“I miss you,” I said, and the truth of it loosened something braided too tight inside my ribs.
“I miss you too,” she said, and for a breath she shimmered, went bright as a swallowed candle, and I thought I’d imagined all of it. Then she was Gran again, solid as the chair, stern as the cold.
“Are you going to haunt him?” I asked, because if my brain was inventing cinema, I wanted bonus features.
“I’ll haunt whoever needs it,” she said. “Today that’s you.”
“Thanks,” I said dryly. “Terrific.”
She laughed and it was my favorite sound, the one that says she thinks I’m ridiculous and precious in equal measure. Then she sobered. “Love is the only thing that matters. Not the song. Not your pride. Not the fear. If it comes to your door and asks to help carry the groceries, you let it. You can always say no to the cooking later.”
“That metaphor fell apart at the end,” I said.
“My metaphors always did need a bit of glue,” she said fondly, and stood, smoothing her skirt. “I’ll be off then.”
“Where?” I asked, suddenly desperate to keep her with me.
She looked toward the window, as if the wind had sent a note. “Wherever I’m needed.” She leaned down, cupped my face, and I felt the softest brush of air at my cheeks. “Eat a proper lunch. You get mean when you’re hungry. And tell that boy to fix the radiator in the blue room as it wheezes like a sick accordion.”
And she was gone.
The air sagged, and the cushion sprang back.
I sat very still, astounded at what had just occurred.
“Stress,” I said aloud. “Pure stress.”
The radiator in the blue room wheezed like a sick accordion. I could hear it all the way from here.
“Fine,” I told the universe. Shaking, I stood, and looked out the window, wondering if I’d see my gran sailing away toward the ocean like Mary Poppins with her umbrella. Instead, a moody winter sky met my gaze, and I turned, pulling the feeling of Gran being close once again to my heart.
I washed my face in the tiny bathroom sink, pinched color into my cheeks like a Victorian ghost, and marched downstairs with intent.
Noah was in the hall, jacket on, as if he’d correctly deduced that he should stay away from me. He looked up when he heard me. Something moved through his face before wariness settled on his expression. Bloody man.
“Before you run away to do … whatever it is you do when you pretend you don’t care,” I said, and his mouth quirked, “the radiator in the blue room wheezes. It sounds like it’s dying. See what you can do.”
He blinked. “Yes, boss.”
“And”—the word stuck. I forced it through—“thank you. For the boiler.”
He lifted a shoulder, shrugging off my thanks. “Anytime. Um, there’s a hardware shop in Crail that I can pick up a few things to patch some problem areas I’ve noted around here. I’ll be back before lunch. If that’s okay?”
It took everything in my power not to tell him “no” but since I was still reeling from a surprise ghost visit from my gran and had nobody to talk to about it, I relented.
“I’d appreciate that,” I said, remembering that Gran was probably watching and railing at me to beniceto the handsome man.
“Great. I’ll be back shortly.” He saluted, ridiculously so, and left.
The hall felt bigger without him and worse. Needing a diversion, and time to think about the visit from Gran, I made scones, the kind she’d taught me—the cold butter rubbed in until the flour looked like wet sand, the milk splashed just enough, the dough patted, not bullied. I set a timer and chopped fruit for compote and told myself sternly that I had not seen a ghost and that if I had, nobody would believe me anyway.
Esther texted me.
I heard your boiler was on the fritz. Do you need my help?
How had she heard that already? I briefly wondered if my gran visited her as well.
What do you know about fixing boilers?
