She didn’t seem to mind, though.
Esme, Jo’s closest friend here in the village, had been Clare’s grandmother. For reasons she never shared, Jo had only ever revealed herself to the women in this family. And even though I was adopted, she accepted me without hesitation. She appeared to me, spoke to me, became a friend.
My mother, on the other hand, liked to dismiss Jo as a spoiled, demanding socialite from a bygone era. But that was just Clare’s usual, starchy façade. Deep down, they got along just fine. Two strong-willed women who pretended not to care, while caring deeply.
That was Clare for you. Aside from Arthur—and Bernie Doyle, her mover, handyman, and jack-of-all-trades—she rarely showed her warmer side to anyone in Harbor View, living or otherwise. I used to think her grouchiness was a kind of armor, something she put on to protect herself and keep the world at arm’s length. But beneath it all, this village was the only place she ever truly belonged. She loved this house. She loved the antique business she’d built from nothing almost fifty years ago.
I’d come back to Harbor View with a plan. Sell the house and the business. Wrap up the memories and the rest of it and move on. But now, I was almost ashamed to think I hadn’t once considered what would happen to Jo.
I didn’t know many ghosts. But I knew Jo. Even in death, she carried all the feelings, moods, and stubborn conviction of someone very much alive.
How would Jo feel about someone else living in the house? She wasn’t exactly living here, but she was still occupying the place. And this had been her dear friend Esme’s home. We were Esme’s family descendants, including Clare’s adoption of me. But now, for the first time, Jo would be forced to deal with new, unrelated people.
Would she reveal herself to the next owners? Accept them? Or maybe she’d become one of those mischievous spirits, unseen but always present. New England towns were full of them—ghosts who lingered in houses and barns and graveyards, playing tricks, refusing to fade into oblivion. Would Jo be one of those? A whisper in a hallway, a flickering lightbulb in the bathroom, a kitchen cabinet or door opening and shutting on its own, a creaking stair in the dead of night, a ghostly image in the background of a photo.
Or would she...well, cross over? Jo had always refused to talk about it. Truthfully, as I was growing up, I’d never wanted her to leave.
“Come upstairs now, Skye,” Jo said again.
I glanced at her. Of course, she hadn’t changed, not since the first time I saw her. She stood now at the foot of the stairs, poised and expectant. Her burgundy silk sheath dress clung gracefully to her slender frame, simple yet unmistakably elegant. The fringed hem fell just below her knees in true flapper fashion. Her hair, set in loose, glossy waves, framed her face in a way that made her look like she’d stepped straight out of a sepia-toned photograph with Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald.
From the kitchen, I could hear Arthur and Ocean talking, two living voices grounding me in the present.
“I have to order their food first,” I murmured, tapping on an app and pulling up the pizza place Arthur had recommended.
“No onions or peppers for him,” Jo said. “He likes mushrooms or just plain cheese these days.”
“Since when did you become an expert on Arthur’s pizza preferences? You don’t even let him see you.”
“Since he and your mother started having dinner here or at his place five nights a week.”
It warmed my heart to know Clare hadn’t always been alone. I lived on the other side of the country, and we didn’t talk or visit as often as she would’ve liked. Still, it was comforting to know she had Arthur. Someone in her corner. Someone who cared.
I tapped the screen and ordered a cheese pizza for delivery.
“Come up to my room.”
“You mean, my room,” I corrected.
“Oh, no. You surrendered possession when you moved away,” Jo said.
And then, she melted away before my eyes.
There were a few odd things about living with a ghost. Okay, more than a few. It had taken a while for me to get my head around it all when I was a kid.
First of all, Jo was nowhere and everywhere at once. But only in this house. She decided when she wanted to have a physical presence. When she wanted to be seen, it was like having a living person in the room with me.
She’d been so gentle when she first introduced herself.
Clare had just brought me here. It started with a whisper in my ear in the first few weeks, usually as I drifted off to sleep. Occasionally, a fleeting reflection in the mirror while I brushed my hair. Once, I came upstairs after dinner to find the books on my shelf rearranged alphabetically, by author’s name. During storms, she’d tap out the seconds between lightning and thunder on the windowpane.
The funny thing is, I was never afraid of Jo. Even after she fully revealed herself and became part of my daily life. Other kids had imaginary friends. I had a real ghost.
Clare was surprised Jo had introduced herself so soon after I moved in. But right then and there, she made one thing very clear. We didn’t talk about our resident spirit to anyone else.
Except Arthur. He understood. After all, his bookstore had a ghost of its own.
Henry Stewart, Jo’s intended, had been haunting the place across the street since the early 1920s.
