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“He sure seems to be a chatty one,” said Esme. “I’ll search in my library for banishing spells. Your sisters packed a grimoire in your luggage. You might find some incantations between the pages to send your unwanted spirit back across the veil, or at least repress the hauntings. I’ll summon you in a couple days to check on you. In the meantime, research everything you can on this person. Who they were, how they died, if there was a shady business deal or a so-called friend who wanted Demi Moore all to himself.”
“I gotta go, Mom. He’s rummaging through the shelves looking for more Tolkien. There are six books, Montgomery. Seven if you countThe Children of Hurin. Put that special edition down right now or so help me…”
“Are you going to be okay, Willow? This ghost of yours seems dangerous. All that reading and Jude Law smolder.”
“There is no smolder. Just a false sense of superiority and probably an excess of ectoplasm.”
“Okay, love. I’ll keep this horrible cell phone near me in case you call. But if it gets out of hand, promise you’ll come home.”
“It won’t come to that. But if it does, I promise I’ll come home. Love you.”
Willow pressed the screen to end the call (because her mother always left it on) and opened her laptop to search the web for any and all information on Montgomery Harland. And if the ghost in front of her would cooperate, she might make some headway to exorcizing him from her bookshop.
So, she decided she’d start from the end, asking Montgomery point blank, and feeling a little bit spooked out saying, “What year did you die?”
It was a three-pill kind of day. Normally, Willow shunned ibuprofen and would power through a headache by guzzling an extra glass of water and doing some deep, restorative breathing. But after two restless nights, this headache was a doozy. Not quite a migraine, but migraine adjacent.
And everybody knows the best cure for a migraine adjacent headache (besides Advil) is a serious vat of coffee and chocolate chip pancakes. It’s the chocolate that makes them so healthy. Besides, Willow needed to get out of the shop before the clean freak drove her bonkers. If something was even a little bit out of place, he’d fix it. If he wasn’t already dead, she’d have killed him herself.
So, not wanting to take up one of the tables at Bo’s Diner, she sat at the bar and was treated to a front row seat to the chaotic workings of a busy food establishment. It was fascinating to see, how with only a cook to assist him, this Bo guy could keep up with so many food orders and maintain his sanity.
He was handsome, Willow noticed as she stuffed herself with fluffy, syrupy carbs. With piercing blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a chiseled jaw that hadn’t seen a razor in a few days, Bo looked like he’d be right at home in the wilderness, hunting for his dinner. His wavy, dark brown hair peeked out from underneath a trucker hat with a drawing of a fish on the front, and his thick forearms broadcasted to anyone within a hundred yards that he was of sturdy build and probably didn’t do things like cross his legs while reading.
“Another refill?” Bo asked Willow, sliding behind the counter while multitasking a hundred other things.
“Since you asked so nicely,” she replied. And as he poured, she took in the ruggedness of his features, how tanned his skin, with friendly lines around his eyes—such a contrast to the smooth, pearlescent face haunting her home.
She scolded herself for giving that ghost another thought, and reached for the sugar.
“You like it really sweet,” Bo observed but quickly added, “Which is fine. I like sugar, too.”
“As you should,” said Willow. “Sugar is the one true sign of civilization.”
“I’m Bo, by the way.”
“I know.”
Bo set down the coffee canteen and leaned on the counter as if Willow was the only customer in the diner. “You’re the new owner of the old saloon on the corner. Willow, right?”
“Yes. News travels fast in a small town.”
“Not used to small towns, then?”
“Actually, I’m from Crescent Hollow, about two hours northeast, and you could fit the whole town inside Mysthaven with room to spare.”
“I’ve been to Crescent Hollow,” Bo said, brightening. “I love that Salem vibe they’ve got going on over there. Ever run across any witches?”
“Witches?” Alarm bells rang in Willow’s head. “What on earth would give you that idea?”
Crescent Hollow had one of the most populous witch communities in North America, but they kept to themselves and preferred their presence to be thought of as merely myths. Nobody in her hometown cared for unwanted attention.
“Just a little joke, that’s all,” Bo said with a laugh. “They seem to embrace the Halloween spirit even more than we do in Mysthaven. And this town goes all out, believe me.”
“Yes, I’ve heard the Harvest Festival is a big deal. You were in charge of planning in the past?”
Bo’s features darkened. “No. That was my father, Bo senior. I don’t participate.”
His eyes seemed to glass over as he stared into the middle distance, hurt etched across his features. Willow knew better than to press him, so she polished off the last bite of her pancakes and rubbed her belly in an almost cartoonish way.
