Page 73 of The Legend of Lovers Hollow

“You’ll see,” I reply.

Taking Ellis’ hand, I lead him from the room, with Bertie trailing along curiously behind.

“Artie,” she calls out, “come with me, lad.”

“What for?” he whines. “Can’t I just–”

“You can play with the balloons later. I’ll have Morgan fill a whole room with them for you, if you like, but for now, our presence is required elsewhere.”

“Why?”

“Fewer questions, more walking, lad.” She hustles him along.

By the time we reach the lobby, Thad and Jules have disappeared again, as have Pops and Victor, leaving only Warren, who is leaning up against the main desk and chatting away to a good-looking man with black hair that falls to his collar and a scar running from his temple to the corner of his left eye and slightly lower to his cheek bone.

The way he’s dressed reminds me a bit of the fictional character Constantine. Dark pants, a white shirt, a loosened collar and tie, all covered by an open beige raincoat.

Beside him is an older woman, slightly hunched and frail-looking in a wheelchair, with white hair and a curious expression. She studies the lobby until her gaze lands on me and Ellis approaching. Although I can still hear Bertie and Artie behind me, I know the others can’t see them; they are still on strict orders from the Bureau about revealing themselves to the living.

I offer the old woman a smile and offer my hand to the dark-haired man. “You must be Sam.”

He nods and shakes.

“I’m Morgan Ashton-Drake and this is…” I hesitate for a moment, surprised that I was about to introduce Ellis as my partner. The words were just there, waiting to trip off my tongue. Shaking my head and shelving that thought to take out and ponder later, I try again. “This is Ellis Sparks, the hotel manager.”

“Sam Stone.” He reaches over and shakes Ellis’ hand, eyeing him with interest, and I can’t blame him. Not only is my Ellis beautiful and sunny, Sam has heard a lot about him and the hotel from their mutual friend Tristan. Not that Ellis knows about the connection… yet. “And this is Esme Roberts.” Sam looks down at the old woman with a smile.

“Pleased to meet you.” Ellis and I take turns to shake her delicate hand.

“Who is that lady?” I hear Artie say. I turn to see him peeking out from behind Bertie, his eyes narrowing in confusion. “She looks a bit like my mum ’cept she’s old.”

“Esme,” I say to Ellis, even though my eyes remain on Artie, “is Artie’s younger sister.”

18

“This is a very lovely room, Mr Sparks,” Esme says as we get her settled in one of the spacious accessible rooms on the ground floor.

I set a tea tray down on the small table in between her and Sam, who sits in the armchair we placed by the window so guests can enjoy the view of the gardens.

“Please, call me Ellis,” I say as I pour her a cup of tea.

Morgan is perched on the edge of the bed and Bertie stands in the corner, quietly for a change, with her hands on Artie’s shoulders. He watches the old woman with a complicated mixture of emotions flitting across his face, but most surprising is the fact that Stanley has appeared beside them, his clipboard clutched in his hand as usual.

He doesn’t say anything, just seems content to watch the scene unfold in front of him.

“I’m not really sure what I’m doing here though.” She picks up her teacup, the china rattling from the tremor her hands appear to have. “Mr Stone has been asking me all kinds of questions. About my parents, my brother, if I believe in ghosts.”

“How much do you know about your brother?” Morgan asks as I hand him a cup of tea too.

“Well, I never met him, of course.” She takes a sip. “He was evacuated from London with many of the other children during the Blitz. He came here to Ashton house and was quite happy by all accounts. I have a few of the letters he wrote to our mum during his stay. Then he got sick, from diphtheria, I think, and died. They couldn’t bring him back to London, so the family allowed him to be buried here. It was kind of them. Mum came for the funeral, broke her heart too. Afterwards, she returned to London. She was a nurse, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Morgan says, shooting a look at Artie, who is still watching Esme intently.

Esme nods. “She was needed, so she threw herself into work. My dad was one of the lucky ones, considering he fought on the front lines. Or maybe he wasn’t so lucky.” She shrugged. “I was born a few years after the war ended. It was a hard life in those post-war years. Everyone was exhausted, trying to rebuild—their homes, their lives. Mum died when I was about six years old, a tram accident. Dad did his best to raise me, but he wasn’t a well man. Like most of those who came home from the war, he was never quite right after. Raising me after Mum died mostly fell to my auntie Beryl, my dad’s sister. In the later years, I took care of Dad. He died back in the eighties.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say quietly, glancing at her as I hand Sam a cup of tea.

She hauls the large bag beside her wheelchair into her lap. Rummaging around, she pulls out some framed photographs and sets them on the table for us to see. The first one is a black-and-white one of a young couple getting married, which I assume was her parents, and although Esme is older than her mum ever got to be, I can see the resemblance.