Page 12 of First Street (Harbor View Cozy Fantasy #1)

“She wasn’t subtle,” I said, half-laughing. “The first time she met him, she asked if he came with a return policy.”

Arthur snorted. “I believe her exact description to me was, ‘Well, he’s handsome in that glossy-magazine, emotionally unavailable kind of way’.”

“Yep. That sounds like her.”

His face softened then, his smile fading just a touch. “You don’t have to keep pretending everything’s fine, Skye. Not with me. I’m certainly not a therapist, but I’ve got good ears and two bottles of wine left in the kitchen.”

I looked down at my glass. The silence between us suddenly felt charged with all the things I hadn’t said out loud. Not to him. Not to anyone.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing. My job, my marriage. Trying to keep everyone supported and happy without completely losing myself. You know what I mean. It feels like everything is about to come crashing down on me.”

“That’s okay. You don’t need a five-year plan.” Arthur reached across the table and took my hand. “You know I’m here to help in any way I can. And as for the marriage situation, give yourself permission to want something different.”

He always knew how to cut through the noise.

“And for the record,” he added, lifting his glass, “if Rhys were ever to mysteriously disappear, I’d be happy to provide an alibi. Something glamorous. Possibly involving Paris and a scandal involving an opera singer.”

I laughed.

Ocean’s enthusiastic voice floated in from the other room. Rhys was important to my daughter, and everything Arthur and I just said was bullshit.

“She needs him. She needs both of us.”

“Kids manage. You managed,” he said, raising his glass like a toast to my dilemma. “Do what’s best for you and your daughter. Not what’s best for his career or whatever supports his narcissistic little diorama of the perfect life.”

Ocean walked in at that moment and handed me the phone. “Dad wants to talk to you.”

I took the phone into Arthur’s sitting room. As I caught my reflection in the tiny screen, I barely recognized myself. Tired, strung out, worn thin. Rhys, on the other hand, looked flawless. Behind him, I could make out the warm glow of a bar, soft music, laughter. He was somewhere social, alive.

“Did you get a haircut?” I asked, just to break the ice.

“What’s this I hear about you staying longer? What happened to the plan we made?”

“Things are out of my hands. The funeral. The appraisals. There’s no way I can finish everything up that fast. But we’ll get there.”

There was no way I was going to bring up what Jo had told me yesterday about the intruder in the barn. And as far as staying longer, I would say anything to keep Ocean happy.

“You’ll get here when?”

“I don’t know, Rhys. There’s a lot happening. More than I expected.”

“My schedule for the shoot is locked in.”

“I know. But we’ll figure it out.”

“I can’t just figure it out ,” he snapped. “After July first, I’ll be on set twelve hours a day.”

“Ocean and I don’t need babysitters,” I said, matching his tone. “It’s not about hand-holding. It’s about seeing each other when you’re not working.”

“My time isn’t mine to give right now. I told you that before,” he said, his voice low and controlled. The quieter he got, the more furious he was. “You were the one who wanted this.”

“No. You suggested it. I went along with it.”

He turned his face away from the screen, jaw tightening and unclenching.

My frustration was getting me, and I didn’t want to fight with him. “Listen, this isn’t getting us anywh?—”

“Aren’t you the sole heir?” he cut in. “Can’t you just hire someone, an attorney, to handle all of it? The estate, the house, the… stuff?”

He kept going—asking, suggesting, trying to delegate it all from his barstool. But I’d stopped listening. His words weren’t landing. They were scraping. Not once had he asked me how I was doing.

He wasn’t always this way, but all he cared about now was his time and the money. Clare’s death wasn’t a loss to him. It was an inconvenience. A box to check off on the way to the shoot.

“I’m not leaving in two weeks,” I said, letting my words sink in. He’d made the decision for me. “It’ll be a month. What I need to do here might take the whole summer.”

His face darkened. “You can’t keep Ocean from me. She’s my daughter too.”

That one landed. Low and sharp. But from this distance, more than two thousand miles away, I saw it for what it was. Control and possession.

“If it’s really about her, I’ll fly her back and forth during the summer.”

“That’s not what we agreed on. I can’t take care of her while I’m on set.”

I didn’t need a mirror to know my skin was flushing with hives. Irritation pulsed through every inch of me.

“Call me next week,” I said, my voice tight. “By then I’ll have the funeral date. You can fly out to the East Coast when your schedule allows it, see Ocean, and we’ll plan the rest of the summer while you’re here.”

I hung up before he could say another word.

Arms crossed, I tilted my face to the ceiling and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm the storm that was still roaring inside me.

That’s when I felt it. A soft brush of air, like something unseen had wrapped itself gently around me. The lightest caress. A smile tugged at my lips.

Henry Stewart. The bookstore ghost.

“I’m still mad at you for never showing yourself to me,” I murmured to the empty room. “But I know you’re a good guy. Why else would Jo pine after you for a hundred years? Oh, and she sends her love, by the way.”

At that moment, the curtains over the double windows facing Clare’s house flew open with a sudden, theatrical flourish.

“One hundred years of loving someone. That’s a good run.”

Then, as I turned and went back into the dining room to join the others, my heart felt a little lighter. If only for a moment.