The Ghost of Loon Lake (The Shores of Loon Lake #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

W ithout question, the hardest part about being a fake ghost was crafting the origin story. Ashley Hale—who was very much alive—learned that on the first day of haunting the lighthouse on the little island off the shore of Loon Lake. Jilted Bride felt too trite, and no one could do that narrative better than Dickens. Without the tired cliche, however, she came up empty. Her ideas were too modern for a supposedly early-twentieth-century spirit.

Hauntings didn’t just happen. And yet, the trauma of the event should be opaque to the actual phantom. Once the ghost understood their existence on the ephemeral plane, wouldn’t said soul fly away? Unless some unfinished business needed to be reconciled first.

Ashley should be able to invent something. After all, she was living through an unresolved problem of her own, and she was looking right at him through the smudged, single-pane window.

Her estranged husband strolled along the perfectly maintained lawn of the historic Queen Anne revival lakeside resort. The white siding gleamed crisp and clean. Green shutters and a cedar shingle roof only added to the pristine appearance. The Inn at Loon Lake was her family legacy.

Her family’s. Hers. Not his. Marriage hadn’t granted him blood rights. Nevertheless, he strolled along on a sunny June afternoon exchanging pleasantries with the guests as if nary a worry weighed him down.

Christopher’s toothy grin remained firmly in place, like a mayoral candidate on the campaign trail. She hated the way his smile curled her toes and electrified her skin. As much as she tried to loathe him over the years, she’d never succeeded. She’d loved him first, and she’d adore him forever. He was her weakness. Ten years ago, she’d learned a hard truth. She’d never be his choice.

The resort wasn’t his to claim yet. She had time. Xavier, her father, had waxed poetic about the family legacy for as long as she could remember. But, in the end, he hadn’t cared about the typical blood relations’ first inheritance. She shouldn’t have been surprised.

Dad’s backtracking had frustrated her for years. Although Dad had initially railed against her marriage, he had come to consider Christopher his son and his professional right hand. When Ashley wanted to leave after college, Dad promised her a role as an apprentice. Within six months, however, it became clear that Dad wanted to train her husband, not her. Frustrated at not being given a serious role in the organization, she told her husband she wanted to leave.

She didn’t have a plan but that never mattered. Her detail-oriented spouse always figured out boring details like food and shelter. Except, he didn’t want to go. She figured he would follow if she made good on her departure, and, determined to show Dad what he would lose with her absence, she had struck out. Too quickly, she realized she was on her own.

After his untimely death, Dad had left the property to either Ashley or her husband. The Inn would belong to whoever was the first to stay on the property for thirty consecutive days following her father’s death. As the acting innkeeper, her husband had a head start of five days. If she couldn’t get him off the property so the clock could start over in her favor, Ashley would lose her only chance at a future. But that wouldn’t happen. She’d scare her husband off the grounds in the next twenty-four hours and come out victorious.

As soon as she received word about her father’s passing from the family lawyer, she had left her life in Chicago. Growing up, all she’d wanted was to leave. Not too long after she hit the road, she regretted her choice. But the minute she found out her father was gone, she couldn’t return home fast enough.

She’d arrived late last night, leaving her car in the municipal parking lot a few miles away. Under the cover of darkness, she had snuck onto the property and into the fake lighthouse, constructed as a folly for tourists in the 1920s.

She had missed the memorial service, arriving after the ceremony and the tossing of his remains somewhere in the murky lake. With her free hand, she rubbed the side of her rib cage against the tight pang close to her heart. Dad had sworn she’d show up and mourn him at his funeral. His parting words traveled with her every stop from Portland, Maine, to Portland, Oregon, and her last known address in the windy city. She had promised him she’d dance on his grave and bitterly regretted those words every day since uttering the careless remark.

Since leaving Loon Lake she’d collected regrets like souvenirs. She swallowed the lump in her throat and narrowed her gaze, focusing all her frustration on her husband on the grassy lawn. After her marriage, her father had demanded the young couple sign a post-nuptial agreement to protect Ashley’s assets and the Inn.

Now, she had nothing valuable to safeguard, and the legal document worked against her. She couldn't recoup half of the property in a divorce settlement. Christopher would owe her nothing. He might want to end their relationship officially to be free and clear of her for good. She had never stopped hoping he'd find her so they could reconcile. Had she fooled herself with a childish fantasy?

She sat on a step on the spiral staircase below the window halfway up the tower. Her cheek pressed close to the dusty, spiderweb-covered walls. Arachnophobia had never been her style. Allergies, however, were. Her nose itched. She refused to give in to the sneeze and angled a handheld mirror close to the window sheers, catching the sunlight outside and redirecting it across the water into the corner of Christopher’s eye as he sauntered along the shore. He didn’t react. He didn’t squint or flinch or bat at the annoying spot of light.

Guests relaxed in lawn chairs, played bocce, and enjoyed the on-site restaurant’s menu options. From her vantage point, she couldn’t spot a single laptop, tablet, or cell phone. It was a scene from another time.

Founded in the nineteenth century, the Inn managed enough activities to distract guests from their devices. Loon Lake was an offshoot from the southern shore of Lake Superior, and a channel connected the two bodies of freshwater. When the Hale family had established their resort, they’d been the subject of scorn from many of the tradespeople in the area. But Randolph Hale, her great-great-great-grandfather, had imagined a time when the lake wouldn’t be solely dedicated to commerce. And he’d been absolutely correct.

Another dust mote floated past her. She held her breath, choking on the sneeze. The Inn she’d left had been dingy like the lighthouse. Why hadn’t Christopher fixed up this building, too?

Her father had invented a story about cursed treasure to discourage curious guests after the building had fallen into disrepair. However, the fake legend backfired, luring a few hearty, and gullible, souls to scour the lakeshore with metal detectors. A smart manager would realize an opportunity and use the prime location.

When she was in charge, she’d make the picturesque spot a priority. With a lifetime spent in the hospitality industry, she had only discovered her penchant for marketing after she left. She could use her skills to revamp the Inn for the modern traveler.

She was tempted to grab her cell phone and snap pictures for her carefully crafted social media accounts. Hey, girlies! Wish you were here? You could be. I’m back at my family’s Inn for good. #girlboss. She’d caption an image of herself in a flowy, white sundress under an overcast sky. She’d give the camera her back. The vibrant greens of the grass and forest would pop. She’d get a ton of likes. In recent months, she hadn’t had too many envy-inducing posts. Lately, her accounts had focused on her exploits at her coffee shop job, seeking to reframe her poor barista skills as self-deprecating and relatable.

Nothing about her current circumstance was enviable. She hadn’t updated her pages in several days. Curating her life online was much more satisfying than actually living it. In her captions and carefully staged images, she was the heroine of her story. Too often, she felt like the sidekick or the joke. The stories she told herself had changed over the years. Every revisit of her archives was like time traveling. This morning, when she had awoken too early after a night on an air mattress, she relived some highlights. Christmas in Chicago looked aspirational instead of hopelessly lonely as she wandered the Magnificent Mile on the verge of tears.

She gave herself a shake. In every weakness was a strength. She could employ every bit of her recent past, including the current charade, to her benefit. Maybe her backstory as the wayward child wasn’t reason enough for a ghost to haunt a building, but it was motivation to reach for her goals and succeed. Everyone loved a second chance, and she couldn’t wait for hers to start. Once she was openly staying at the Inn, she’d lean into her passion for storytelling and boost the Inn’s profile. She had the shots already arranged.

Much as she would have liked to, she couldn’t avoid spotting her father’s handiwork all over the perfectly manicured lawn and terrace. From the waiters circulating with glasses of ice water to the staff constantly monitoring the chaises and chairs, pulling down more seats and opening umbrellas as needed, she witnessed the courtesy that had been Dad’s hallmark. He had loved to take the utmost care of his guests and badgered her to do the same.

She’d asked him for proper training rather than his occasional anecdotes. He’d laughed then and asked her if she could work longer than half an hour without a break. He was probably still chuckling on the other side now.

Had he wanted her to come and battle for her place? She’d thought leaving would prove he had underestimated her to his own detriment. Was all of this upheaval due to Xavier’s desire for her to stake her claim and stay for good? If she wasn’t so desperate for the property, her only real chance at making a happy life for herself, she wouldn’t give his memory the satisfaction of fighting for it.

“Bocce will begin in twenty minutes.” Christopher’s calm voice was crisp, and his delivery was short. “Don’t miss your chance to be declared the weekend’s champion.”

She rolled her eyes and tracked her husband as he handed the megaphone to a polo-shirt-clad employee. He turned and shook a guest’s hand before patting the man on the back and grinning broadly. Bocce? Glad-handing? Really?

The job didn’t suit him. Didn’t anyone hear the edge in his stilted words? She could, and would, do so much better. With guests, she was warm and welcoming. Charm was her strength.

Her analytical, logical husband would destroy her dad’s legacy. If her father hadn’t realized what would happen by changing the terms of his will, she did. She’d known Christopher Lewis her entire life and provided him with every good and bad idea. He wasn’t creative or inventive; he left all the brainstorming to her. He’d slowly kill the resort if given total authority.

She pictured the slow unraveling first of the resort and then the nearby community—not to mention her own aimless life—if she didn’t take control. She’d been gone long enough to own up to her misdeeds, and she’d lived with the consequences for years.

Losing the chance to make up with Dad would haunt her remaining days. Her shot at redemption required her to take over and successfully run the business. Honoring him with hard work was the only way to exorcise the demons haunting her.

She squinted. Christopher’s dazzling smile as he laughed with guests was blinding. His husky, low chortle carried across the water and sent a shiver along her spine. She had loved making him laugh. His genuine amusement was rare. As a child, he’d been serious. During their teenage years, he concealed his emotions like he’d be arrested at any display of feeling. Now he just gave away his smiles for free. Maybe he has changed. She harrumphed.

Flashing a light wasn’t cutting it. Ashley pocketed the mirror and carefully leaned back on the spiral staircase to avoid making too much noise. Built on a rocky outcropping grandly called an island, the building was little more than a tower with a non-functioning beacon and a widow’s walk around the exterior cupola that provided an unobstructed view of the lake.

With no additional rooms or insulation to absorb noise, sounds inside the building echoed outside, carrying over the wooden bridge leading to the resort’s shore. If she wanted to grab his attention, she had to get a little loud. She scooted closer to the window, unlatched the sash, and slid it up a few inches. Pressing her face against a wall, she kept her chin even with the ledge but hidden from view.

Too many of her plans relied on a wing and a prayer. Right now, she needed action. She breathed deep, inhaling the smell of fresh water and weeds. Wherever she went, she never forgot that perfume. She couldn’t shake a lot of the things that plagued her.

Outside, her husband walked to the edge of the sand, frowning at the water.

Was he trying to gauge the temperature? Cold as ice was her guess. A shudder wracked her body. The water had never been warm enough for her. She expected to catch sight of Steve and Carl Prim on the lake, driving tourists around in their sightseeing boats. She looked forward to it as a diversion from her self-imposed boredom. Without any distractions, welcome or otherwise, she focused all her energy on her husband at the shore. She needed to unnerve him.

Unless he crossed the bridge, he wasn’t coming closer. This was her moment to frighten him. She released a breathy sound somewhere between a word and a gasp. “Waaaaa-waaaaa-waaaaafffffles.” She teased the word.

He flinched.

She grinned, his jerking motions more rewarding than she’d imagined. This was going to be fun. Scare him off, stay for thirty uninterrupted days, and start the rest of her life. Check, check, check.

* * *

If Christopher Lewis believed in ghosts, which he absolutely did not, he might have had doubts based on recent events that suggested something amiss at the Inn on Loon Lake.

As he strolled along the lawn of the Inn, smiling and nodding at guests enjoying the late morning sun on a day still too chilly for swimming, he heard it.

“Waaaaaaaaffffflllleeess,” a female voice moaned.

He didn’t need to look at the lighthouse to know where the sound came from. Only one person thought the property was preyed upon by supernatural forces. Without a doubt, she was the one behind the current ghosting.

A haunting shouldn’t be tailor-made for one specific person. Unless she hoped invoking the name of his beloved childhood pet would somehow terrify him. The dog had died of natural causes at the ripe age of sixteen. Waffles wouldn’t return to the lighthouse. The terrier hated the place.

Christopher took a full, easy breath for the first time in years. His lungs expanded and contracted, no hitches or hiccups. He’d wanted to call her so many times over the last decade to explain but her father forbade him from telling her what Christopher had learned in his accounting position. He should have told her about her dad’s passing. Under the circumstances, however, he had stuck to the tried and true, feigning ignorance of her situation. He had instructed the lawyers to contact her and maintain the fa?ade that he was clueless about her whereabouts.

He’d regretted every second since his wife had left. Ashley was home now. The prodigal had returned with no fanfare or welcome. Instead, she had hatched a plot. He’d congratulate her on her clever attempt to evict him from the property, if she hadn’t underestimated his desire to stay.

Scanning the Inn, he was pleased the replacement shingles had finally faded into uniformity with the rest of the roof. Poor flashing around the dormers had caused a leak that cost a bundle to fix. He prided himself on the flawless image of the business but never knew a moment without calculating costs.

Would Ashley understand the relentless passion required for success in this competitive industry? Did she have the drive? She had returned to take over, but they had shielded her from the operation’s struggles.

Years ago, he had been culpable in hiding the Inn’s dire circumstances from her at her late father’s insistence. Carrying on the family’s hundred-year-plus legacy, Xavier focused on his business, harming his relationship with his only child because he hadn’t wanted her to know the extent of his financial mismanagement. Christopher had had a front-row seat for the pain on both sides.

Xavier had been blind to his daughter’s need to be involved and was too proud to admit his faults to her. Once Christopher had shown him the problems, Xavier trusted Christopher to find the solutions. The arrangement had worked well. When Ashley asked Christopher to leave, she had put him in the unbearable position of choosing between his head and his heart.

Christopher’s decision to stay had been about preserving her legacy for their shared future. At the time, he hadn’t known how to verbalize his feelings without giving away the truth her father had asked him to hide. Every day, Christopher tortured himself by playing what might’ve happened if he had followed her.

As long as he’d known her, he’d listened to her stories about all the places she’d visit as soon as she left Loon Lake. She’d kept her word, traveling to every one of those and more. He wished he had said something to stop or stall her departure. Ashley had taken the spark of the Inn and the people she loved with her when she left.

She could walk away. Christopher wasn’t so lucky. And now, with her return, he definitely couldn’t leave. She’d be in over her head. Did she falsely remember the Inn in its current, immaculate state?

He remembered too much. Like every fix over the past ten years and how he’d agonized over triaging the finances to stay afloat. Other flashbacks plagued him, too. In quiet moments, he’d replayed every single moment they had spent together from childhood until the day she left.

“Waaaaaffffffffllllleeeesssss,” she called again, low and deep.

He turned and spotted a waiter carrying a breakfast tray, the smell of syrup wafting past. His stomach growled. Maybe her moan was more about a craving than scaring him off. But he doubted it. If he knew his wife, he’d expect some sort of elaborate scheme to get him off the property so she could start the thirty-day clock over again in her favor.

He hoped a guest would ask him about the noise so he could loudly proclaim the lighthouse must have an infestation of vermin, but no one seemed to notice. He could imagine her groan at being referred to as a pest. She’d shake the lighthouse to its foundation. Sure, he’d been foolish enough as a child to find her fictional ghost stories scary, but adult life was far too terrifying to worry about anything else.

Would he have known it was her if he hadn’t been expecting her every minute of the last week? Her father’s sudden death took everyone by surprise. Xavier Hale had been inimitable and, at times, more institution than human.

With a nod to another guest, Christopher strode back the way he came, dodging and weaving through the servers and bussers as he entered the Inn through the restaurant.

Linen-topped tables filled the walnut-paneled room. Overhead, the chandeliers sparkled. The setting was both intimate and grand, the thick carpet absorbing sounds and creating a hushed environment.

“Monsieur Lewis,” a heavily accented male voice called.

Christopher lifted his gaze, spotting the ma?tre d’.

Dressed in a tux with slicked-back hair and a tiny mustache, Pierre Leduc was straight from central casting for a French ma?tre d’. Holding a stack of menus, he tipped his head toward the kitchen.

A problem already? It’s barely eleven. Christopher shook off the thought. Whatever crisis arose, he could solve it. He always did. Now his wife was back, and he could make amends with the biggest outstanding issue in his life—his marriage.

He strode to the swinging door, restraining himself from whistling. He didn’t want to startle the employees with a cheery tune and good mood. Instead, he schooled his features into a calm mask and followed his longtime employee into the bustling kitchen. Chopping knives, rushing water, and time calls bounced off the walls from every direction. Add in the melting butter, frying eggs, and baking bread, and Christopher’s stomach growled again, this time louder than the other-worldly moans echoing over the water.

Pierre stopped inside the door and thrust the menus forward. “Have you looked at these?”

Christopher shook his head and then frowned at himself. “I haven’t inspected the box, no. I verified the order before we sent it to the printer.” He grabbed the stack.

Typically, he didn’t miss a single detail. The delivery had arrived in the chaos of the funeral, and he’d forgotten to check the boxes. He opened the first leather portfolio. His heart dropped. The new menus were printed off-center. He could kick himself. He’d lost a couple days of fixing a problem because his focus wavered.

“As you can see, Monsieur, the product is unacceptable,” Pierre said, sniffing.

It wasn’t the worst oversight. Most guests wouldn’t notice. But the spacing would bug Christopher. He’d know and remember every time he passed the restaurant. For the perfectionist ma?tre d’, the menus would not pass muster, either.

Christopher had taken the resort’s business to a family-run print shop in town for years. The company, Print Your Way, was under the son’s management after the tragic loss of the father due to a short illness a year earlier. Clearly, Christopher had to keep a better watch as the printer worked through growing pains, not a totally unexpected occurrence as yet another generational hand off occurred. Add in the new boss’s side projects, drumming up interest in a lake monster and a burgeoning motivational sticker business, and it wasn’t surprising that errors happened.

Christopher nodded. “Apologies.”

Pierre tipped his head, mollified. The Frenchman took any error as a personal slight.

Christopher would fix the problem like he always did. He was a walking fire extinguisher and a compass all in one, putting out flames and guiding the lost in the right direction. His skills weren’t always appreciated, but he carried on, undeterred by the lack of enthusiasm or gratitude. “I’ll take care of this right now,” Christopher said, meeting the gaze of the ma?tre d’. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

“Of course.” Pierre nodded. “I’ll have your order of oatmeal delivered to your office.”

“Actually, can you get me the waffle special?” Christopher licked his lips. He could almost taste the syrup.

Pierre turned and snapped at a server. “Waffles for the boss.”

Christopher backed out of the busy kitchen and continued to the employee-only hallway with the spiral staircase in the corner. He jogged up the steps to the top of the building, smiling to himself once he was out of view. While he had missed something during an understandably tense few days, how much would she miss? Ashley wasn’t known for her attention to detail.

Did she intend to kick him out and take over the resort? She was kidding herself if she thought running the Inn was easy. He’d be curious to watch her try.

With his steps ringing on every metal riser, he opened a door and let himself into his top-floor office space. He had converted the attics into more guest accommodation and created an office and apartment for himself. Striding past the large partner’s desk, he dropped the stack of menus onto the inset leather top. He’d call the printer and have the situation handled in minutes. His years of experience were invaluable and made the work look simple. Every single day, he handled problems of various sizes. Amid the chaos of hospitality, he remained unflappable.

He crossed the room toward the seating area near the window overlooking the lake and the lighthouse. He probably had binoculars somewhere. Not that he’d be able to spot her inside the building.

Her official return was five days too late to claim the resort, unless he abandoned the Inn. Regardless of the details, he had no intention of leaving. He’d worked too hard for too long, sacrificing a lot along the way. But now, maybe, they could both find a different path forward. They could find a resolution to their strained situation. They could let go of each other and move on for good.

He sank into one of the leather club chairs, slumping against the back. He’d hoped she’d have arrived in time for the funeral. His mind had tricked him into thinking she had.

Xavier hadn’t left specific instructions regarding his burial but general guidelines. He detested the idea of rotting in a coffin in the ground. Instead, he had asked to be tossed in the lake with no religious rites. Christopher didn’t dump a body into the icy waters like Xavier had suggested off-hand at one point. Instead, Christopher had the man cremated and welcomed the townsfolk to the shore, giving everyone the chance to say their goodbyes without any doctrinal ceremony. As he had stood at the front, the breeze had blown off the lake, carrying a hint of his wife’s perfume past his nose. But when he had turned, he hadn’t spotted any secret mourners grieving behind the trees.

Leaning forward, he dug his elbows into his thighs. The change in posture didn’t improve his view of the lighthouse. Short of knocking on the door and letting himself inside, he wouldn’t get visual confirmation of his suspicions.

Not that he needed to do so. He was one hundred percent certain.

He knew she was here.

Her social media went dark two days ago. That was the biggest clue she was on her way north. It must be killing her not share everything she was doing and seeing with her eager followers. And eating. Ashley loved a hot meal.

He based his convictions on more than surfing the web. In his very bones, he was aware of her presence. He couldn’t help it or turn off his awareness. She pulled him towards her like a magnet, recalibrating his polarity and world.

If he waited her out, would he see smoke rising from the lighthouse in the evening as she cooked? He was going to enjoy this. With warning and time, he’d figure out the best path for both of them. Hadn’t she accused and praised him for being cool and collected?

First, he’d hold a movie under the stars tonight. He’d play her favorite but angle the screen out of view. And then he’d have the kitchen to prepare fresh popcorn. Culinary torture was going to be fun.

Without her, he hadn’t much to enjoy. His world had gone from bright to drab the second she left. She could forgive him for his behavior. He’d do the same for her. All she had to do was meet him face to face.

A knock sounded at the door.

With a heavy breath, he stood and pushed aside his plans under a veneer of professionalism. She couldn’t help but cloud his thoughts. Her attempt at haunting threw him for a loop. But he’d right himself.

The door shook again, the knock insistent.

“Come in,” he called as he sat in his chair. He was the boss. He’d let no one forget it.