Caroline’s words sent a shock through me and I dropped into my chair, listening with growing disbelief as Mike outlined his plan to develop the farm into a high-end residential community. My jet lag and dismay blurred his words. Buzzy had died only a week ago and now he wants to sell the farm?
“I have all the players lined up and they’re ready to move. This parcel of land is terrific, but there may be others coming on the market,” Mike said. “You were in the army once, Riley. When the time comes, you have to pull the trigger, right?”
“That’s a very bad analogy, Mike.” I ran my hand along the uneven line of my collarbone, a souvenir of the helicopter crash that ended my very short military career. I turned to Caroline. “Caroline, do you want to sell?” I asked but knew the answer.
Caroline shot out of her chair. “Riley, the last thing I want to do is sell. This is my home! The Brightwoods’ home! Mom worked so hard to make that ice cream shop work. The town loves it! But I can’t do it alone. I love my work at the gallery, and we’re about to start a project where I’m the lead. I won’t be able to come home on weekends for at least two months.” She faced Mike, her chin trembling, her eyes brimming. “And you won’t help.”
“My life’s not here.” Mike shrugged.
Buzzy had always wanted her children to get along, but these two had never seen eye to eye. Caroline’s absentminded-professor mind was tied to a heart as big as Buzzy’s. Mike was a man of action with an affinity for get-rich-quick schemes.
“Come on, Caroline,” Mike huffed. “You make me seem heartless. I love this place too.”
Caroline crossed her arms. “That’s why you’re in such a hurry to unload it.”
An angry wave of red surged up Mike’s neck and cheeks. He clenched his handsome square jaw, took a steadying breath. “There’s a lot of money at stake, but we have to act fast. Think about it. I’ll see you in the morning.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of Caroline’s chair and stormed out the kitchen door, letting the screen door bang shut behind him.
“Riley, I could kill him!” Caroline moaned. “What am I going to do?”
After Caroline went up to bed, I turned over the last hour. Caroline and Mike had presented such a united front at the funeral. He’d been so solicitous, so charming. Maybe she thought he’d turned a new leaf. They must have talked about the business deal before I’d arrived for the funeral. Perhaps she’d thought he’d change his mind.
Ha.
As I mulled Caroline’s predicament, I went into the guest room, which was Mike’s old bedroom. It was now a catchall, with a sewing table on one wall, a bureau and single brass bed on another, and overflowing shelves of colorful fabric in plastic bins on the other two. I smiled at a framed cross-stitch over the sewing machine that declared, “Whoever dies with the most fabric wins.”
The remaining shelves were jammed with sports trophies, old yearbooks, crafting materials, and a small TV with a vintage gaming system.
Over the narrow bed hung three framed, almost identical photos taken at the National High School Summer Football Camp, in Derbyshire, Indiana. I peered close at the rows of young men, all with serious faces and padded shoulders, and found Mike and Kyle. They’d attended the monthlong camp in July three years in a row. Both had excelled at football and went to UConn on athletic scholarships.
I scanned the faces in the photos on the bureau and pulled up short when I recognized my teenage self in one of them. The photo was of a pie eating contest at the Penniman High Fall Fair almost twenty years ago. There was Mike, handsome even with a mouth full of pie, and next to him a laughing girl with golden shoulder-length curls. Brooke Danforth, Dandy’s daughter. I didn’t know Brooke, but I remembered the shock I’d felt when she died. Caroline and I had been at summer camp when we heard the popular cheerleader had taken an accidental overdose of sleeping pills. She wasn’t a friend—we moved in different circles—but it was the first time someone I knew, someone my own age, had died.
Next to Brooke sat Kyle, then Nina. Everyone else was spattered with pie filling, but somehow Nina’s white shirt was immaculate. There I was in the background, serving pie, and next to me … that straight-as-a-pin platinum hair was hard to miss: Emily Weinberg. I set the photo back on the shelf.
One window had an air conditioner, but there was no need for it tonight. I opened the other window and the cool night air flowed in as I leaned on the sill. There was no moon, and beyond the porch light was an inky, absolute darkness that I rarely experienced, having lived and traveled in cities for so many years.
Movement caught my eye as a small animal darted across the yellow pool of porch light. I remembered that I’d left my travel bag in my car. I could borrow Caroline’s pajamas, but I needed my toothbrush. I grabbed my keys, stepped into the hallway, and noted Caroline’s door was ajar. I could see Caroline sitting at her easel, an almost-empty canvas in front of her, painting to keep her mind occupied and the sadness at bay. I crept downstairs, placing my feet to avoid creaky steps so I wouldn’t disturb her.
Soft sounds came from the kitchen. It took me a moment to realize it was Sprinkles meowing, almost as if in conversation. Who was she talking to? I froze.
Buzzy?
No such thing as ghosts, I chided myself. Besides, if Buzzy were a ghost, she’d invite me to sit down for a cup of tea. The thought made me feel safe, protected even. Buzzy wouldn’t let anything harm me. What a wonderful ghost to have in my corner.
Sprinkles on the other hand.… What was she up to?
I went to the back door, my footsteps loud on the worn linoleum. Sprinkles sat on a table by the window, the light from the porch making her shadow loom almost the full length of the floor. She’d like that—a shadow as big and imposing as she thought she was.
She held a paw to the window and turned her flat face to me abruptly, a rebuke for rudely interrupting her.
“Forgive me, your majesty. Who’re you talking to?” I opened the back door and heard a soft thump.
That was no ghost. I peered into the darkness beyond the porch light.
Sprinkles joined me at the screen door, her tail switching, but I knew she wouldn’t go outside. She was an indoor cat through and through.
I jerked open the screen door and leaned out, but there was nothing waiting except for the sound of a million crickets. To my shock, Sprinkles slid past me onto the porch. I followed, scanning. I couldn’t see anything in the dark beyond the light from the porch, but my skin prickled.
“Who’s there?” As soon as I spoke, I felt stupid. If someone was there, they’d have spoken up—unless they didn’t want to be seen.
The sounds of the countryside were unfamiliar, unsettling. My imagination switched into overdrive. Skunks, no, rabid skunks might lurk. Or coyotes. Or—my heart beat fast—former boyfriends. Or serial killers.…
The last made me laugh. Get a grip, Riley. The only people who’d be outside here would be teenagers hoping to raid the ice cream shop.
I pulled out my car keys and beeped my car. The interior lights came on, the glow casting pale light into the shadowy yard. Sprinkles gave a forlorn, questioning miaow, then threw another irritated look at me as she turned to face the door. My dimwittedness disappointed her. Her expression said, You couldn’t get good help these days. I opened the door, and with a twitch of her tail, she went back inside. I eased the screen door closed behind her.
Sprinkles had left me to face any rabid skunks on my own. Warily, I popped the trunk and got my bag. A dark shape darted across the porch and disappeared into the shadows.
A kitten!
Sprinkles glared at me from the window.
I slammed the trunk and ran back into the house. Would wonders never cease. Sprinkles had a friend.