed and earnest, that I gave in.
We could read it at bedtime and I’d leave out any part that might seem too scary.
I figured it was better than letting her spiral down another YouTube hole of haunted dolls and cursed playgrounds.
On the way to bed, her stuffed unicorn dangled from the crook of her arm, well loved and trailing ribbons from its tail.
“You brushed your teeth, right?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
She turned and flashed me a toothpaste-smeared grin, which was answer enough.
“All right, hop in,” I said, flipping on her night-light shaped like a little lighthouse. Its glow washed the walls in pale yellow, the beam slowly rotating across the ceiling like we were inside a tiny ship cabin.
Winnie scrambled into bed with a dramatic sigh and flopped backward, her arms wide, the book landing on her chest with a soft thud. “You said we could read the ghost parts.”
“I said one ghost part,” I reminded her, sitting beside her and tugging the blanket up over her legs. “And only if you promise not to wake me up in the middle of the night scared of haunted beach brides.”
She giggled and tucked the unicorn under her chin. “I won’t. Promise. I’m not scared of the Lady. She’s just sad.”
I hesitated, surprised and charmed by her earnestness. “You think the Lady is sad?”
Winnie nodded solemnly, her eyes wide. “She’s all by herself. That’s the worst part.”
I opened the book to the page she’d bookmarked with a Post-it and a heart sticker from her backpack. The musty paper crackled as I smoothed it flat, and I began to read in a low, steady voice.
“It’s said the Lady can be seen walking the dunes in her white wedding gown, holding wildflowers. She is waiting for her love to return from the sea—but he never comes.”
Winnie’s hand found mine beneath the quilt. Her palm was sticky with residual jelly from dessert.
“She waited forever, right?” she whispered.
“So the story goes,” I said, brushing her hair gently back from her face. “But no one really knows what’s true. It’s an old legend. Sometimes things get mixed up.”
She was quiet for a moment, her little brow furrowed in thought. “Do you think Daddy will still come next weekend?”
My heart pinched. “He said he would,” I said carefully, smoothing the blanket higher on her chest. “But sometimes . . . schedules change.”
Winnie didn’t say anything. She just turned her head to the side, staring at the wall. Her thumb crept toward her mouth but paused halfway, like she was trying to act older than she felt.
“He was supposed to take me to the zoo last time,” she whispered.
“I know.” I reached out and tucked her unicorn tighter against her side. “If he has work, we’ll do something fun here instead. Just you and me.”
Brian and I shared the same workaholic tendencies, but more and more it was affecting our daughter. His work at the university had always been important, but he didn’t seem to notice the way her sweet little face fell any time he had to change plans.
There was a long beat of silence, and then Winnie murmured, “Maybe Austin would take me.”
I blinked. “What?”
She rolled to face me, her eyes round and sleepy but insistent. “Austin would take me to the zoo. He listens to me and he laughs at my jokes, even the really bad ones.”
I laughed softly, my throat suddenly tight. “You do tell a lot of bad jokes.”
“He helps me with stuff even when I don’t ask,” she continued. “He didn’t get mad when I spilled juice in his new car, and he gave me his last gummy bear. He didn’t even pick out the red one to keep for himself.”
“Wow,” I whispered, teasing. “That’s pretty serious.”
“It’s fun when he picks me up from school,” she added, already drifting. “He makes me feel happy in my tummy. Not twisty or sad.”
There it was. Gentle and childlike—but clear. She didn’t say anxiety or disappointment. She didn’t have the words for those yet, but I did. I was all too familiar with what a twisty tummy meant.
I swallowed hard, smoothing her hair again as her eyes fluttered closed. “I’m glad he makes you feel that way, baby.”
She yawned, the unicorn’s mane clutched in one hand. “He’s handsome like a movie person, but in real life.”
I chuckled and pressed a kiss to her forehead, breathing in the scent of watermelon shampoo and a faint trace of peanut butter.
“I think you’re the movie star,” I whispered. “Sleep tight, my love.”
She was out before I stood up and flicked on the video monitor. I hoped to get caught up on work and always felt better knowing I could use the monitor to check in on Winnie from the carriage house.
Her lighthouse night-light swept another slow arc across the ceiling as I pulled the door almost shut behind me, the legend book still in hand. I held it against my chest, suddenly unsure whether I was more haunted by the ghost story or the man living in the space next door.
I looked at the wall as if I could sense him, just on the other side.
Austin.
Too young and too charming. He was far too good with my kid.
I could never have guessed that one night of letting loose and having fun would haunt me so thoroughly.
On many nights, I caught myself lying awake, staring at the paint on the ceiling and recalling every detail of our night in the forest. The cool breeze on my thighs as he lifted my skirt, his warm breath against my skin, the shiver of anticipation rippling down my spine.
There was a part of me that desperately wanted to feel that alive—that free—again .
. . and temptation was residing literal feet away.
I exhaled and shook my head as I padded into the hallway.
In the quiet of the house, I could hear the slow tick of the kitchen clock and the sound of rainwater still dripping off the eaves.
I needed something to keep my mind off my incredibly inappropriate, yet altogether irresistible, neighbor.
I slipped on a pair of rubber garden boots to make the trek across the wet lawn.
Once inside the carriage house, I moved to the small desk where I’d stacked the materials Elodie had handed off—fragile, water-warped letters and a few odds and ends from the trunk she had found.
She had dropped off the letters after the Keepers’ meeting, each carefully wrapped in acid-free sleeves and tied with string like some forgotten treasure trove.
I placed them next to ledgers from the boardinghouse and old pages I hadn’t sorted through yet. I added the library book to the pile and started looking through some old folders to try to make room for everything.
I sifted through my own stack of historical documents.
Most were brittle ledgers or handwritten menus and maps.
Cal had let me borrow a stack of water-damaged guest registries from the Drifted Spirit Inn’s earliest days.
A few were nearly illegible, the ink dissolved into foggy blue-gray swirls, but others still held faint outlines of names, dates, and room numbers.
Between two brittle pages of a late-1890s boarding ledger, something stiffer caught my fingers.
I slid it free, careful not to tear the fragile binding.
It was a photograph—faded and curling at the corners.
The kind printed on albumen paper, its edges scalloped like lace.
A woman stood at the center, long dark hair coiled beneath a simple hat, her figure posed in front of a familiar porch railing I couldn’t quite place.
Her eyes had been scratched out in tiny, deliberate X’s.
I turned it over.
A name had been scribbled on the back in pencil, so faint it nearly vanished beneath the smudges of time.
Barnes? Barlow?
The handwriting was uneven, hesitant and faded. It was hard to tell. The name wasn’t clear, but my pulse quickened anyway.
Barker.
A shiver danced up my spine. There had been Barkers in Star Harbor’s early history, I was sure of it.
Not just passing names in a ledger—but landowners.
The Drifted Spirit Inn had once been the Barker family’s homestead, long before it was converted into an inn.
If I remembered correctly, they’d also owned the land just west of the property—land that eventually became what is now Elodie’s Star Harbor Farms.
The Barkers had two children, a boy and a girl. That much was recorded, but little else.
No marriage records. No graves. Just a surname that faded from town documents like fog lifting from the dunes.
My pulse skipped. Could this be her? The woman from the photo—scratched eyes, secretive smile—could she be the Lady? Not just some nameless ghost, but someone real? A person with a past, a family, and a real name?
The image would need to be stabilized, scanned, and carefully cleaned. But more than that—I’d need to dig deeper. I wanted to cross-reference land deeds. Track ownership transitions. Compare dates. There might be something here. Something true.
I didn’t know what it meant yet, but I knew better than to ignore it.
I rolled my aching shoulders. I slipped the photo into an archival sleeve and tucked it among the rest of the documents before sucking in a deep breath.
I stretched my neck, reaching back to massage my tight shoulder with a groan.
I knew that when I got wrapped up in a project as intriguing as that, it was like my mind raced down a single track.
I glanced at my watch. If I wasn’t careful, I could easily stay up into the wee hours of the morning, poring over documents.
That would inevitably create a long and tiring following day, so I exhaled and pushed myself away from the desk.
When I locked the carriage house, I heard the low hum of music drifting from the other side of the duplex. My stomach tightened. When I looked up, my belly swooped low and I fought a smile.
Austin sat on the steps, legs long and sprawled in front of him, a bottle of something resting between them.
His shirt was rumpled, his muscular arms testing the limits of the short sleeves.
I noticed the faint scrape of a bruise coloring the inside of his forearm. Probably from hauling lumber earlier.
He lifted his head as I padded across the wet lawn. “Late night working?”
A smile dusted my lips. “Just organizing some things.” I sucked in a lungful of night air. “Getting some fresh air.”
“Looks like you found it.” He smiled as I walked through the gate he left open. Austin scooted to the far end of the steps, making room for me.
I sank onto the top step beside him, careful to leave a few inches of space between us. He didn’t say anything right away, but he handed me a bottle of bourbon.
Feeling brave, I took a sip, winced at the heat that scorched my throat, and handed it back with a cough.
We sat side by side for a beat, soaking in the quiet hum of small-town living. The stars were faint tonight, blurred by leftover clouds, but the crickets had returned, and the world smelled like earth and something wild.
“She said you make her tummy feel good,” I said, studying my black rubber boots.
Austin didn’t look at me. “She’s a cool kid.”
I laughed. “She’s impossible. Moody. Dramatic. Smart in a way that actually terrifies me.” I exhaled dramatically. “But she really is the best.”
He let out a soft laugh. “I think I understand her.”
My body tilted slightly in his direction, and I hated that I didn’t correct it. I wanted to lean in, to press closer. I could smell him—woodsmoke, rain, something a little spicy clinging to his skin.
“You’re really good with her,” I finally admitted.
His chin tilted toward me as an eyebrow crept up his forehead. “You sound surprised.”
A laugh huffed from my chest. “I am.”
Austin finally turned his frame toward me, and the way he did—like he was peeling back layers I didn’t know I was still wearing—left my mouth dry.
“I don’t want to be surprised,” I added quickly. “I just . . . I didn’t expect all this.”
His voice dropped. “What did you expect?”
I swallowed hard. “Someone less invested. More temporary. More . . . typical.”
He leaned in slightly. “Do I seem temporary to you?”
God help me.
His face was inches from mine now, and I could feel the heat between us, like it had its own gravitational pull. My breath caught, and he saw it—he had to. His eyes dropped to my mouth.
Then I blinked and straightened, and the moment shattered.
I turned slightly, creating distance that didn’t feel natural. “I should go in.”
Austin exhaled slowly but didn’t move.
I stood, brushed imaginary dust from my shorts. “Thanks for the drink.”
He stood, too, closing the gap. “Selene.”
I looked up, already regretting the space I’d created.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, his fingertip burning a path down my arm before catching my wrist. “You can think about me later. When you touch yourself.” His voice was low, deliberate. “I might even hear it through the walls. And if you ask nicely . . . I might even join you.”
The words hit like a lightning strike—hot and delicious and completely inappropriate. I turned without answering, walked back through the door on legs that didn’t feel steady.
I closed it behind me, locked it with trembling fingers, and leaned against it, cheeks flaming and heart hammering.
I was in so much trouble.