Page 11 of First Street (Harbor View Cozy Fantasy #1)

Chapter Nine

Skye

Arthur’s invitation to have us over for dinner came as a welcome relief. My brain was still spinning from the endless, soul-sucking questions about something as ‘simple’ as funeral arrangements. Who knew it could be so complicated?

My mother wasn’t exactly the ‘thoughts and prayers’ type. I only knew her to go to a handful of services, but I remembered her celebrating the passing of one longtime adversary with surprising enthusiasm. Clare really knew how to hold a grudge, and hypocrisy was not one of her flaws.

A traditional funeral, a memorial, or a celebration of life? I settled on a memorial service.

Amy, the staff member assigned to me, had asked if it should be a private gathering. Or should she put a notice in the local paper?

Given Clare’s lifelong disdain for the good people of Harbor View—and their mutual indifference and occasional hostility—I doubted anyone would show up.

Still, she had a history of contributing to a handful of area charities that supported unhoused people.

I never knew that until I’d received a note from one of them, letting me know she’d donated on my behalf.

Maybe I shouldn’t pass up the possibility that some kindhearted soul looking for a tax deduction might give something in Clare’s name.

In the end, the options came down to a notice in the local paper and a memorial service, with the gathering to be held in the chapel at the cemetery.

Amy wasn’t done yet, though. Burial or cremation?

Now, that was a biggie. Clare had once told me she didn’t want to be stuck in some forgotten plot to ‘rot alone.’ But would cremation really solve that? Would scattering her ashes at sea or putting them in an urn on my kitchen shelf make her feel any less abandoned?

I told her I’d get back with an answer in a few days. As long as I didn’t take too long, I was warned.

Then, there was Clare’s antiques business. This was a whole other minefield I wasn’t quite ready to walk through.

My to-do list seemed to go on and on. And with each decision I faced, pangs of doubt drove themselves into my brain like six-inch spikes. Worse than the fact of getting any of it wrong, I couldn’t help but wonder if my mother would find a way to haunt me?

She definitely would. I loved her deeply, but she had a streak of spitefulness in her that was wider than the Long Island Sound.

Arthur was, as always, the perfect host. Not just because it came naturally for him, but because he loved us.

Sitting at the dinner table in his spacious apartment above the bookstore, I felt as comfortable as a cat in a sunny window.

It was the first time in days that I’d felt the pressure in my head and chest ease a little.

I listened to Arthur and Ocean talking about Harbor View and my daughter’s memories of her grandmother. The warmth of the conversation and the comfort of not having to think for a little while were exactly what I needed.

Until Ocean changed the subject.

“These houses are haunted, aren’t they.”

Her question came out of nowhere. It was so blunt and unexpected that I nearly choked on my food.

“What are you talking about?”

“Ghosts.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow at me, unspoken questions written all over his face. What have you done? Did you tell her? How does she know?

Across the table, my daughter just stared at me, waiting.

“Where did you get that idea?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light.

“Strange stuff in Grandma’s house. And books flying off the shelves in the bookstore.”

“Honey, there are no ghosts.”

The words left a sour taste. I hated lying. But the truth wasn’t an option. Not yet. Not with everything else I had to figure out.

I’d already scheduled an appointment for Friday with Karen White, the only real estate agent in town who could actually move a piece of property.

Earlier, when I got back from the funeral parlor, I knew something was off with Ocean. She’d been quiet. Guarded. I’d found her sitting with a stack of books from Arthur’s store, but as soon as I walked in, she shoved them aside and looked up at me.

Then, without any buildup, she started in. She didn’t want to leave her grandmother’s house. Said she wasn’t ready. Asked if we could stay longer.

That’s when I decided not to mention the appointment with the real estate agent. Instead, I made it sound like staying more than a couple of weeks was still an option. We’d leave when we were ready. Both of us.

That wasn’t too far from the truth. Before we could leave, I needed to get to the bottom of Clare’s death.

The sheriff wasn’t going to lift a finger unless we handed him something concrete to investigate.

Arthur had already left a message with the neighbor in New York, which only added to the uncertainty.

And that was another reason I couldn’t finalize the funeral arrangements.

What if they needed the body? I didn’t want to risk destroying evidence.

Jeez, I really had to stop watching CSI .

I was caught in a tangle. Trying to sell the house, figure out what really happened to Clare, and find a way to say goodbye. The last thing I needed was for Ocean to find out about Jo. And worse, for her to bond with our ghost the way I had. If they got attached, God help us.

It would be a disaster.

“How do you know there are no ghosts?” she asked, drawing out the question like she already knew the answer. Her eyes locked on mine, searching, really searching, for something I wasn’t ready to admit.

I couldn’t control what Jo did any more than I could control the tide. And I was starting to feel the waters rise around my ankles.

“What’s with all the questions?” I asked. “Did you see something?”

“Never mind what I saw,” she said, crossing her arms. “I asked first.”

Arthur jumped in before I could lie to her again.

“I’ve seen a few,” he said, like it was nothing.

“You have?” Ocean perked up.

I shot him a look sharp enough to draw blood.

“On the ghost tours,” he added, smoothly. “Every October. But it’s hard to tell if they were the real thing or just actors in costume trying to freak out the tourists.”

Ocean rolled her eyes. “Come on. Don’t dodge. I want the truth. Has anything weird ever happened to you? Not on some tour. I mean here. In the bookstore.”

Arthur glanced at me, just a flick, but Ocean caught it. She leaned in, practically daring him.

“You cut in to save her, so now you have to tell me. For real. Ghosts. Yes or no?”

He didn’t blink.

“They’re real,” he said. “But no, I haven’t had a heart-to-heart with one.”

Arthur’s eyes swept the room. I knew he and Henry had had their share of arguments and snarky back-and-forths over the years, but apparently those didn’t count. So technically, he wasn’t lying. Just...editing.

“But I’ve felt them here,” he added, quieter this time.

I turned and gave him a look. Seriously? That’s your idea of helping? Don’t encourage her.

“I knew it,” Ocean said, her voice full of quiet triumph. “But why do they stay? Why don’t they just go? You know, wherever dead people are supposed to go?”

Arthur sighed, long and theatrical, and smoothed the invisible wrinkles from his shirt like he was preparing for a lecture.

“Sweetness, I have no idea,” he said, patting her hand. “But I promise you this. When my time comes, I’ll do my best to come back and spill everything I know about your mother before I get whisked off to heaven. Or, let’s be honest, before I get rerouted for a little...reevaluation.”

“Oh, you think you’re going to heaven,” I commented.

“I’ve heard the company is more interesting elsewhere.” He gave me a wink. “But there is also a good chance heaven has a dress code I won’t approve of.”

Ocean snorted, and I shook my head, silently grateful for his well-timed sense of humor.

My phone buzzed on the table. A quick glance told me it was Rhys on Facetime.

“Your dad. Want to talk to him?” I asked, holding the phone out to Ocean.

“Sure,” she said, taking it from me and walking away from the table as she answered the call.

Ocean’s voice drifted in from the next room, and from what I could hear, she was doing a stellar job relaying the change of plans to her father.

“You two need an intermediary to communicate these days?” Arthur asked, arching a brow and shooting me one of his patented I see right through you, darling, looks.

“Which two?” I asked, playing dumb.

He rolled his eyes. “You and your husband, of course. Or is he just a figment of your romantic backstory now?”

“We text,” I said with a shrug.

“Ah. The language of modern love. Emojis, memes, and passive aggressive messages.”

I gave him a look, but he pressed on with a smirk. “But tell me, how are things in the magical kingdom of marriage these days? Still a thrilling rollercoaster of resentment and compromise?”

“I’m managing,” I muttered, finishing my wine.

“That bad, huh?” he said. Without missing a beat, he refilled my glass like a bartender who’d heard it all. “Drink up, sweetheart. If nothing else, I’ll be your fairy godmother for the evening. I don’t have a wand, but I’ve got a corkscrew and excellent taste in escape plans.”

I couldn’t help but smile. God, I missed him.

Arthur and I hadn’t had a chance for a real conversation since the day he called me with the news of my mother’s death. He was still under the assumption that I was here for the funeral arrangements. Anything beyond that—my plans about what came next—we hadn’t discussed.

“You know, your mother had an official position on Rhys that I, frankly, agreed with,” Arthur said, topping off his wine and sitting back in his chair like a man with opinions and a long night ahead. “Clare always thought you were way too smart to stay in that mess of a relationship.”

That was hardly news. I knew exactly how my mother felt about Rhys. They never really had a relationship to begin with. Mostly, polite indifference with the occasional sharp comment from Clare when she thought I wasn’t listening. And sometimes when she knew I was.