Emily had invited me to dinner. She'd heard the news about Jackson and me and wanted to console me with her mile high chocolate cake. My sisters seemed to both understand that copious amounts of sugar were the best way to lighten my mood, but I just wasn't in the mood for sisterly company or sugar.
I poured myself a glass of milk, the only thing that sounded soothing to my knotted up stomach. I sat down at my kitchen table and stared out the window. Sunlight was disappearing, but there was still a wavy haze of warmth vibrating off the tall grass in the front yard. The wide expanse of green that was about half grass and half weeds was just another reminder of how far I had to go to get the Cider Ridge Inn ready for guests. And after today, I wasn't too sure I'd made the right business choice. Mrs. Rush was pacing frantically, rightfully worried that Camille Luxley's murder would destroy the Wildwood business. It would be a highly publicized case with news crews from all over descending on the place to find out just what had happened to the famous actress. Being a journalist, I knew too well that every manner of unseemly rumor would spark outlandish tales. While it would still mean free worldwide publicity for Wildwood Manor, it wouldn't necessarily be a good thing. It would encourage a lot of curious tourists and people more interested in the macabre than in a relaxing stay at a scenic home in a quiet town. With the Cider Ridge Inn having a prominent position on many of America's most haunted places lists, I was already facing that prospect. I wanted an inn where people could spend a romantic weekend or quiet, cozy getaway. The last thing I wanted was to be overrun with paranormal researchers traipsing around with their electronic equipment and noise detectors.
"That is not a look I should see on that face." Edward's voice came from somewhere in the kitchen. Sometimes, unless I was looking directly at his image, it was hard to know where his disembodied deep voice was coming from. He appeared directly across from me. "You have no reason to frown. You're alive. You can go out on the stoop and feel the sun on your face. You can smell the sweet pasture grass. You can taste the cold milk." He made a face. "I was never fond of cow's milk myself, but you get the point."
I leaned back on the chair with a derisive tilt of my head. "You're telling me that when you were alive, you were gloriously happy every day because you could feel sunlight and smell grass? Even when your own family shipped you off and you landed here with a cousin you clearly had no love for, you were still jubilant and lighthearted, ready to face the day with a big smile?"
"When you put it in those stark terms, perhaps not." Now I'd turned his mood sour.
"I apologize, I'm just feeling a little sorry for myself." I wiped the milk from my mouth.
"A little." He crossed his boots at the ankles and folded his arms, giving the illusion that he was leaned casually against the kitchen counter.
"Not in the mood for your sarcasm, Mr. Beckett." I got up. "What I am in the mood for is some cereal. My stomach is churning, but the only thing that sounds good is Fruity Puffs." I walked across to the pantry. I had to get up on the step stool to grab the box of artificially sweetened and colored cereal. It was an impulse buy and after eating it for breakfast two days in a row, I realized just how unhealthy it was. But rather than throw it away, I placed it on an inconvenient shelf next to a bag of sour gummy bears and marshmallow cream cookies. The sugar laden contraband were my go to snacks when I was feeling down, and I was definitely feeling down. I plucked the box of cereal off the shelf and grabbed a bowl from the cupboard.
During my quest for my artificial cereal, I'd rather hoped that Edward would have dissipated and traveled upstairs or to the front stoop. But he remained right where I'd left him, still striking the casual pose with ankles and arms crossed. He was still in a droll mood.
"I see you've resorted to eating brightly colored baubles to pacify yourself." He watched me pour the rainbow colored puffs into my bowl. "I never had the opportunity to try any of your modern boxed foods, but something tells me I would not have liked any of it. It looks as if you're eating something that should be used to embellish a ball gown or hat."
I plowed a big spoonful into my mouth, realizing, suddenly, that I was very hungry. I nodded as I finished the bite. "They certainly would make any ball gown or hat tasty." I dove in for another bite.
"I'm going to assume this unpleasant mood and your shoveling food like some medieval peasant has to do with that man."
I dropped the spoon into the bowl. Colored milk splashed onto the table. "I can't enjoy my decorative baubles with you hovering over me reminding me that my heart is broken and that I will never have a happily ever after."
His dry laugh woke Newman from his pillow nap. The dog realized his favorite ball thrower was in the vicinity and instantly hopped up to retrieve one of his dozen or so balls from somewhere in the house.
"You've done it now. You're going to have to play fetch out on the stoop. So carry on." I waved my hand toward the doorway.
"He's not worth this mood change," Edward said.
"Says the moodiest spirit in the world," I said before my next bite.
"You speak with such confidence. What other spirit have you met for this absurd comparison?"
His comment caused an unexpected laugh. I tried to shield the milk spray with my hand but missed a good amount. "Oops." I quickly wiped up the mess while Edward watched with a judgmental brow arch.
"It's a wonder there aren't dozens of suitors knocking on the door with the talent you have for spraying milk from your nose."
I straightened defiantly as I finished wiping my mess. "That did not come from my nose. It came from my mouth."
"I stand corrected," he mused.
"Big difference shooting milk from your nose as opposed to your mouth," I countered like a legal pro presenting an argument.
"Yes, of course," he drawled. He paused and I thought he might vanish, but he lingered. "Did my plan work?" he asked.
I looked up at him. "Your plan?" My mind instantly flashed to the notion that he spoke through the open kitchen window hoping that Jackson would hear him. It had happened before, so it wasn't too big of a stretch.
"My plan to take your mind off of your sorrow. You were frowning and now you're smiling." I was absurdly relieved to be wrong about the plan. I don't know how I would have forgiven Edward if he had purposely pushed Jackson away.
"Yes, I guess your plan worked. For now, at least."
"And now I've reminded you of the sorrow therefore making my plan far less successful." He drifted closer. "You'll be fine, Sunni." He rarely called me by my name. Amazingly, it was comforting to hear. It helped solidify the fact that despite our obvious differences we were friends. At a time like this, I couldn't have too many of them.
I put down my spoon. The cereal was no longer appetizing. (Technically, it was never appetizing.) The thought of friendship pushed Raine's name into my head.
"I think I'll go visit Raine and see how she's feeling." Another thought, a much more interesting one, popped into my head. I looked up at Edward. "How would you feel if I told Raine you existed? I feel like I need to talk about my breakup with Jackson, and it's very hard when I can't reveal the source of the problem."
"Meaning me?" he asked with a properly insulted tone.
"I don't mean to be mean Edward, but we both know that my life would be a great deal simpler if you—" I'd stepped into it and wasn't sure how to back out with grace.
"If I didn't exist. Trust me, I think so too." His face blurred, a sure sign he was upset. How I wished I could do that, blur and fade away when I was stressed.
"No, I don't mean that, Edward. It wouldn't be the same without you. Just don't listen to anything that comes out of my mouth for the next few days. I'm not myself." I stood up and carried my bowl to the sink. "I'm going to take a trip into town to see how Raine is feeling. She's been under the weather."
"Are you going to tell her?" he asked. I'd been in such a weird state of mind, I'd completely forgotten my question from moments before. It wasn't exactly a 'do you prefer shoes or boots' kind of question.
I stopped and stared down at the colorful milk and mushy cereal spreading out in the white porcelain sink. "I'm not sure. She's the only person close to me who I could confide in about your existence because she is firmly on the side of ghosts being real. My sisters would probably listen and then exchange secret texts about getting me some help."
"Help?" he asked. He surveyed the kitchen. "This place probably wouldn't suffer from one or two servants. As long as they aren't like those two chattering dimwits you employ."
"First of all, this house does not need a servant. I've just been too busy with work and other things to give it a good cleaning."
"Yes, well, perhaps you have time now that you're no longer being courted by that man with no manners and no comb."
I grunted as I headed into my room to change. "One minute, you're almost a gentleman, and the next you're back to being a—"
He followed me halfway to my bedroom, but he had built himself a self-imposed barrier so he never crossed into what he considered to be my private chambers. "A what?" he asked.
"I'll let you fill in the blank but it rhymes with glass and we sometimes use the term when referring to donkeys."