Page 6 of Gone for the Ghost (Maplewood Grove #3)

Julian

Lily returns from her dinner with Blake wearing the expression of someone who’s had a perfectly pleasant evening that somehow failed to ignite anything resembling passion.

She moves through the apartment with the careful neutrality of someone processing disappointment they don’t quite understand, hanging her sweater in the closet with more attention than the task requires.

“How was your exploration of contemporary courtship rituals?” I ask from my position by the window, aiming for academic detachment and landing somewhere closer to poorly concealed investment in her answer.

“Nice,” she says, settling onto the couch with her laptop. “Blake’s really sweet. Took me to this family restaurant with amazing food, told me stories about growing up on the farm, asked thoughtful questions about my writing.”

Nice. Sweet. The enthusiasm in her voice could power a dim lightbulb.

“He sounds like an exemplary suitor,” I observe, studying her face for signs of the romantic satisfaction that should follow an evening with someone who possesses all the qualities I identified as desirable. “I trust his courtship technique met with your approval?”

Lily glances at me with an expression I can’t quite decipher—part amusement, part something that looks like affection. “You really want to know about my date?”

The question lands with unexpected weight.

Do I want to know? The rational answer is no.

Hearing details about her romantic evening with someone who can offer her everything I cannot should be the last thing I desire.

But rationality, I’m discovering, has very little influence over the growing need to understand every aspect of her emotional landscape.

“I’m curious about whether your research proved illuminating,” I say carefully. “From a professional standpoint.”

“Professional,” she repeats, and I definitely hear amusement in her tone now. “Right. Well, professionally speaking, Blake did everything correctly. Perfect gentleman, interesting conversation, clear signs of genuine interest without being pushy.”

“But?” I prompt, hearing the hesitation she’s trying to hide.

“But nothing,” she says quickly and then pauses as if reconsidering her own words. “He’s exactly the kind of man I moved here hoping to meet. Stable, kind, clearly interested in building something real.”

There’s that word again. Exactly . She’s describing Blake like he’s a checklist rather than a person who made her pulse race, and the distinction fills me with something that feels close to hope.

“Yet you don’t sound particularly enthused about the prospect of building something real with him,” I observe.

Lily closes her laptop and turns to face me fully, her expression shifting from careful neutrality to something more direct.

“You know what’s funny? The whole evening, I kept thinking about what you’d say about his technique.

Whether you’d approve of how he held doors or ordered wine or asked about my family. ”

The admission hits me like a physical blow. She spent her romantic evening thinking about me—not in any way that matters, obviously, but still . The knowledge that I occupied space in her consciousness while she was with someone else creates a flutter of emotion I’m not prepared to examine.

“I hope my theoretical approval added something to your dining experience,” I say, aiming for levity to deflect from the unexpected intimacy of her confession.

“Julian,” she says, and something in the way she speaks my name makes me look at her more carefully. “You give really good advice about romance for someone who claims it’s all academic interest.”

The observation hangs between us like a challenge, weighted with implications I’m not ready to explore.

She’s asking about my expertise, about the personal experience that informs my understanding of attraction and courtship and the delicate dance between two people discovering they might matter to each other.

“I may have some theoretical knowledge,” I say carefully, but Lily’s expression suggests she sees right through my deflection.

“ Theoretical ,” she says, the word carrying gentle skepticism. “Come on, Julian. You understand romantic dynamics better than anyone I’ve ever met. That doesn’t come from observation. It comes from experience.”

Her persistence should irritate me. For ninety-eight years, I’ve successfully avoided discussing the personal history that led to my current supernatural circumstances. But something in her voice—genuine curiosity mixed with what might be concern—weakens my carefully maintained defenses.

“Perhaps I had some personal experience with romantic attachment,” I admit reluctantly. “Though it was a very long time ago.”

“Tell me,” she says simply, and the request isn’t demanding or invasive. It’s the voice of someone who genuinely wants to understand, who sees my carefully guarded secrets as stories worth hearing rather than weaknesses to exploit.

The silence stretches between us while I wrestle with decades of self-protective instincts. But looking at Lily’s face—open, patient, free of the pity or prurient curiosity I’ve always imagined would greet my past—I find myself wanting to share what I’ve kept hidden for nearly a century.

“Her name was Victoria,” I begin, and speaking the name aloud after so many years of internal silence feels like unlocking a door I’d forgotten existed. “Victoria Ashworth. She was an actress—Broadway, though she had ambitions far beyond mere entertainment.”

The memories surface with startling clarity, as if Victoria’s presence had been waiting just beneath my consciousness for someone worthy of hearing her story.

“She was extraordinary,” I continue, surprised by how much I want Lily to understand what Victoria meant.

“Beautiful, certainly, but that was the least interesting thing about her. She had this way of seeing the world as it could be rather than accepting what it was. Every conversation with her felt like discovering new countries.”

Lily settles deeper into the couch, giving me her complete attention with the kind of focus she usually reserves for solving difficult plot problems.

“How did you meet?” she asks, and I realize she’s not just being polite. She’s genuinely interested in understanding the woman who shaped my understanding of love.

“At a fundraising gala for the arts,” I say, remembering the way Victoria had stood apart from the other performers, refusing to charm potential donors with the simpering gratitude they expected.

“She was supposed to provide tasteful entertainment for wealthy patrons, but instead, she used her performance to deliver commentary on social inequality that left half the room speechless.”

The memory brings a smile I haven’t felt in decades. Victoria’s courage, her willingness to risk her career for principles that mattered more than personal advancement, had been like watching someone turn art into revolution.

“She sounds fearless,” Lily observes, and something in her tone suggests she recognizes a kindred spirit across the decades.

“Fearless and idealistic and completely unimpressed by my family’s money,” I agree. “She saw right through the careful facade I’d built around myself and somehow decided I was worth the effort of excavation.”

The next part becomes harder to articulate—how Victoria had challenged everything about my carefully constructed existence, forcing me to examine privileges I’d never questioned and assumptions I’d never tested.

“She changed me,” I say finally. “Not gradually but fundamentally. Made me see that my wealth and connections weren’t just accidents of birth.

They were tools I could use to actually make a difference.

Through her work, her causes, her complete refusal to accept injustice as inevitable, she taught me what it meant to live with purpose. ”

Lily nods as if this transformation makes perfect sense to her, as if she can easily imagine someone’s worldview expanding under the influence of genuine love.

“We started planning together,” I continue, the words coming easier now. “Ways to fund radical theater, underground publications, artists whose work challenged the system. She was going to perform in plays about women’s suffrage, labor rights—all the topics polite society preferred to ignore.”

“That sounds incredible,” Lily says with obvious admiration. “Like you were building something really important together.”

“We were,” I agree, and for a moment, I allow myself to remember the exhilaration of those months—the sense that love and purpose had merged into something larger than either of us could achieve alone. “Until she disappeared.”

The words settle into the space between us like stones dropping into still water, creating ripples of understanding that change everything about our conversation.

“Disappeared?” Lily prompts gently, and I realize she’s heard the weight these memories still carry.

“One morning she was simply gone,” I say, the old helplessness flooding back with surprising intensity. “No note, no explanation, no forwarding address. Her landlady said she’d paid her account and left before dawn, as if she’d never existed at all.”

The pain of that discovery feels as sharp now as it did ninety-eight years ago—the devastating confusion of losing someone without warning or understanding, the terrible questions that multiply in the absence of answers.

“I searched everywhere,” I continue, needing Lily to understand the depths of my desperation.

“Hired investigators, followed every lead, used every connection I had. The theater community was protective. They saw me as some rich dilettante trying to buy his way into their world. No one would tell me anything useful.”

“That must have been terrifying,” Lily says quietly, and her empathy makes the memory somehow more bearable. “Not knowing what happened, whether she was safe.”

“I considered every possibility,” I admit. “Maybe she’d been threatened because of our political work. Maybe she’d gotten an opportunity that required secrecy. Maybe she’d simply decided I was a liability she couldn’t afford.”

The last possibility had been the most torturous—the idea that Victoria had assessed our relationship and found it wanting, that my love had become a burden she’d chosen to escape.

“I got sick,” I say, approaching the part of the story that explains my current circumstances. “The searching, the sleepless nights, the constant anxiety—my health collapsed. When the Spanish flu epidemic hit, I didn’t have the strength to fight.”

Lily’s expression shifts to something deeper than sympathy. Understanding, maybe, of how grief can weaken more than just emotional defenses.

“I died still loving her,” I conclude. “Still believing I’d failed her somehow, that if I’d been stronger or smarter or more worthy of her trust, I could have prevented whatever forced her to leave.”

The silence that follows feels different from the comfortable quiet we usually share. This is weighted with revelation, with the understanding that I’ve shared something fundamental about who I am and why I’ve remained anchored to this world for nearly a century.

“Julian,” Lily says finally, and something in her voice makes me look at her more carefully. “What if you didn’t fail her?”

The question catches me off guard. “I’m sorry?”

“What if Victoria left to protect you?” she continues, leaning forward with the kind of intensity I recognize from her writing sessions. “Someone with that much integrity, that much courage… she wouldn’t just abandon someone she loved without a compelling reason.”

The possibility she’s suggesting reframes everything I’ve believed about Victoria’s disappearance and offers an interpretation I’ve never allowed myself to consider.

“You think she was protecting me,” I say slowly, testing the idea.

“I think someone who challenged the system, who used art to expose corruption and fight injustice, might have made enemies powerful enough to threaten the people she cared about,” Lily says with growing conviction. “What if leaving was her way of keeping you safe?”

The suggestion settles into my consciousness like sunrise, illuminating landscapes I’d been too consumed by guilt to explore. What if I’d spent ninety-eight years blaming myself for a sacrifice Victoria made out of love rather than disappointment?

“Julian,” Lily continues, her voice carrying the kind of determination I’ve learned to recognize when she’s solving particularly complex plot problems, “what if solving Victoria’s mystery is the key to your freedom? What if understanding what really happened would finally let you find peace?”

For the first time in ninety-eight years, I feel something approaching hope. Not just for answers but for the possibility that those answers might transform grief into gratitude, guilt into understanding.

“How could we solve a mystery that’s nearly a century old?” I ask, though part of me is already imagining the possibilities.

“We’re writers,” Lily says, her eyes bright with the kind of excitement that makes her most dangerous and compelling. “We know how to research, how to piece together stories from scattered evidence. And you have firsthand knowledge of everyone involved.”

Looking at her face… animated with purpose, determined to help me find closure I’d stopped believing was possible. I realize that somewhere between critiquing her comma usage and providing supernatural dating advice, this woman has become the most important person in my existence.

And for the first time in nearly a century, I’m not afraid of what that might mean.