We both turned, and in the next moment, my daughter was in his arms. He was hugging her with the same fierce affection he’d always given me. He released her and gave her a slow head-to-toe look.
“Are you all living next to a nuclear power plant these days? You’ve grown six inches since last time I saw you.”
“Exaggeration,” Ocean said with a laugh.
“It’s the truth. How old are you now?”
“Fifteen.”
“You were twelve,” Arthur replied. “Twelve...the last time you came to Harbor View.”
“Not true. We came last summer. But you were away for something.”
“Oh, yes. You did come last summer. For roughly thirty-six hours, I believe. It was one of those fly-by trips that half of your parental unit enjoys.” He struck a dramatic pose. “I’m far too important to stay away from Hollywood for more than?—”
“Okay,” I broke in. “Enough with the hard time.”
“We’re staying longer this time,” Ocean chirped. She tugged on his arm, pulling him toward the kitchen. “Come help me with the windows. It’s like a cave in here.”
As Arthur followed her, Ocean called back, “Mom, everything’s open upstairs. But can we get something to eat? Order in, maybe? I’m starving. Pizza. Let’s get pizza.”
Arthur called out the name of the place we should order from.
“Sure thing.”
I went back into the front room where I’d dropped my bag. The sound of their laughter coming from the kitchen was exactly what I needed. It was a welcome break from the weight pressing down on me. I really had to push the sadness aside and focus on what had to be done.
But Ocean was right. Food first. We were still on California time, and aside from a few snacks, we’d missed breakfast and lunch.
As I reached into my bag for my phone, fingers clamped around my wrist.
Cold, strong…and lifeless.
Chapter Four
Skye
* * *
“Jo,” I gasped. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“We need to talk. Come upstairs.”
There she stood—Josephine Fitzgerald—looking as solid and alive as anyone in Harbor View. Her piercing eyes met mine, and the faint scent of lavender drifted in the air around her. But this time, she’d snuck up on me.
She had quite a history, our resident ghost. Over the years, Jo had told me everything—every vivid, painful detail of her life...and her death.
She’d been part of this house for over a century. Back in the early 1900s, this had been her refuge. Her best friend Esme Brooks’ home. By the time America got into World War I, she was a true flapper in spirit and style. Jo defied the life she was born into. She laughed off society’s rules. Flaunted expectations. Ran from her family.
The Fitzgeralds were old-money New York. Cold, rigid, and obsessed with appearances. To them, love didn’t matter. Only status did. So, when Jo fell for Henry Stewart—a man who didn’t meet their standards—they made their disapproval brutally clear. When he went off to fight in France, they used the opportunity to find her a husband. Someone of their own class.
But rather than marry the man her parents had chosen, Jo fled. She came here, to Harbor View, to wait for Henry.
But death found her first.
The Spanish flu, what Jo always called the ‘Blue Death’, swept in and took her.
She remained where she died. A spirit bound not by tragedy alone, but by memory. By love. Trapped in the one place she’d finally felt free.
