Chapter 3
Chapter Three
S ince when did a to-go order not include a fork? Ashley used the remaining sourdough crust as a utensil, shoveling every last morsel of creamy, perfectly scrambled eggs into her mouth. Cross-legged on an air mattress with only the ambient light of her cell phone screen, she devoured her food. After every bite, she fought off a moan. She supposed giving into the sound would only add to the otherworldly atmosphere she created. Not that she’d had much success in scaring off Christopher.
With a snort, she wiped her hands on a napkin, assessing the angry, red scratches on her hands. Nothing oozed. In a few days, she’d heal. If she had access to an antibiotic cream, she’d improve faster. The unglamorous start to her return only solidified her resolve.
Without Dad to block her, she could finally take on a real role in the business. Even if it was a little late. A decade was a long absence. She had felt every second of it, her heart hanging back on her home shores. But she wasn’t leaving again. A warm meal convinced her she had the wherewithal to claim it all. Now. She finished eating, changed into her nightgown, and turned off her phone. She grabbed her pocket flashlight, holding the pink cylinder in her mouth as she worked.
She powered on LED battery votive candles in three glass lanterns and hooked each to a rope, climbing the spiral staircase to adjust each lantern and double-check the line’s strength. During the day, she’d set up a pulley system. Her plan was simple. Create a ghostly light show with just enough lanterns to grab attention but not too many to make it seem suspicious. She couldn’t have planned the weather better. With the thick cloud cover, the lights would pop against the dark night.
She had owned the props long before she came up with her current scheme, ordering the accessories for staging photos at her previous address. Her roommates hadn’t put up any fuss about her leaving. She’d found a subletter among the other coffee shop employees to cover the last three months of the lease. If anything, her roommates liked the new roomie better than her. They definitely had more in common with the younger woman.
Ashley had been something of an elder stateswoman at age thirty-three, seven years older than the college best friends who put an ad in the paper that she accepted. Or, perhaps more accurately, she was a living, breathing cautionary tale. She proved every parental fear justified. From the comparative literature degree she’d earned but never quite adapted to a real-world job, to her failed young marriage; if a parent advised against a rash choice, Ashley proved why the choice was doomed. For the first time in years, she’d made the right choice. Now she needed to keep that positive momentum going.
Buttoning up her high collar, she adjusted the sleeves of the gown. She’d owned one like this in her childhood when she’d been obsessed with Anne of Green Gables . That was the same age she’d been when she first started daydreaming about a ghost haunting the property. She wasn’t scared of the idea but electrified by it. A chance to continue her life’s pursuit from beyond the grave? Yes, please.
She had spent a whole summer sneaking into the attic to set ghost traps of her own invention. Long before the town had reliable internet, she dug up what information she could find about disappearances or deaths on the property at the local library. Surprisingly, she found nothing. Given the history of the Inn, she expected at least one tragedy or accident on the grounds.
But she remained undeterred and switched her focus to fiction. She read gothic romances and gleaned the importance of the attic to any phantom regardless of the place of their death. With her research, she developed a flawless plan. She could see when the surface was disrupted if she covered the floor with either paint or flour. With candles set around the room, she’d have both a talisman against any bad spirits and a way to monitor any disturbances in the air. Images of flickering flames stoked her imagination.
Her scientific study would have given definitive proof. Her questions would have been answered. Christopher was the unexpected hitch in her otherworldly experiment. Instead of helping her carry six boxes of votive candles and three ten-pound bags of flour, he watched with a scowl. He sat cross-legged on the floor at the base of the rickety, pull-down stairs to the attic. She counted to ten when she finished her last trip to the supply closet to acquire her necessary supplies. From the corner of her eye, she spotted him as he entered the attic. He must have followed her to snoop.
She set the last candle in its place and realized she hadn’t grabbed a matchbook. The second her feet hit the carpet below, her dad grabbed her from behind. Her father yelled like he never had before. Christopher hid in the corner, like she wouldn’t know he was there, and had ratted her out to her dad. Afterward, she spent the rest of the day cleaning the attic from top to bottom. She hadn’t had to suffer alone. Her tattletale had offered his assistance then. She had given him the silent treatment, ignoring his protests that he had acted out of concern.
When she reached the easternmost turret, near the window overlooking the lake and the lighthouse, however, she experienced an odd sensation. Her skin suddenly chilled, and the quiet in the attic became oppressive. Maybe she could pause her anger for a moment.
“If I were a ghost, I’d hide there.” With half an hour of quiet, her voice squeaked from disuse.
Had he heard her?
She glanced over her shoulder.
He straightened, dumping a full dustpan of flour and dust into the garbage they’d lugged up the steps.
“Right over there, you know?” She pointed to the lighthouse. She knew the lighthouse was fake. But why couldn’t a ghost choose that spot? It had a superb view and a cozy setting on its own little island.
He rolled his eyes. “Stop pretending. Ghosts aren’t real.”
“Why do you keep insisting they aren’t? You’re smart, but you don’t know everything. Plenty of stuff can’t be explained.”
“No one has ever reported seeing a ghost on the property. Ever. Ghosts don’t just happen.”
She shrugged. “Maybe sometimes they do.”
“No. They need a purpose.”
She crossed her arms and stuck out her bottom lip.
“I’m serious, Ashley. Stop it. Drop it.”
And roll? Usually, her pouting worked its charm on him, convincing him to see her side of things. But that day, Christopher held firm, and she didn’t push him too far. That might have been the only time she didn’t keep up her side of an argument until he surrendered. And it stuck with her. He didn’t always agree. If only she’d known then that his love had limits, she would have saved herself a lot of pain by not falling so completely head over heels.
Over the years, she had floated the idea of a ghost on the property a few times. Christopher had never taken the bait. She hadn’t been able to shake off the experience or her belief. While she had eventually conceded that her imagination impeded the true scientific method, she wasn’t eager to repeat the experience for research. A person could live the rest of their life fearing a mysterious entity.
Although, now she supposed she was becoming the mysterious first wife figure she’d long feared.
“Okay. Here it goes,” she told no one.
A cold feeling settled over her shoulders. Dread? Fear? Something else? When it came to fear, she was her own worst enemy, part of the downside of her enthusiastic creativity.
She grabbed one end of the cord she’d looped through the staircase. She had tied knots to secure the lanterns on either side of the hooks. Her plan was simple. Pull the cord back and forth, lifting and shaking the three lights.
Besides not getting attention, her only real concern was broken glass cutting her air mattress. Sleeping on the ground wasn’t ideal. She tugged on the cord, the votives dancing. At the same moment, an icy breeze howled past the lighthouse.
For a moment, the wind had a deep, raspy voice. Good, maybe someone would shut a window against the sound or the chill. She didn’t care as long as she got attention from the the Inn’s occupants. She pulled harder and faster, desperation fueling her. If her haunting was going to get noticed, she couldn’t waste the prime opportunity provided by nature.
“Mmmiiiinnne now. Mmmiiiinnne now.” She sang the words low, the hum coursing through her whole body.
A chill snaked through her veins.
“Mmmmiiiiinnnnnee,” she chanted the word, letting the reverberations warm her from the inside out. “Mmmiiiiinnnneee.”
She shook the lanterns harder, a tremor wracking her and her chin trembling. Outside the lighthouse, the night was quiet. The wind stopped. She was the only noisemaker around. The silence covered her like a heavy blanket. She had experienced the same oppression once before in the attic with Christopher. Had she predicted her doom that day? Was THIS her ghost origin story?
She wasn’t sure how long she kept up the work. Lost in her old fears and new worries, she entered an almost meditative state. When the lanterns smashed, and the fire sparked, she was unsure how to explain the events. Could an LED get hot enough for a blaze? Had she witnessed a dangerous, deadly miracle?
The flames caught on the sheer window treatments at the top of the lighthouse.
She had triple-checked everything. While she was, admittedly, a bit unreliable in the long run, she was meticulous and detail-oriented in the short term. Schemes demanded her full attention. But it didn’t matter. She refused to go up in smoke. Haunting the fake lighthouse for eternity? No, thank you. She’d be too out of sight, out of mind for any meaningful encounters.
She grabbed her phone off the mattress and raced to the door. Smoke filled the tower now. She coughed, choking on the acrid air, grabbed the handle, and rushed outside.
She raced forward, unseeing. Her steps were loud and heavy as she ran barefoot over the wooden bridge.
Barreling ahead, she didn’t look up. The second she slammed into a solid chest, muscular arms wrapping around her, she collapsed. She didn’t need to see to know. She was in his arms, and she was home.
* * *
The rescue was a fluke.
Christopher gripped her upper arms. She clung to him like she would drown in the lake if she didn’t. If he clutched any tighter, he’d bruise her. He couldn’t bring himself to let go.
Christopher shouldn’t have spotted the flames. Well past his usual quitting time, he stayed in his office, facing the lake and finishing a few emails. From the corner of his eye, a spark of light had flashed. Turning toward the windows, he hadn’t seen anything else. And then a burst of orange flame.
He had raced out of the attic down the tight staircase to the employee exit on the main floor. He grabbed the fire extinguisher off the mount near the door, one of many he had set up around the Inn. Fire terrified him. Since watching a well-meaning but harshly delivered cartoon PSA about not getting trapped inside a burning building, he only gave one element the power to scare him.
As he had pounded the grass under his feet, all he could think was, what if he’d gone to bed? In his studio apartment, the window facing the lake was up high in his bathroom. He’d have slept soundly. What would have happened to her?
He reached the bridge, his heartbeat picking up pace until he thought his boiling blood would poison him. He couldn’t lose her for real. Whether by the hand of fate or a human accident, the reason he jumped to action didn’t matter. Whatever the cause, he was on his way to the rescue. Because she matters more than anyone else in my life.
A world without Ashley Hale in it was sad and gray. He knew from first-hand experience. But if he thought she was gone for good? He’d never recover.
The door to the lighthouse had opened, slamming against the side of the building.
He had frozen in place. As if time slowed, he stood, waiting.
Her nightgown billowed behind her, like an angel. As she came closer, her blue eyes widened, looking hot and wild with fear, he never pictured her terrified. This wasn’t a dream come true.
He held open his arms, and she crashed into him.
She had thrown her arms around his neck, sagging against his chest as if it was the most natural thing to do.
He wanted to wrap her tight in a hug. He needed to squeeze her and hold her and never let her go. She belonged in his arms. She’d hurtled back into him, and he wasn’t letting her slip away again.
But he couldn’t. His clammy palms slipped down her arms. He couldn’t grip her. A fire raged behind her. He had to stop trying to embrace her and save the lighthouse. He dropped his heavy arms to his sides.
“Stay here,” he murmured into her ear, catching the smell of her lavender shampoo. The scent haunted him for years. He could never find the exact bottle and brand. Or maybe she was the secret ingredient.
She stepped away.
The chill snaked his skin at the sudden loss of her warmth. He’d think about that later. Right now, he focused. He jogged over the bridge and stopped several feet from the open doorway. Flames licked the wooden frame. The burst of oxygen from the open door fueled the blaze. He’d be too late to save the building if he didn't stop the fire now. He pulled the pin from the fire extinguisher and depressed the handle, spraying the foaming detergent in a wide arc. Was he making enough progress? Time lost meaning as he focused on the current situation, his famous myopia activating.
The white foam coated everything, but still, he saw sparks in the back. Coughing, he moved forward and into the doorway. The still smoky air hung heavy, irritating his lungs. He sprayed inside the tower. Miraculously, he extinguished the last spark as he emptied the canister.
One problem tackled.
He scanned the interior. It remained as sparsely decorated as ever. It hadn’t been in use for decades. He’d meant to look into renovating the property as a specialty suite. He spotted an air mattress, a duffle bag, and backpack. His heart sank. Her whole life packed in a couple pieces of luggage.
In his worst moments, he hadn’t wanted her to be miserable. Mired in sadness enough for the both of them, he took no joy in her pain. He dropped the empty metal can on the ground.
Footfall echoed off the wooden bridge. He turned.
She entered the foam-filled mess. “Thanks for your help,” she said. Her voice sounded fraught and far-off.
He studied her.
She nibbled her lip, wrinkling her nose in that adorable fashion she’d had since childhood. It was the admitting-guilt face that always betrayed her protests of innocence during a crime.
“Do you think we should call the fire department?” she asked. “I can’t believe no one called the emergency number already. Doesn’t anyone care about their neighbors anymore?”
The woman, squatting on private property, was upset she hadn’t been noticed? She hadn’t lost her nerve. Or she correctly called his bluff. He wouldn’t have called the police to escort her off the premises, and he doubted anyone would have taken his side in an argument about her unlawful trespassing. Then he remembered who he was dealing with. She was Miss Center of the Universe. He’d forgotten that unfortunate side of her personality in favor of the good things. Like her eternal optimism. Although, positive thoughts hadn’t helped her much.
She sank to the ground, pulled out the plug on the partially melted air mattress, and stuffed her belongings into a duffle. “Guess you’re surprised to see me.”
He almost snorted. Instead, he joined her on the floor, kneeling on the air mattress to speed up the deflation process. “I’m shocked you set fire to the lighthouse. I thought you liked this building.”
“I did. I do,” she squeaked. She finished packing her belongings and zipped the bag. With a huff, she straightened. “This was an accident that I am not responsible for! I have committed no crime.”
He folded the mattress and frowned at his handiwork. Better to make faces at plastic than his wife. “This mattress is a lost cause.” He dropped it to the ground and straightened.
She sniffed her backpack and coughed. “I might need all the detergent in the Inn to get the smoky smell out of my clothes.”
He dusted his palms together and studied her billowing nightgown. The color was dull and dingy, probably from the smoke. “I can wash your clothes. You should have planned better. Pyrotechnics are hardly for amateurs.”
“You can’t really think this was me. If I would have deliberately set a fire to create a big scene, it would have involved something much showier, like fireworks.”
He shook his head. She backed away from outrage to self-deprecation fast. Very few things in her life received careful consideration and seriousness. They had filled their days with hijinks and hilarity. He'd enjoyed very little of either in the years since she'd been gone. Without her, he had no reason to laugh or tease. He had no one to share his life with.
“Come on, I have a vacant suite upstairs you can stay in.”
She nodded, slipping the backpack on her shoulders. “Sorry about the fire.”
He bent and grabbed the duffle, surveying the surroundings. It wasn’t particularly late. But the unusually frosty night kept the guests from promenading on the back porch. Good. An idea was forming, but he needed her not to be noticed. Invisibility was a laborious task. “It’s fine. Follow me.”
He strode across the lawn, and, for perhaps the first time on record, she didn’t talk. At the employee entrance by the turret, he held open the door and pointed to the spiral staircase.
She shuddered.
He stopped himself from rolling his eyes. She’d gone from one of her imagined haunted places to another, trading the lighthouse for the attic. Well, at least he vanquished those ghosts for good.
She climbed the stairs, her footsteps almost silent.
Following behind, he realized she didn’t have any shoes on. She was lucky she hadn’t gotten seriously injured.
At the top of the stairs, she pushed through the door and into his office.
He followed, setting down the bag to retrieve a key to the available suite.
“Oh.” The word was a gasp, a breath, and a reverential statement.
She noticed the renovation. He couldn’t help but smile. “See, no ghosts up here. Like I told you.”
“This is your office?” She spun in a slow circle.
She’d be analyzing the room with her typical critical eye for detail. He doubted she’d find fault with the comfortable, elegant room. Besides his giant partner’s desk, he’d furnished the rest of the large space with traditional pieces. A large, faded, antique Shiraz covered the pine floor in the center of the room. Smaller Persian rugs anchored the different seating areas on either side. He had a large walnut table and chairs for a conference set on the north side of the room, overlooking the front of the Inn. At the south, overlooking the lake, he had a pair of leather club chairs sharing an oversized, tufted ottoman and a pair of floor lamps. He did his best thinking there.
“You’re at the top of the world up here,” she said.
Her voice shook. Was she giving a compliment or dishing a condemnation?
“It’s a little cold, though.” She rubbed her hands.
“I run warm.”
She turned toward him. “That’s not what I meant.”
He wasn’t sure how to read her expression. That stung. He didn’t need her approval. Too bad he couldn’t seem to stop seeking it. He walked across the room to the door leading to the hallway. Twisting the knob, he pulled the panel open, his gestures stiff. “Through here, please.” He kept his voice low, not wanting to disturb any guests, or so he’d tell himself.
He adjusted his grip and remembered the duffle bag in his hand. “Actually.” He cleared his throat and set the bag on the ground. “Leave your bag here, please. I’ll wash your things tonight.”
“But…” She nibbled her lip.
“What’s wrong?”
“I won’t have anything to wear tomorrow.”
“If I don’t wash your things, you will give yourself away as an arsonist.”
She tucked her chin against her chest.
He hadn’t intended the words as a reprimand. But he wasn’t exactly sure what he meant about anything. Despite five days’ warning, he hadn’t prepared for the moment of speaking to her again. She’d always been his blind spot.
He grabbed the duffle off the ground, shut the door to his office, and opened the first door on the right leading to his studio apartment. He didn’t want her entering his personal space. The four walls had been his sanctuary from thinking about her. She forced his hand.
He waved her inside, flipping the light switch. “Stay here.” He pointed to the other side of the door.
“Okay,” she murmured.
As the adrenaline faded, he took stock of his body. His muscles ached from exertion, and his throat was scratchy from smoke inhalation. The pungent aroma of soot rolled off her and seeped out of her duffle bag. He could tackle the smell first and walked through the entryway to the bathroom. He'd forgone a tub for a stackable washer and dryer, favoring practical appliances over simple luxuries.
He set the duffle on the ground and opened the dryer, which was always full of laundry he never had the time to fold. He grabbed a T-shirt and returned to the entry. “Here. You can wear this tonight and leave the nightgown in the trash. I’ll do my best with your laundry.”
She accepted the cotton shirt and raised it to her nose, sniffing. “Thanks.”
The gesture was so ordinary but touched him. Memories crashed into him. She had done the same every time she borrowed one of his sweatshirts. He needed space. The sooner she was in her own room, the better. “This way.” He motioned to the hall.
She stepped past him.
He closed the entrance to his studio, continuing down the hall. At the next door, he pulled the old-fashioned iron key from his pocket and slipped it into the plate. The bolt unlocked with a click, and he held open the door for her to precede him.
She oohed and ahhed as she toured the room.
The attic rooms held an entryway with a door leading to a generous bathroom with separate shower and tub areas and another door opening onto the studio-style suite. A half wall separated the well-appointed living room area with a mini kitchen from the bedroom. His studio apartment eliminated the spaciousness of the bathroom, taking away the tub to create a larger kitchenette. Otherwise, his living quarters mirrored this space, separated by one wall.
When guests had stayed next door, he had never noticed noise. With her, however, he worried about hearing every flutter of her eyelashes and the hum of her snores. He needed to think up the details of a plan. She’d never been an early riser. He had time.
In the living room, he left the heavy key on the coffee table. “You should be all set. If you have any problems, I’m just in the room next door.”
“Why not go home?” She turned toward him, arching a brow. “Are you worried I’ll burn down the resort?”
“Not exactly.”
Her nostrils flared. If she hadn’t given away her frustration, she provided the perfect cover for his truth.
“I converted the space into my studio apartment,” he said.
“You live here? What happened to the cottage?”
“I rent it out to guests. It’s become popular with long-term tenants. We’ve seen a robust growth in work-from-home employees eager for a change of scenery.”
“But… it was our home. You let strangers stay there.” Her voice was flat.
I had to move on . Every part of that little corner of the former stables, lovingly referred to as the cottage, symbolized another time, a happy life he never expected to end. He’d known she’d be upset. She’d carefully chosen every item in the cottage, handcrafting many pieces and personalizing others to give the cottage a cheerful warmth that was hard to replicate. And that same joy taunted him in her absence. Without her, he needed cold and impersonal. He wanted factory standards. He didn’t want to feel. But how could he explain any of that without looking like a lovesick fool? Or that he only trusted a select handful of guests in the quarters. People he’d known for years. “I converted the rest of the building, too.”
“Is this why he added the stipulation about living onsite? Because you already do?”
He shrugged. Glad she’d moved on and offered him another answer. He’d forgotten the benefits inherent in her jumping to conclusions. She never looked too hard at reality. She never saw what he felt. “Have a good night. We’ll talk in the morning.”
She saluted him.
He turned and let himself out of the room, moving with quiet efficiency. He didn’t want to disturb the other guests. On wooden legs, he strode toward his apartment and shut the door.
Only a wall separated them. The distance was negligible to most. In his opinion, the space between them was vast. How could he be sure she was okay if he didn’t watch her?
His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and his arms hung limp and useless at his sides. He’d almost lost her forever in an accident. She was back and playing a dangerous game.
He had once again underestimated her. The only advantage he had left was the level to which she had never understood him. And the sleepless night that awaited him to figure out how to keep her safe.
Good thing he had laundry to tackle.