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“Pretty sure that wasn’t my goal.”
“No, listen!” She turned, eyes suddenly alive in the amber light. “A masquerade! That’s it, that’s how we’ll bring people in. We’ll own the narrative, tell the real story, and have people here, seeing how beautiful it all is. How it was always a place of refuge and healing, and we’ve remade it even better.”
Sully blinked at her. The shift in her was dizzying.
She gripped his arms, momentum propelling her words. “We make the grand opening a costume gala—Victorian, pirates, sailors, ghosts, Verity and the captain—everyone and everybody invited to embrace it. Lean into the legend, every last bit of it. They’ll see the beautiful setting, the facilities, and have fun with the ghost stories. We’ll make the history part of island pride.”
“You want to turn my gorgeous renovation into a prop for vampires and pirates?”
“Exactly!” she said, laughing now. “We’ll call it the Widow’s Point Masquerade Ball. Period music, lanterns, food—we’ll do fundraisers for both the community foundation and the island historical society. Ticket sales will cover the costs of the event and help fill in funding gaps. If people think this is a ghost story, fine—but we’ll be the ones telling it.”
He shook his head, half in disbelief. “You were crying ten minutes ago.”
“I had an epiphany. It may have been your word choice.”
Ollie barked once, as if seconding her. Amy scooped him up, spinning once around the kitchen. “This is perfect, Sully. It’s lemonade. It’s light out of the ruins.”
He watched her whirl across his worn floorboards, socks sliding, laughter rising over the rain. She was completely, impossibly impossible—brilliant, stubborn, alive.
He sighed, feigning defeat as she took him in her arms and spun him around like she had Ollie. “As long as you promise to save me a dance.”
Amy smiled. “Always. And this has been real for me as well. I’d take you as a penniless artist any day.”
Their kiss, tender at first, deepened quickly into passion. He drew her closer, fingers finding the rhythm of her heartbeat. When she reached for his hand, he led her toward the bedroom. This was the closest he’d been in years to telling someone he loved them, outside of a dramatic situation. Even though the words hadn’t come, he knew she understood—and, better still, felt the same way.
The rain kept up outside, steady and calm. In the kitchen, the candle he’d lit earlier glowed. The dog sighed, rearranging himself on the bed Sully had bought for him—already home.
Chapter 31
The mayor’s office smelled faintly of polished wood and stale coffee. Amy smoothed her skirt as the receptionist showed her in, pulse ticking in her throat.
Mayor Hartwell looked up from behind his massive desk. The man always managed to fill a room—broad shoulders, a voice that didn’t need volume to command attention. The faint arch of his eyebrow said he’d already guessed why she was there.
“Ms. York,” he said. “It’s been a while. Sit.”
Amy sat, careful to keep her bag from creasing her lap. “Thank you for seeing me, Mayor.”
He folded his hands. “If this is about the heritage grant again—”
“It’s not,” she cut in quicker than she meant to, then took a breath. “It’s about a masquerade ball at the Blackwell Mansion.”
He leaned back and studied her for a long second, skepticism flickering behind his glasses. “You’ll excuse me if I’m wary. That Dead Reckoning nonsense did more harm than good.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. “I know,” she said quietly. “That’s why I want to do this differently.” She pulled a slim folder from her bag and set it on the desk. “The event’s not about hauntings or spectacle. It’s about the real people—Captain Jeremiah and Verity Blackwell, the founders of the mansion—and what their story says about this island’s beginnings. Love, loss, craftsmanship, rebuilding. We’re using the ball to spotlight local maritime history. And bring in local artisans, and even the historical society.”
Mayor Hartwell eyed the folder but didn’t open it yet. “That’s a shift,” he said finally. “And you’re confident people will show up for this, instead of a ghost hunt?”
Amy smiled. “This island has much to be proud of. They’ll come.”
The mayor was silent a moment, the faint hum of the harbor traffic drifted through the window behind him. Then he opened the folder she’d placed before him, glanced at the mockup flyer—a gilded mask over a faded sketch of the mansion—and grunted softly, almost a laugh.
“‘A Night to Remember the Past,’” he read. “Not bad.”
“It’s meant to restore the mansion’s reputation, and the town’s,” Amy said. “I was hoping the town might help promote it. Not money. Just support. An endorsement.”
He looked up at her then, the hard lines around his eyes softening. “You’re not here to ask for a check?”
“No, sir. Just a chance.”
