Page 10 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland

If a spirit comes through that you’re not expecting, don’t be rude. They’re not like the religious zealot knocking at your door. They’re not trying to convert you. They just want a connection with a human. With you.

—Evie Oxby, NYT Style section, “What Not to Do with Ghosts”

The next morning, Beatrice hung up the Do Not Disturb sign and resolved not to open the door for anything but the coffee she ordered from room service.

Thanks to her shopping spree at the market, she was set for bread and cheese and chocolate, and there was always delivery if ice cream became essential for survival.

At seven thirty, she heard a knock. When she opened the door, a coffee carafe was waiting for her on a tray.

Good and strong and hot. She drank her first cup on the balcony and tried to concentrate on synchronizing her breaths with the waves rolling into the cove below.

Eventually, she’d figure out how to build enough bravery to text Minna, to ask if she could perhaps see her and Cordelia again.

Or maybe she’d stay in the room all day and night.

Maybe she’d leave tomorrow and work on building bravery at home.

Nowadays, people built whole relationships online.

That’s what Zoom was for, right? She could do that with Cordelia and Minna from home.

She could come back and visit them when she knew them better.

Except—Beatrice didn’t have a home. Although technically her name was also on the deed now, Grant’s house had always felt like his home, not like hers.

Six years ago, when she’d moved in, she’d sold her condo and all her furniture because his house was already so perfect: heated slate floors, wine cellar, skylights and a greenhouse, furniture finer than she’d lived with before.

He’d always said that at some point they’d sell and buy a new place that was their own from the bottom up, once both boys were done with college and settled somewhere, when they didn’t need a bedroom to come home to when it was his turn to have them.

And she obviously couldn’t stay any longer with Dad.

He’d sent a couple of texts already this morning. Loving ones. Is it the vanilla granola you like or the maple kind? Then, I got the Wordle in four but knowing you, you got it in three, am I right?

The tightness in her chest made her lungs ache, as if they were made of thin glass that was starting to crack.

Focus on the waves. Maybe if she got the breathing just right, the knot in her stomach would ease.

At 8:00 a.m. came another gentle knock.

It had to be important if someone was knocking even though the sign was on the door, right?

Beatrice cracked it to find a housekeeper holding up a pile of fluffy towels.

“Just checking to see if you need anything, ma’am.”

“Oh.” She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

After the woman had left, Beatrice double-checked the sign. No, she hadn’t accidentally hung up the Service Please side of the card. It still read, Shhh. I’m Counting Sheep .

At nine came another knock.

What the actual hell?

Maybe Beatrice didn’t understand what counting sheep meant. Maybe up here it meant “come say hello to me” or something?

“Yes?” she called through the closed door, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice.

“More coffee, ma’am? Or a crumpet, fresh baked? Or your bed made up?”

“No! I mean, no, thank you!” What kind of hotel was this? Was there something wrong with wanting to be left alone?

At ten came another knock. Beatrice gave a short, tight scream she couldn’t hold back. “Jesus! Go away and leave me alone !”

Silence was the only response.

She felt terrible for yelling, and at the same time, she was relieved to hear footsteps in the hall recede.

Fifteen minutes later, a text landed. I’m very sorry I knocked I just wanted to see if you wanted to hang out or something. Coffee cup emoji. One tear emoji. Minna

Ah, damn it, what an asshole move. Minna hadn’t deserved that. Sorry. Not a good time tho.

She should send something else, explain herself.

But she couldn’t.

If only it were tomorrow, so Beatrice could leave this room and this island.

Perched on the edge of the bed, she straightened her spine. She’d leave today, no matter what. She could start a new life. And she would. New apartment. Maybe a new part of town. Closer to Iris, maybe? She didn’t love Redondo Beach (who did?), but it would be a place to start over.

She tapped her phone, searching for a plane ticket, but no, apparently she’d missed the only ferry that could get her to the airport today in time for the only possible flight.

That goddamned sleeping pill. If she hadn’t taken it, she would have had these thoughts at three in the morning, and she’d be halfway home now.

Or halfway to somewhere.

Impossible. It was all impossible. Beatrice wanted to kick the walls, to howl into a pillow, to light something precious on fire just to watch the flame devour it.

What a fool she was. What an idiot. She’d always considered herself a strong feminist. She made her own money.

She kept a separate bank account and maintained her own savings and retirement accounts.

But apparently, trained from birth by a liar, she was also someone who’d believe anything a man told her.

Fine. Beatrice would make a plan, a good, solid, color-coded, spreadsheeted plan to come back to this island, after she sorted out her life.

Then she and Cordelia could get to know each other like the adults they were.

For now, she’d hide in this burrow like a scared, furious mole until it was time to catch the ferry out tomorrow.

At noon, there was another knock. In case it was Minna, Beatrice stayed silent.

The knocking got louder and more insistent. The housekeeper again? Needing desperately to fold a towel into a swan?

The tapping graduated to pounding.

“Holy crap, what? ”

The voice was low. “It’s Reno.”

Okay, that one she hadn’t seen coming. Beatrice rose and went to the door, but she didn’t open it. “Having a pretty horrific day. Can this wait till later?”

“It’s about your niece, and no, it can’t.”

My niece. A tiny glow of warmth rose in Beatrice’s chest.

Reluctantly, she tugged open the door. “How did you get my room number?” Minna had known it, too. Wasn’t that the kind of thing a hotel kept private?

“Small town.” Reno strode in without hesitation. Against the deep olive of her skin, her gaze was icy, the swirl of blue tattoo ink that ran up the right side of her neck just as cold. “I don’t care what you decide to do about your sister. That’s up to you two. But you don’t get to hurt Minna.”

“ Hurt her?”

“I’m warning you. You’ll have to go through me first.” Reno did look formidable. Her head was shaved on both sides, leaving a thatch of dark curls on top.

“Hang on. I did shout at her through the door, but—”

“If you can’t accept her being trans, you can’t be in her life. Period.”

Beatrice gasped. “Oh, god, no . Did she think I didn’t accept her?”

The frosted scowl grew deeper. “You run away the second her grandmother outs her, then you shout at her to go away. She’s devastated.”

“I swear to you, I’m currently furious at everyone except her and Cordelia. And you, I guess.”

Reno blinked. “Oh.”

“I’m not angry at Minna. Not in the slightest.”

“Well.” Reno rubbed the side of her neck where the swirling tattoos rose to twist behind her ear. “You better clear that up, then.”

Beatrice nodded. “Should I text her again?”

Reno raised an eyebrow. “We’ll go to her.”

“Go outside? Now?”

Firmly, Reno said, “Now.”

Fair enough. “I’ll get my bag.”