Not that he needed to do so. He was one hundred percent certain.
He knew she was here.
Her social media went dark two days ago. That was the biggest clue she was on her way north. It must be killing her not share everything she was doing and seeing with her eager followers. And eating. Ashley loved a hot meal.
He based his convictions on more than surfing the web. In his very bones, he was aware of her presence. He couldn’t help it or turn off his awareness. She pulled him towards her like a magnet, recalibrating his polarity and world.
If he waited her out, would he see smoke rising from the lighthouse in the evening as she cooked? He was going to enjoy this. With warning and time, he’d figure out the best path for both of them. Hadn’t she accused and praised him for being cool and collected?
First, he’d hold a movie under the stars tonight. He’d play her favorite but angle the screen out of view. And then he’d have the kitchen to prepare fresh popcorn. Culinary torture was going to be fun.
Without her, he hadn’t much to enjoy. His world had gone from bright to drab the second she left. She could forgive him for his behavior. He’d do the same for her. All she had to do was meet him face to face.
A knock sounded at the door.
With a heavy breath, he stood and pushed aside his plans under a veneer of professionalism. She couldn’t help but cloud his thoughts. Her attempt at haunting threw him for a loop. But he’d right himself.
The door shook again, the knock insistent.
“Come in,” he called as he sat in his chair. He was the boss. He’d let no one forget it.
ChapterTwo
Ashley’s second, and perhaps most important, lesson about haunting came on the fifth day. A fake apparition couldn’t survive on sandwiches alone. When the breeze wafted the smells of the resort’s kitchen into the lighthouse through the open windows, she found her resolve to remain inside the building wavering. One excursion wouldn’t cost her anything. What were the odds the website advertised her favorites as the daily specials? BLT with scrambled egg, mushroom risotto, and chicken enchiladas verde had nothing in common. Except her.
Christopher must suspect she was back. Why else would the Inn screenFailure to LaunchandThe Cutting Edgeover the past week? Attendance for both movies had seemed poor, as far as she could tell from the dirty windows.
She hadn’t been able to watch the action on the screen. The projector was angled out of her view. If he had done so on purpose, however, he had once again underestimated her. She’d watched both films enough to have the visuals memorized and enjoyed her favorite movies like radio plays.
Perhaps her husband was spurred by nostalgia. She preferred that perspective. Wistful, estranged husbands were easier to frighten than those who were too aware of their wives’ movements.
She’d waited for dusk before placing her order and sneaking out of the crumbling tower. She had changed out of her Victorian nightgown and into a black T-shirt and jogger sweatpants. Pants had been a relief. The billowing nightgown had been a pain inside the lighthouse, catching on the stairs and restricting her movement. Now she needed speed. With each step, she strained for any noise above her own labored breathing and pounding heartbeat. She wasn’t cut out for subterfuge.
Crossing the wooden bridge in a few hurried steps, she leaped to the lawn and dashed to the tree line that marked the property boundary, with unkempt woods behind a neat row of shrubs. The cool night air held the scent of pine and fresh-cut grass. She raced along the edge of the forest towards the Inn’s kitchen, past the restaurant and employee door.
She’d grown up at the resort and eaten almost every meal in the kitchen. Over the past decade, she had never learned how to cook for herself. Surviving off takeout and microwave meals, she hadn’t been put to the test. However, she'd finally reached her breaking point after nearly a week of peanut butter and jelly. She’d learn to cook a few basic things as soon as she was out of the lighthouse and into her home. Could she kick her husband out of the cottage?
A branch cracked under her foot, and she froze, taking in her surroundings. Night had descended around her. The sky melted from soft blue to inky navy. If anyone spotted her, she probably resembled a startled deer caught by headlights. In the north woods, darkness didn’t bring silence. The buzz of bugs rivaled traffic noise, in her opinion. A frog croaked in the distance. More importantly, she didn’t hear any human sounds.
She focused on her feet, picking her way through the forest. She neared the kitchen side door, and the wafting smells tickled her nose again. Once she had a hot meal, she’d reclaim her rightful place as owner and operator. She stepped into the thick row of tall boxwoods. Sharp branches dug into the exposed skin on her neck and arms. Physical pain was fleeting and only solidified her resolve. She was not pinning her future on the whims of chance. Her plan was solid.
For the time being, however, she hid in the bushes outside the kitchen’s back door, waiting for her food and replaying her tactics to date. Her mysterious sounds and lights hadn’t drawn any notice. She had to make the lighthouse impossible for Christopher to ignore so he’d abandon the Inn. Christopher wasn’t known for giving up. For years, she had enjoyed the full benefit of his loyalty. Ultimately, however, he chose to stay and proved his ties were stronger with her father than her. She’d had no choice but to leave.
At some point, she became the Wickham to his Darcy. And she hated that. Why was she the dissolute child of the respectable parent? Why couldn’t she be the steadfast, stable one?
She blamed his lack of imagination. As a kid, she was forced to come up with every ingenious plan to entertain them. And, of course, she’d taken all the blame when things went haywire.
It didn’t matter. She couldn’t change the past. Her future remained open with possibilities, starting with the Inn. Christopher wasn’t easy to scare, and he swore he didn’t believe in the paranormal. But she remembered the fear in his eyes as she told ghost stories by flashlight. She’d terrify him, and then she could reclaim what rightfully belonged to her.
He was hardly a Mr. Darcy. In truth, he was nothing more than a peacocking Mr. Collins. The entail was void. The rightful heir would claim her legacy.
Her stomach growled.
She pressed her hands against her belly, hoping to dull the sound. She’d been explicit in her instructions. The delivery driver was to leave the paper bag next to the large pine tree closest to the building’s side entrance.
From her position, crouched in the trimmed boxwoods that created a neat wall of greenery on the eastern edge of the property, blocking the wild, unmanicured forest, she’d be no more than thirty feet from her meal when it finally arrived. She’d duck out of her hiding spot, grab the bag, and hightail it back to the lighthouse before anyone was the wiser.
She wanted to take over a successful business, not terrify her customers and assume control of a ghost town. Hanging back allowed her to marvel at the beautiful structure up close. The expansive building was modeled after the great Gilded Age cottages on the East Coast. The roof boasted gables and two towers on either end. Luckily, the covered porch didn’t wrap around this side of the building but skirted the western edge, inviting guests to stroll and admire the sunset.
