Edith stopped by to show us where the inn’s historical records were stored: the attic, packed from floor to ceiling with boxes of letters, guest ledgers, and decades of old decorations and furnishings. It would take days to sort through it all, but if Valerie’s theory about Natalie was right, the answer we needed might be in one of these boxes.
Then the storm came, closing down the roads and burying the inn under a blanket of white. We were snowed in—with a ghost. Which wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Valerie had befriended our nameless poltergeist, claiming they had abond, whatever that meant. He didn’t talk, yet somehow they made surprisingly good charades partners during an after-dinner game.
That night, I was more aware than ever of time slipping away. Christmas Eve was only days off, and I couldn’t tell if she wanted to kiss me again or pretend we were just two people trying not to stare. That’s when we went back up to the attic—me, Valerie, and our silent spirit—to pick up where we’d left off.
Dust motes swirled in the weak light from a hanging bulb, the fine particles mimicking the storm outside. Cedar and the peculiar scent of untouched things hung in the stale air. The creaks and groans beneath our feet were man-made and not from the ghost hovering like a monolith by one of the dormer windows.
Valerie called himMr. Snow.
I called him a third wheel in an overcoat.
“Okay, tell me again what we’re looking for,” I said, crouching to pry open a dusty box.
“Any photos or guest books from 1975 or earlier. The hauntings started around then, so I’m assuming that’s when Mr. Snow—” She cut herself off with a small grunt and tilted her head toward the ghost as if finishing her sentence might hurt his feelings.
Good.Maybe he’d take a hint and haunt the lobby.
“He knows he’s dead, Spells.”
Valerie shot me a glare over her shoulder. She looked ready for adoption; I just wanted five minutes without supervision. Which wasn’t happening anytime soon by the way he loomed, arms folded across his chest, glowing like the season’s most judgmental Christmas decoration.
So I did what any desperate man would do when the woman he cared about was slipping through his fingers. I asked a question that didn't belong in a haunted attic.
“Do you ever want kids?” I said, lobbing the question like a grenade.
“What?” She choked. Her elbow clipped a stack of boxes that wobbled dangerously until I caught them with one hand.
“Careful. You’ll end up with dissociative amnesia, and then I’ll have to pretend I’m your husband just to get you to cook for me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That is just a plot from a movie. And technically, you’re already my husband—andyoucook forme.”
“What can I say? I’m a modern man.” I tossed a guestbook from the nineties back into the box, trying not to breathe in the dust. “Aren’t these the kinds of questions people askbeforethey get married?” I counted them on my fingers. “Do you want kids? Which side of the bed do you prefer? Will I be killing all the spiders? You know, the basics.”
Valerie gave me a look that suggested I was the one with the metaphorical head injury. Mr. Snow nodded behind her like a creepy couples mediator.
I forced a shrug, but my pulse was doing double-time.
“Well?” I pushed, earning me the first hint of approval from the ghost. Or maybe it was just the poor lighting.
Valerie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers absently brushing her gold heart earring. A nervous tell—I’d take it.
“Yes,” she said warily. “Two kids, but not for a while. Left side of the bed. And your last question isn’t inclusive enough. You’ll be taking care ofallthe bugs.” She lowered her gaze, inspecting her cuticles, when she was really watching me beneath her lashes. “What about you?”
I pretended to think. “Kids are great, but I’m happy either way. The right, because someone already claimed the left. And good call, I wasn’t bug-inclusive enough. But I draw the line at anything bigger than my hand. You scream, I run, and we sell the house.”
Her grin made the attic brighter.
The ghost just examined his translucent hand, then gave me a wide-eyed look that translated as Yup. Size matters.
I dragged another box closer. This one was heavier than the last, packed with brittle ledgers and stacks of old photographs, all yellowing with age.
Valerie settled onto the floor, legs crossed, and cocked her head like a game show host. “All right, serious question: whatare your feelings on fruitcake? Underrated holiday dessert or torture in a loaf pan?”
“Wow, straight to the controversial topics. Underrated for sure. It’s the mincemeat pies you have to worry about.”
She made a face. “Good point. Real tree or fake?” she asked, going for the lightning round.
I leaned over the box, voice dropping with mock seriousness. “Don’t tell anyone, but at the annual Delaney Christmas… we put up a fake tree.”
