for her sake that the voice coming from my mother’s bedroom had emanated from a live person) and asked her opinion.
“She’s got a boyfriend,” Jeannie suggested. “She doesn’t know how to tell you, and so she’s embarrassed and acting unusual.” There was the sound of a baby crying so loudly I had to pull the phone from my—that is, I had to move the earpiece away from my ear. “Sorry,” Jeannie continued. “Oliver gets cranky when I switch sides.” Jeannie’s son, Oliver, now four months old, had clearly been breast-feeding while I was talking to her.
“Thanks for that mental image,” I said. “Couldn’t you have told me he needed a pacifier?”
“Pacifiers are unsuitable substitutes for the real thing,” Jeannie said, no doubt rolling her eyes over my thickheadedness. This was not the first time we’d had such a conversation. “They make the child dependent on something that they don’t need and create a need to wean the child”—Jeannie always says “the child” when she’s dispensing parenting advice I don’t need given that I’m the one with an almost-eleven-year-old daughter—“twice later on. That just makes the child cranky and the parents frustrated.” Or was it the other way around?
“My mother,” I reminded her.
“I’m telling you. She’s found some guy and maybe they meet every Tuesday, so she had forgotten he’d be there because she thought it was Monday. And when he showed up, she got flustered and sent him away.”
“Sent him away? What, he climbed out the window? Besides, how did he get into the house to begin with?” If she wanted to play that it was a living guy, I could do that.
“Maybe he has a key,” Jeannie answered. “Maybe she’s living this secret life.” I heard gurgling on her end of the conversation. Oliver, no doubt being difficult. It’s in the genes.
“Why would he be waiting in her bedroom?” I asked. And I knew I shouldn’t have said that even as the words were coming out of my mouth. Suddenly there were new images I needed to get out of my head. “Ewwwww,” I groaned.
“Don’t judge,” Jeannie laughed.
“She’s my
mother
!”
“Where do you think you came from, the J.Crew catalog?”
“Jeannie!” I screamed. “Enough!”
It was another ten minutes to my house in Harbor Haven, the hometown I’d returned to after my divorce from a guy we’ll call “The Swine,” strictly for the sake of accuracy. No snow was falling yet, but I wasn’t crazy about the prospect of it. I had guests back at the house, my daughter was being dropped off after school by her best friend’s mom, and there were these two ghosts to manage.
Perhaps I should explain.
About a year ago, I’d bought the massive Victorian at 123 Seafront Avenue to turn into a guesthouse with money I’d gotten from divorcing The Swine and from settling a lawsuit (don’t ask). While I was renovating the place, an “accident” left me with a very bad bump on the head and the sudden ability to see the two spirits, Paul Harrison and Maxie Malone, who inhabited the house.
They’d both died in the house a few years before I bought it—Maxie was the previous owner, and Paul, the newly minted private investigator who’d been hired to find out who was threatening her if she didn’t leave the house; threats that turned out to be serious when they were both poisoned—and though it took some doing, the three of us were able to find their killer. But despite our mutual expectations that Paul and Maxie would “go into the light” or whatever once their murders were solved, nothing much seemed to have changed in that regard. So we’ve had to figure out a way to coexist.
Luckily, right around that same time, I was approached by a man named Edmund Rance, who represented a group called Senior Plus Tours, offering senior citizens vacations with an “added experience” attached. Rance had heard rumors that my guesthouse was haunted—which technically it is—and
“She’s got a boyfriend,” Jeannie suggested. “She doesn’t know how to tell you, and so she’s embarrassed and acting unusual.” There was the sound of a baby crying so loudly I had to pull the phone from my—that is, I had to move the earpiece away from my ear. “Sorry,” Jeannie continued. “Oliver gets cranky when I switch sides.” Jeannie’s son, Oliver, now four months old, had clearly been breast-feeding while I was talking to her.
“Thanks for that mental image,” I said. “Couldn’t you have told me he needed a pacifier?”
“Pacifiers are unsuitable substitutes for the real thing,” Jeannie said, no doubt rolling her eyes over my thickheadedness. This was not the first time we’d had such a conversation. “They make the child dependent on something that they don’t need and create a need to wean the child”—Jeannie always says “the child” when she’s dispensing parenting advice I don’t need given that I’m the one with an almost-eleven-year-old daughter—“twice later on. That just makes the child cranky and the parents frustrated.” Or was it the other way around?
“My mother,” I reminded her.
“I’m telling you. She’s found some guy and maybe they meet every Tuesday, so she had forgotten he’d be there because she thought it was Monday. And when he showed up, she got flustered and sent him away.”
“Sent him away? What, he climbed out the window? Besides, how did he get into the house to begin with?” If she wanted to play that it was a living guy, I could do that.
“Maybe he has a key,” Jeannie answered. “Maybe she’s living this secret life.” I heard gurgling on her end of the conversation. Oliver, no doubt being difficult. It’s in the genes.
“Why would he be waiting in her bedroom?” I asked. And I knew I shouldn’t have said that even as the words were coming out of my mouth. Suddenly there were new images I needed to get out of my head. “Ewwwww,” I groaned.
“Don’t judge,” Jeannie laughed.
“She’s my
mother
!”
“Where do you think you came from, the J.Crew catalog?”
“Jeannie!” I screamed. “Enough!”
It was another ten minutes to my house in Harbor Haven, the hometown I’d returned to after my divorce from a guy we’ll call “The Swine,” strictly for the sake of accuracy. No snow was falling yet, but I wasn’t crazy about the prospect of it. I had guests back at the house, my daughter was being dropped off after school by her best friend’s mom, and there were these two ghosts to manage.
Perhaps I should explain.
About a year ago, I’d bought the massive Victorian at 123 Seafront Avenue to turn into a guesthouse with money I’d gotten from divorcing The Swine and from settling a lawsuit (don’t ask). While I was renovating the place, an “accident” left me with a very bad bump on the head and the sudden ability to see the two spirits, Paul Harrison and Maxie Malone, who inhabited the house.
They’d both died in the house a few years before I bought it—Maxie was the previous owner, and Paul, the newly minted private investigator who’d been hired to find out who was threatening her if she didn’t leave the house; threats that turned out to be serious when they were both poisoned—and though it took some doing, the three of us were able to find their killer. But despite our mutual expectations that Paul and Maxie would “go into the light” or whatever once their murders were solved, nothing much seemed to have changed in that regard. So we’ve had to figure out a way to coexist.
Luckily, right around that same time, I was approached by a man named Edmund Rance, who represented a group called Senior Plus Tours, offering senior citizens vacations with an “added experience” attached. Rance had heard rumors that my guesthouse was haunted—which technically it is—and
Similar Books
