Thank god for small miracles.
A low buzz ofooohrose around the table like schoolgirls sharing secrets behind the bleachers.
Elodie grinned and pulled out her notebook. “So here’s what we know: In 1903, a young woman’s body was found on the dunes with a locket with the initials A.L. engraved on it, but there was no mention of the woman’s true identity. Alma was engaged to William Lovell and wore a locket with the initials A.L., so it’s safe to assume the lady haunting Star Harbor is Alma.”
Gentle hums filled the space. We were familiar with the lore of the Lady, but something about how Elodie was suggesting a new twist on a familiar ghost story was enchanting.
“But if they were only engaged, her name wouldn’t be Lovell. At least, not yet, right?” Kit asked.
“That’s true.” I nodded.
“Unless ...” Elodie’s eyes sparked with delight. “The locket was a gift for his bride-to-be. A claim on her or promise of some kind with her soon-to-be married initials?”
“That’s sweet.” Kit sighed wistfully.
“Or controlling,” I grumbled, which earned me a few slanted looks. Kit bumped my shoulder and I playfully scowled at her.
“I have thoughts,” Elodie continued. “Helen confirmed that there are no records of William Lovell after that engagement announcement. It became assumed that he disappeared right alongside his lovesick bride-to-be.”
Kit shrugged. “So maybe he was the long-lost lover who died at sea—just like the legend goes.”
Elodie frowned. “Maybe.But”—her eyes flicked to Helen, who gave her a reassuring nod—“I have a different theory.”
The air in the library grew thick with tension. No one dared to move as we all clung to my sister’s words. “The engagement announcement never mentioned the woman’s last name. I’m still wondering about Alma’s true last name. I think there’s a very real possibility that Alma Lovell was really Alma Barker.”
“The Barkers who owned the Drifted Spirit Inn?” Tara Smithton, another Keeper, asked.
Elodie nodded with wide eyes. “I think Alma Barker was engaged to William Lovell and the locket was a gift for his bride-to-be. But”—she held up a finger—“Alma had a secret.”
Elodie carefully spread faded paper across the table. I cringed, knowing how delicate the paper was.
“After the barn burned down, I found an old trunk in the root cellar. This letter, and others, were tucked inside—dated sometime around 1903, signed only with the initials A.B.”
Curious eyes roamed over the letters. The legend of the Lady of the Dunes was so well known in our town that new information was rare. A little thrill danced through our group, and we collectively leaned in.
“Her letter is odd,” Elodie added. “I think the legend is wrong—at least, parts of it. I don’t believe Alma was waiting for her lost love.” My sister set her shoulders. “She was hiding.”
That quieted the table.
Mom spoke up. “If she was hiding, from who? Or what?”
“That,” Elodie said, barely containing her excitement, “is what we need to find out.”
The group murmured, speculation already buzzing—jealous lovers, false names, disappearances. I leaned back and glanced toward the doorway, as if someone might walk in and confirm it all.
My fingers tingled. Seeing the faded, loopy cursive on time-worn paper was intoxicating. I couldn’t wait to examine it up close. “Maybe I could look into it a little. Nothing deep, just—see if I can dig anything up. Old property records, boardinghouse logs. That kind of thing.”
Helen raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you can see if there’s anything on William or even more about the Barker children.”
I shrugged, pretending not to notice the way Elodie tried—and failed—to smother her smile. “Winnie’s been asking about the ghost again. This might scratch the curiosity itch and keep it from turning into a full-blown obsession.”
“She can be in charge of dioramas,” Elodie teased.
“Exactly.” I smiled. “She’s five—that’s her version of a dissertation.”
“Still,” Helen said, focusing the conversation. “Do you really think there’s something there?”
I didn’t answer right away. The warm light caught on Elodie’s notebook, the pages filled with scribbled theories and sketches of old signatures. I thought about the mysterious letter—how something so small could unravel so much history.
