Page 20 of First Street (Harbor View Cozy Fantasy #1)

Chapter Sixteen

Ocean

By the time she finished going through the second box in the living room, Ocean finally got why her grandmother had been obsessed with estate sales. All this old stuff wasn’t just junk. Each one was like a time capsule.

Inside this one she found a bunch of neatly folded scarves and gloves, an ivory-handled brush set velvet cloth that still smelled faintly of lavender, and a smaller box filled with a few small pocketknives and a few of those antique pens that needed ink refills.

..the messy kind, not the clicky kind. At the bottom, a collection of old books.

Taking a few of them out to look at titles she didn’t recognize, Ocean discovered they weren’t at the very the bottom. Nestled beneath them was a bundle of faded blue envelopes carefully tied with black ribbon.

The incredibly thin paper crackled when she touched it, and they had that musty, attic smell. Her fingers tingled as she gently slid the top envelope free, careful not to disturb the ribbon.

It had a smeared, faded postmark: France. 1918 .

She stared at the name, written in tight, block letters:

Miss Josephine Fitzgerald

Fitzgerald House

Fourth Street

Harbor View, Connecticut U.S.A.

She flipped it over, her pulse ticking faster now.

Capt. Henry Stewart

Company D, 102nd Infantry Regiment

26th Division

A.E.F.

France

Someone had written this from a war.

She knew which war. World War I. 1918. She remembered from history class. The trenches, the mud, the gas masks, the millions of lives lost.

And someone had waited for this letter right here in Harbor View.

But it looked like the letters were still sealed.

Josephine Fitzgerald.

Ocean’s stomach did a little flip.

Jo.

Could it be the same Jo?

She slid the envelope carefully back under the ribbon and held the packet close as she ran upstairs.

Her room looked exactly the same as it had yesterday. Bed made, sweatshirt and jeans (that she knew she’d left in a pile) now sitting neatly in the laundry basket. Her towel had been hung perfectly on the hook. Ocean stopped and sighed.

“Jo, you really don’t have to pick up after me.”

She set the letters down on her desk. The paper looked even older in the sunlight, like it would turn to dust if she breathed on it too hard.

She hesitated. “So… I found these downstairs. In one of my grandma’s estate sale boxes. They’re from 1918. France. World War I.” She glanced toward the corner by the window. “By any chance… are you Josephine Fitzgerald?”

Silence.

Just the soft rustle of the trees outside and the smell of honeysuckle floating through the open window.

“Okay,” she said, backing toward the door. “I’m going downstairs to bring up the rest of the box. Please don’t mess with these, okay? Don’t read them, don’t organize them, don’t alphabetize them or whatever.”

She gave an awkward wave, halfway between a warning and a truce. “Just...don’t touch them. Okay?”

The room stayed quiet. Totally still.

But Ocean couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was listening.

Halfway down the stairs, she almost turned around. Like if she moved fast enough, she might catch Jo in the act or something. But she didn’t.

Instead, she kept going, her thoughts spinning.

If this was the same Jo the letters were meant for, that was seriously sad.

Why did she never read them? Didn’t black ribbon usually mean someone had died?

And if she’d lived on Fourth Street back then, why was her ghost here on First Street now?

The questions scratched at the back of her brain as she quickly sorted through the two boxes, moving anything she wanted to keep into one. She stacked some books, tucked the brush set on top, and hauled the box upstairs.

She stepped into her room. Then froze.

The ribbon was untied.

Two of the letters were open. Just lying there, face-up on the desk like someone had been reading them.

Ocean’s heart kicked. She dropped the box onto the floor with a soft thud and sat on the edge of her bed, facing the desk.

“Okay, Jo,” Ocean said, her voice just barely steady. “We need to talk. Please.”

She waited.

Nothing.

She looked toward the window, then back at the desk, where the letters sat open.

“Are you…are you Josephine Fitzgerald?” she asked softly.

No answer. Just the breeze coming through the screen, rustling the papers a little. But now, the smell of lavender mingled with the honeysuckle.

“I know you’re here,” Ocean said, her voice cracking a little. “My mom and Arthur try to lie about it. Pretend you’re not real. But they’ve seen you too. I can tell.”

She stood up slowly, walking toward the desk but not touching the letters. “So why are you hiding from me?”

Her throat felt tight. She wasn’t trying to be dramatic, but her eyes stung a little.

“I wouldn’t freak out or anything,” she said, softer now. “I just…I want to know what happened. To you. To him. Why didn’t you read these letters.”

The silence stretched on. The lavender scent grew stronger. Like someone was standing right there with her.

“Jo?”

A shadow started to form in front of her.

Ocean’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her first instinct was to run. Bolt straight out of the room, down the stairs, maybe out the front door. But her feet stayed rooted to the floor, like even they were too shocked to move.

The air felt heavy, charged. The shape shifted, grew more solid. And then, right in front of her eyes, it started to take emerge, like a watercolor painting filling itself in.

She gasped.

The woman looked like she’d walked right out of an old movie, but not in a creepy, black-and-white kind of way.

Her dress was this rich burgundy silk that shimmered when the light hit it.

It wasn’t sparkly or flashy, just classy in a quiet, expensive way.

It hugged her figure and stopped right around her knees, like those 1920s flapper outfits Ocean had seen in history class videos or Halloween costumes. Only real.

Her dark hair had soft waves, like she’d just stepped off a film set. But her face...it wasn’t old or wrinkled or ghost-like.

“You’re…young.” Ocean let out a shaky breath, then noticed the tears in the woman’s eyes. She reached out instinctively. “You’re crying. Oh my God, these letters were for you. That’s so sad. You...you never got to read them.”

The ghost wiped away a tear and shook her head.

“Can I...can I hug you?” Ocean asked softly.

Jo gave her a wistful smile. “I suppose we’re going all the way, then. Yes, darling. You may.”

She opened her arms.