Gold Dust Woman (Ivy Hollow #1)

Prologue

Tristan

The tragedy of being a ghost is that time moves on, and I don’t.

People live, people die. The clock keeps ticking. I watch the world around me change, but I can’t participate in it.

I can’t quantify how often in my afterlife I’ve wished for time to slow down just enough for me to feel like I was a part of all the beautiful things that exist around me.

Nothing lasts as long as it should in the mortal world.

The seasons change so quickly and without warning.

Snow melts. Spring blooms then withers. Summer is a moment of hot sun on the horizon.

Autumn is the melancholy longing for a vibrant life to stay just a little longer.

Wishing is a part of death. I spend a lot of time wishing, yearning for things I can’t have.

One more day. The taste of food. The touch of a woman.

To have a conversation. To be seen, if only for a moment.

But most of all, I wish for time to slow down, or better yet, to stand still long enough for me to enjoy something, anything.

Then, one day, it did .

The day Demi St. James moved into my house.

1

Demi

I bought a haunted house and left my boyfriend, in that order.

Ivy Hollow is a small, sleepy New England town about four miles from the coast. We’re known for two things: our charming Main Street and our haunted mansion. Beaumont Manor is a legend around these parts, and I caused quite the stir in the village when I ponied up the cash and bought it.

I’m sitting in Juniper’s Cafe, sipping on a Cherry Coke at the diner’s bar.

This place was built in the fifties and hasn’t changed one bit since then.

Its walls are a faded peachy pink, and the floors are chipped checkerboard tiles alternating white and sea-foam green.

There are six uncomfortable stools at the bar, and five vinyl booths with Formica tables lining the opposite wall.

It smells like burgers and milkshakes. Inevitably, the smell clings to my hair and clothes for a few minutes every time I leave.

I love everything about it.

The owner of the Cafe brings me a fresh Cherry Coke and a conspiratorial grin. She’s a tall brunette in her thirties, affectionately known in town as Juniper Junior. She comes from a long line of women in her family named Juniper, all of whom have owned the diner.

Juniper Junior leans down with her elbows on the bar and nods behind me. “The Pams are talking about you again, Demi. ”

I don’t need to turn around to know who she’s talking about.

Ivy Hollow’s resident busybodies: a group of three septuagenarian women with white hair and the belief that, because of their advanced age, they’ve earned the right to complain about everything.

Pam, Kim, and Bitsy are mostly indistinguishable from each other because they’re all white women in their early seventies with the same short, permed hairstyle and the same narrow reading glasses.

They’re the bane of the existence of the Main Street shop owners, myself included.

Because no one can really tell them apart, we just call them The Pams. We’ve had whole board meetings about them.

I tilt my head to listen in.

“The St. James girl bought the Beaumont place.”

“The widow?”

“No, the widow’s younger sister. The one who owns the record store.”

“Do people even buy records anymore?”

“She sells books there, too. Cute place. A little dusty.”

“Sells enough books and records that she could afford to buy that ?house?”

“Beaumont Manor isn’t exactly prime real estate. Hasn’t been for a long time.”

“That girl has always been a little… off. ”

“Just like her aunts.”

“And her sister.”

“You’d have to be a little off to buy a haunted mansion on your own, for chrissakes.”

I mean…they’re not wrong.

I smile at Juniper Junior. “Do you think they know I’m right here? ”

She shrugs, her brown eyes glittering with mischief.

“Should I make this really awkward?” I ask.

“I’ve never wanted anything more in my whole life,” Juniper Junior replies.

With a nod, I stand and saunter over to The Pams’ table, taking my Cherry Coke with me.

They’re so engrossed in their discussion about me that it takes them a beat to even notice when I slide myself into the booth next to the least obnoxious Pam.

I think this one is Bitsy, but one can never be certain.

“Ladies,” I say, by way of greeting.

Their discomfort is so thick, I could cut it with a knife. I smile warmly at them, then take a long sip of my soda through the straw, letting the awkward silence stretch until one of the Pams finally breaks it.

“Hi, Demi,” she says, making a show of looking around the diner for other empty seats and checking to see if maybe I sat down with them because it was the only place to sit. It wasn’t. “Did you just get here?”

My smile spreads to a playful grin, and I shake my head. “Nah, I’ve been here for a while.”

They share a glance, then one of them pats my hand.

“We were in the middle of a private conversation, hun,” she says.

“Was it really that private if I could hear you from the bar?” I ask. The looks on their faces are worth their weight in gold.

I’m not mad that they’ve been talking about me; I’m not even annoyed.

Ivy Hollow is a small town, and everyone talks about everyone.

Everyone here is a little quirky, but admittedly, the St. James family has always been at the top of the weirdo hierarchy.

Being part of that ?family in a tight-knit community leads to one of two paths: painful insecurity or the audacity to give no fucks.

My mother took the first path, which is why she no longer lives in Ivy Hollow.

My sister and I, along with our aunts, took the second.

My aunts, Kitty and Mickey, own the Apothecary on Main Street, where they sell sundries of the earthy and mystical variety.

Oils and incense, candles and crystals, spell books and charms. They make a killing off the tourists, but most locals love it too.

Obviously, the good people of Ivy Hollow think Kitty and Mickey are witches. They’re not wrong.

Blue St, James, my sister, is thirty years old and childless, with arms covered in tattoos, and a bad attitude.

She lives alone in a cottage by the sea, just outside of town, and has always been a little antisocial.

It’s not that she’s mean , per se; it’s just that she has no patience for bullshit and keeps her circle small.

Really small. It’s gotten more extreme since her husband died.

People started calling her The Widow, and she just sort of started leaning into the stereotype and lore of it, I guess.

Then there’s me. I’m a glass mostly full, but take no shit kind of gal.

When I was young, teachers always told my mom that I was an “old soul.” I’ve always felt that I belong in a different era.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been drawn to music and memorabilia from decades past. It’s also why I opened my shop, Gold Dust Woman, right next door to the Apothecary.

I sell rare records and books, and I do, in fact, make enough money to buy a haunted house. Up front. In cash .

“I’m not sure what you overheard,” one of the Pams begins.

I lean in a little and lower my voice. “I overheard the three of you being messy.”

Aghast, they all start talking at once, and I wait it out with a patient smile, amused at the way they’re trying to scramble their way to solid ground.

One thing about The Pams: they hate confrontation unless they’re doing the confronting.

After a full minute or two of some minor gaslighting attempts, I hold my hands up, palms out, like I’m trying to prove to an uppity dog that I’m not a threat.

“Listen, I just figured I could sit down and give you the facts so you could stop speculating. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do with your time than talk about me,” I say, knowing full well that they absolutely have nothing better to do.

My directness seems to soothe them, and the Pam next to me asks, “Why Beaumont Manor? It’s a lot of house for one person. Not to mention what happened there.”

“It’s the prettiest house in Ivy Hollow. I’ve always loved it,” I say with a shrug.

“Pretty?” she asks with an expression like she smells something rotten. “It’s old and spooky.”

I shake my head and chuckle. They’re making it way too easy.

“I kind of have a thing for old and spooky. Why do you think I like the three of you so much?” I reply with a wink.