“My schedule for the shoot is locked in.”
“I know. But we’ll figure it out.”
“I can’t just figure it out,” he snapped. “After July first, I’ll be on set twelve hours a day.”
“Ocean and I don’t need babysitters,” I said, matching his tone. “It’s not about hand-holding. It’s about seeing each other when you’re not working.”
“My time isn’t mine to give right now. I told you that before,” he said, his voice low and controlled. The quieter he got, the more furious he was. “You were the one who wanted this.”
“No. You suggested it. I went along with it.”
He turned his face away from the screen, jaw tightening and unclenching.
My frustration was getting me, and I didn’t want to fight with him. “Listen, this isn’t getting us anywh?—”
“Aren’t you the sole heir?” he cut in. “Can’t you just hire someone, an attorney, to handle all of it? The estate, the house, the… stuff?”
He kept going—asking, suggesting, trying to delegate it all from his barstool. But I’d stopped listening. His words weren’t landing. They were scraping. Not once had he asked me how I was doing.
He wasn’t always this way, but all he cared about now was his time and the money. Clare’s death wasn’t a loss to him. It was an inconvenience. A box to check off on the way to the shoot.
“I’m not leaving in two weeks,” I said, letting my words sink in. He’d made the decision for me. “It’ll be a month. What I need to do here might take the whole summer.”
His face darkened. “You can’t keep Ocean from me. She’s my daughter too.”
That one landed. Low and sharp. But from this distance, more than two thousand miles away, I saw it for what it was. Control and possession.
“If it’s really about her, I’ll fly her back and forth during the summer.”
“That’s not what we agreed on. I can’t take care of her while I’m on set.”
I didn’t need a mirror to know my skin was flushing with hives. Irritation pulsed through every inch of me.
“Call me next week,” I said, my voice tight. “By then I’ll have the funeral date. You can fly out to the East Coast when your schedule allows it, see Ocean, and we’ll plan the rest of the summer while you’re here.”
I hung up before he could say another word.
Arms crossed, I tilted my face to the ceiling and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm the storm that was still roaring inside me.
That’s when I felt it. A soft brush of air, like something unseen had wrapped itself gently around me. The lightest caress. A smile tugged at my lips.
Henry Stewart. The bookstore ghost.
“I’m still mad at you for never showing yourself to me,” I murmured to the empty room. “But I know you’re a good guy. Why else would Jo pine after you for a hundred years? Oh, and she sends her love, by the way.”
At that moment, the curtains over the double windows facing Clare’s house flew open with a sudden, theatrical flourish.
“One hundred years of loving someone. That’s a good run.”
Then, as I turned and went back into the dining room to join the others, my heart felt a little lighter. If only for a moment.
Chapter Ten
Skye
* * *
The mess downstairs was daunting, but it had to be dealt with. By eight a.m., I was showered and dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Coffee in hand, I was ready to get the day started. Research was second nature to me, an essential part of my job.
