Page 25

Roxy’s face lit up. Even Cam knew that if there was anything Roxy liked more than reaming out an underling, it was talking about Silver Cove history.

“Why yes, the Poulsons were a prominent family. Not many still around, though. But I can think of one A. Poulson. In fact, she married my great-great uncle, who is Silver Cove’s most treasured resident in history, an illustrious man…”

Just as Roxy was getting rolling, the ring of her cell phone interrupted her. The ringtone was, predictably, “Deck the Halls.”

“I’ve got to take this, Cam,” she said, checking the screen. “Greenery emergency. Just go to the library and ask Miles about Ada. He’ll be able to tell you what there is to know.” With that, she pinned the phone to her ear and started barking again.

And just like that, her ghost had a name. Ada. At least it was something.

Cam walked the short two blocks to Martina’s Cafe. The building had been a general store ages ago, but it had been a cafe for as long as Cam could remember it. Large plate-glass windows fronted the street, and the original door was still there, its paint flaking.

Cam had bittersweet memories about the place. Growing up, the tradition was that Birdie would take Cam and Avery there for breakfast the last day of the summer when both girls were set to go home. Cam always ordered the same thing, a stack of fluffy pancakes served with slippery canned peaches and whipped cream, but the sweet dish always seemed tinged with sadness. It meant the end of the blissful months with her Summer Sister.

Avery would head home to New Jersey, where she lived on a cul-de-sac with her mom and dad, but Cam’s “normal” life was anything but. For one, it was nomadic. Flora moved around a lot: Nashville, Los Angeles, even New York City for a particularly tumultuous six months. Their moves usually coincided with a breakup with whatever guy her mom was dating (almost always a musician) or losing a regular coffee shop gig. Avery told her it all sounded exciting. But Cam envied her cousin’s tennis lessons and lasagna dinners at 6:00 every night.

Breakfast at the cafe was like the last bite of a delicious fruit—it made you happy and sad all at once.

TEMPORARILY CLOSED (GABRIELA HAD THE BABY!) read a handwritten sign on the cafe’s door.

Following the instructions Martina had left on her voicemail, Cam walked along the side of the building and arrived at the back door. She tilted a flowerpot to the side to find a key underneath, as the proprietor had said she would. Cam shook her head at Silver Cove’s security standards and fitted it into the lock. Cam knew she should be grateful—Martina had told her she wouldn’t bother charging rent while she was gone—but she was apprehensive about what she would find. The professional kitchens where she had worked were mostly tidy and well-appointed if a little small. (It was Manhattan, after all). But she had heard nightmare stories about filthy and dangerous working conditions. Would she soon be confronted with fifty years of grease?

She found herself first in a small area that looked like it was a cleaning supply closet, with a few hooks that she guessed were for employees’ coats and bags. She crossed through another doorway with trepidation. Immediately, she exhaled in relief. She took in a kitchen with a large gas stove, half of whose surface was taken up by a smooth griddle—perfect for all those pancakes and bacon strips Martina served. Scratched but shining stainless steel countertops formed an L, with another stainless island forming the center of the configuration. Everything looked clean and workable, including the row of battered pans and the serviceable, if not fancy, lineup of knives standing at attention on a wall-mounted magnetic rack. The large refrigerator was mostly empty, save for condiments. Martina had obviously cleared it out in anticipation of a long absence.

Whew, Cam thought, standing in the middle of the workspace and feeling the centering calm that orderliness always brought her. This was a space she could work with. She checked the large wire shelving rack and found an ample supply of sheet pans, mixing bowls, and tools.

Not too shabby, Martina. This was the kitchen of a competent cook. And this was a kitchen where she just might be able to get things done, testing recipes for Izzy and prepping for the fete.

Cam spent the rest of the afternoon in a happily busy gear—first grocery shopping and then cooking, making precise notes as she went along. It felt like it had been ages since she had been so productive. It was early evening when she finally put down her pencil and her spoon and decided to call it a day. Feeling satisfied, she hung up the apron she had borrowed from Martina (it read #1 Abuela To-Be) and stepped out into the chilly night, headed in the direction of home. On a whim, she decided to take a detour past the antique shop. Maybe Francine had some information about the dress label.

The lights inside Antiques on the Cove cast a warm glow, and as Cam swung the door open, she was greeted by Louis Armstrong’s jaunty “Jingle Bells” and a smile from the proprietor behind the counter. Today, Francine’s ensemble was a full plaid wool skirt and a lacy white blouse cinched with a shiny patent-leather belt. Above Cam’s head, large cutouts of snowflakes and what looked like vintage Christmas ornaments in metallic hues hung from the ceiling by ribbons, and the effect was magically snowy.

“Hey, Cam!” she said. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Very festive,” Cam said, motioning around the shop. “Looks like you’ve got the Silver Cove holiday spirit.”

“I don’t know if you recall, but we take our holidays pretty seriously around these parts,” Francine said. “The first year I took over the shop, I went understated with my holiday decor, and I was informed that my efforts were”—she formed air quotes with bloodred-manicured fingers—“‘not quite up to par.’ Ever since, I’ve made an effort to impress. I like it, actually. It livens the place up. Plus it gives me a reason to put my mad crafting skills to good use.” She touched one of the delicate, dangling snowflakes, and Cam couldn’t help but be impressed by Francine’s scissorwork.

“Let me guess—was it a certain Roxy Shipman who complained about your lack of over-the-top Christmas cheer?”

“Ding, ding, ding!” Francine said with a laugh. “Correct! So, I was actually going to get in touch with you. I fell down a rabbit hole doing research on that dressmaker’s label. It is amazing how much time you can spend on those online vintage fashion forums.”

Cam nodded. She wasn’t sure about fashion sites, but she could definitely get lost for hours scrolling through mouthwatering food images.

“But in the end, I wasn’t able to identify whoever made that dress,” she said. “It’s sad, isn’t it? That gorgeous garment is a certifiable work of art, and yet no one knows the name of the person—probably a woman—who made it. Just… poof! Lost to history.”

“They knew who she was at the time, at least,” Cam offered. She knew all about making things that no one would ever know were yours. That was the name of the ghostwriting game, after all. “And I haven’t even been able to identify whoever donated it to the jumble sale, either.” With Birdie’s help, she had been going through the names on the receipts with no luck.

“I don’t mean to pry, but can I ask why you were so interested in that dress?”

Cam paused, wondering whether she should divulge all the details of… whatever had been happening to her lately. She still couldn’t even bring herself to call it a haunting, even in her own mind. Only people in cheesy horror movies or Victorian novels got haunted, for God’s sake. She worried that Francine would think she was nuts, but then she considered what the shopkeeper had said about old things and how they told people’s stories. She drew in her breath.

“If I tell you, can you promise not to think I’m absolutely bonkers?” Cam asked tentatively.

Francine’s eyes widened behind her cat-eye glasses. “Oh, absolutely, although there’s nothing wrong with being bonkers, not in my book. But hold that thought,” she said, reaching for a jumble of keys behind the counter and snapping shut a laptop she had been working on. “Have you eaten yet? I was just about to close up for the night, and I’m starving. In my experience, stories like this are best told over burgers and beers.”

Cam considered her offer. Her usual move would be to decline politely and spend the evening in her room, poring over her shopping and to-do lists. But it actually sounded tempting. For starters, she was hungry. Sure, she had been tasting tiny morsels of food all afternoon, but she hadn’t actually eaten a full meal. And who knew, it might be fun, something she probably needed more of in her life. She imagined a headline on the cover of the Silver Cove Weekly newspaper: CAM PARKER HAS FUN. She decided to text Birdie to tell her not to wait for her for dinner and to please walk Parsley.

“Burgers and beers it is!” Cam answered.