Page 15 of First Street (Harbor View Cozy Fantasy #1)

Chapter Twelve

Skye

When Ocean dropped that bomb this morning, Arthur didn’t miss a beat.

“That’s my handwriting,” he said, snatching the sticky note off the kitchen table and slipping it into his pocket like it was no big deal. “Jo is a woman I’m thinking of hiring part time.”

Ocean gave him a look—surprised, maybe a little skeptical—but didn’t push.

Arthur’s always been good under pressure, and in that moment, I could’ve kissed him. He saved me from the follow-up questions I wasn’t ready to answer.

Then he went one step further. Said George needed Ocean at the bookstore for something urgent in the Young Adult section. Made it sound like she was the only one who could fix it. Like her input was mission-critical.

And maybe she was.

Even if she wasn’t, I wasn’t about to ask Bernie’s helper Mateo anything with Ocean still in the house.

This morning, while I scrambled to keep the conversation light and painfully casual over breakfast, Ocean kept looking at me over the top of her cereal bowl. That look on her face said it all. I don’t believe either of you for a second.

Same look she used to give me and Rhys when she walked in on one of our fights and we’d slap on fake smiles like nothing was wrong.

She always knew. Always saw through it.

After Arthur left, I moved into the front room.

Ocean stayed in Clare’s sitting room, completely engrossed in the boxes Bernie had dropped off a couple of weeks ago.

When I peeked in, she was knee-deep in old postcards, worn paperbacks, vintage movie posters, even notebooks filled with watercolor sketches of gardens and harbor boats.

All these little treasures from another time. She looked entranced.

Meanwhile, I was at Clare’s desk and file cabinet, sorting through paperwork, trying to stay focused. Making lists of calls to make, forms to file, decisions to avoid.

But underneath it all, I was restless. Edgy. Just waiting for a moment alone.

I needed to talk to Jo.

To scold her.

To tell her we weren’t staying here long term.

And, most of all, to make it clear she needed to stay away from Ocean.

I was already feeling stressed, just thinking about that conversation. It was bound to be emotional, but I had to tell her. Jo needed to hear it from me, not from the real estate agent who’d be showing up in two days.

That chance didn’t come until Ocean went across to the bookstore at half past two. Bernie had already texted. He and Mateo would be over around three. That didn’t leave me much time.

And Jo—almost like she knew I was waiting for her—appeared in the living room/office/stockroom the moment Ocean shut the front door on her way out.

“All right,” she said, hands on her hips. “I don’t know what you people are teaching your children these days, but what I had to clean up in that room last night? Positively unacceptable. Beyond the pale.”

The skirt swirled around her legs, and the room filled with her familiar lavender scent. Her presence felt as real as any living person. All at once, the weight of what I was about to tell her, about selling the house, crushed me. Jo, in all her ghostly grace, had always been my closest friend.

And I was about to lose her.

“Jo,” I started, my throat tight. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to get close to Ocean. There’s no reason for her to know you. To meet you.”

“She’s closer to my age than yours,” she shot back. “And someone needs to save her from that purple eyeshadow. Honestly, hasn’t anyone told her? Less makeup, more mystery.”

“Jo,” I cut in, “she lives in California. We live in California. I just don’t want her to?—”

“What?” Jo asked, cutting me off. “What exactly are you worried about? That she might learn something about finger waves and self-respect?”

“We don’t have ghosts in California. She’ll be terrified.”

Jo perched herself on the edge of Clare’s desk and studied her nails.

“Oh, please. Of course, you have ghosts in California. They’re just too starstruck to knock on your door.

Probably loitering in the Hollywood Hills, sipping martinis, eternally trying to get discovered. Doll, I blame the studios.”

“I’m talking about Ocean. She doesn’t even believe in ghosts. I don’t want to scare her.”

“She’s handling it just fine, if you ask me. And come on. You know how I am. You were never frightened, were you?”

“That’s debatable.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Jo said, grinning. “I stood in the front window as a headless nun for three Halloweens straight. You’ll know if I’m trying to frighten someone.”

Biting back a smile, I had to admit I’d never been afraid of Jo. Not once. But that didn’t mean I wanted to encourage her either. The truth was harder to say out loud. What was the point of building a relationship if it was destined to vanish? Once the house sold, Ocean would never see Jo again.

And neither would I.

Jo must’ve sensed the shift, because her voice softened, the usual sparkle dimming just a little.

“Didn’t we have good times, you and I?” she said gently. “We’d stay up way past your bedtime, long after Clare had turned in. Sitting cross-legged on your bed upstairs, you telling me everything. About your day, your friends, your classes. From soup to nuts, as they say.”

The memories came rushing back. My throat closed, too tight to form a retort.

“You taught me words I’d never heard before.

Cool. Rad. Whatever. As if . You said we were BFFs.

You had me listen to Pearl Jam, Smashing Pumpkins, Tupac, Blink-182.

You told me how teenagers dressed. Showed me it was perfectly fine to walk out into the world in a cropped top and ripped jeans and not get arrested for indecent exposure. You called it, Rocking your life .”

Her voice caught slightly, then steadied.

“You made me feel that I was part of something real, something wild and messy and beautiful. That I hadn’t been left behind, after all. That I was finally living the life I never got the chance to finish.”

It was true. I did all those things Jo was talking about. We did all those things.

I told her everything back then, when I was just a teenager and no one else in the world seemed to really get me.

She was the one I whispered to after turning off the lights.

She was the one who heard about my first kiss.

When my heart got broken the first time, Jo was the one who muttered something snide about boys being ‘not worth the price of shoe polish’.

Jo never seriously judged me, though. Not when I cried over someone who didn’t text back. Not when I doubted myself. Not when I said I hated my life and meant it, even if just for a minute.

She listened. She teased. She quoted Lillian Gish from some old movie and told me what lipstick shade went best with betrayal.

And somehow, dead or not, she made me feel seen. Understood. Loved, in that strange, impossible way only someone who’d lived an entire life before you were even born could love you.

She was glamour and grit. And also brutally honest in a way I didn’t get from anyone else.

Jo wasn’t just a ghost. She was my best friend. The person I ran to when everything felt like too much. The one I confided in, leaned on, counted on—for her wit, her old-soul wisdom, and her wild, 1918 flapper perspective.

The warmth of old memories softened her face. “And your friendship, sweetie, it mattered more than I could ever say. When you were here, I felt alive. As alive as a ghost, dead a hundred years, could ever feel.” Jo smiled. “What we had…what we have ...still matters.”

Still matters , I echoed silently, holding the words close.

I thought of all those days and nights back in California, wishing I could talk to her. Wishing I could show her things, tell her about my life, hear her often snarky, usually brilliant take on it all.

I remembered when Ocean was born. I’d wanted Jo there so much.

How I’d longed to share the experience with her.

Tell her what it felt like. What I was going through.

How terrifying and beautiful it all was.

From our conversations years before, I knew she wanted to know.

I was her link to a life she never got to experience.

Jo wasn’t just part of my past. Even though she was trapped in this house, she was the one I kept reaching for, no matter how far away she was.

“I waited for you to come home, you know. As much as your mother did, I think.” She pointed to Clare’s spiral-bound calendar that sat between us on the desk.

“Even though she marked her daily scheduler with every little thing she did, every appointment, you’ll see that the days you were due to come to Harbor View were marked in bold red ink. ”

I’d found it this afternoon in the drawer of my mother’s desk. It was true what she was saying.

Jo’s voice grew even softer, almost a whisper. “That calendar wasn’t just for her. It was for me too. I kept track of those red-letter dates.”

Oh my god. She was killing me.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell her. Not now. Not after this talk. Not after being reminded, oh so clearly, how much she meant to me. How much I meant to her .

But I was still worried—no, torn—about what Jo’s friendship could become for Ocean. Once they met. Once my daughter began to cherish her the way I had.

The tangled knot of love, guilt, and fear was swelling up in my chest, pressing hard. Love for this place. Love for Jo. Love for my own daughter and what it could mean for her if we stayed.

Guilt for not saying what needed to be said. For hiding, delaying, hoping time would decide for me.

And fear.

Fear of what it would mean to let go of California. Fear about closing the door on a life I’d spent years trying to salvage. Fear of making the wrong choice—for me and for Ocean.