From Rosaria Ferraro, that was practically a declaration of love. Thirty years of criticism and disapproval, and “maybe I was wrong about you” was as close to an apology as she’d ever get. I knew that. And somehow, sitting on this porch in the dark with the taste of Tony’s coffee still on my lips, it was enough.
“You’re not crossing over,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“Not yet.” She looked out at the dark water—or at its reflection in the glass. “There is more unfinished business in this family. More secrets. That diary was just the beginning.” Her jaw set in that stubborn Ferraro line.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is ominous. I was married to a Ferraro for fifty-three years. Ominous is the family default.”
I laughed. Actually laughed. And Rosaria’s reflection—I could’ve sworn—almost smiled.
“You are stuck with me,” she said. “At least for a little while longer.”
I looked at my own reflection in the window. Dark hair with silver streaks. Brown eyes, a little tired. No dark circles tonight. I looked like a woman who’d survived something and come out different on the other side. Not perfect, not finished, but different. Better, maybe. Or at least more herself.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I am.”
I was surprisingly okay with that.
Inside, the cottage was warm. Aunt Amelia’s books lined the shelves. The herbs hung in the kitchen. The mirrors in the spare bedroom were still covered, but maybe tomorrow I’d pull the sheets off. See who else was out there, waiting to be heard.
Fifty-two years old. Divorced. Menopausal. A medium who set things on fire. Haunted by her dead mother-in-law. Kissed by a detective who believed in ghosts. Surrounded by a coven of women who caught her when she fell.
My real life was just getting started.
