I pressed my nose against the window of the microwave, even though my dad was always saying it’s not good to stand too close, and watched the bag. I concentrated on the slow ping of hard kernels exploding inside.
Ping . . . ping . . .
The paper bag began to puff. I waited for the popcorn. I waited for Lily. I waited to finally confess my big secret.
I hated waiting.
Now that I’d made up my mind, everything moved in slow motion. What was taking Lily so long?
Ping. The hinges of a cabinet squeaked behind me.
Lady Azura, I thought. I stared at the expanding bag. The ring of ceramic knocking ceramic harmonized with the popping corn. Dishes were being pushed about.
“Do you need help?” I asked, and turned around.
The small kitchen was empty. No Lady Azura.
The pop, pop, pop picked up its pace.
Two cabinet doors hung open. Doors that I was sure had been closed a minute earlier. My heartbeat quickened.
“Hello?” I called. Was Lady Azura out in the hall? “Hello?” My voice echoed.
Another cabinet opened. By itself. Just the wooden door swinging open.
My heart pounded in time with the popping kernels. I gripped the edge of the stove, fighting a sudden wave of dizziness.
A loud click forced me to look down by my knees. The oven’s digital temperature lit up, as if it had been turned on by an invisible hand.
The oven was preheating by itself!
A white ceramic mixing bowl floated out of the cabinet and onto the island counter. A wooden spoon and a ring of silver measuring spoons flew from a drawer, clattering down next to the bowl.
Tiny electric pinpricks danced about my left foot, traveling up toward my knee. The popcorn pinged at a furious pace. I gripped the stainless-steel stove tighter. My knuckles whitened at the pressure of my grasp. I tried desperately to control the sick feeling swirling about my stomach.
Lady Azura wasn’t here.
No one alive was in this kitchen with me.
But I wasn’t alone.
The popping kernels slowed their rhythm as I sucked in air. I only felt sick like this when the dead were nearby.
I squinted at the flurry of unseen activity by the counter, trying to pull a shape or the faint outline of a figure from the nothingness. Who was it? Could it be the man in the sailor cap from the blue bedroom? No, it couldn’t be him—I had never seen him leave the bedroom. Maybe it was the woman who occupied the pink bedroom and cried sometimes over the loss of her baby son, Angus? No, she would have shown herself to me. We were friends. I decided it must be Henry. Mischievous little Henry, who was kept locked in a closet on the third floor. He must have gotten out and was down here to create some chaos.
I watched, transfixed, as sacks of flour and sugar floated in the air, being held by invisible arms. Too high off the ground for Henry or a child to be carrying them, I realized. Flour dust trickled from the bag’s open top, leaving a white coating on the yellowed Formica as the sacks were placed on the counter. And then the dusting of flour on the counter disappeared, wiped away by invisible fingers.
“Stop it!” I hissed. Small canisters of cinnamon, nutmeg, and baking powder followed the same path from pantry to counter.
I trembled, but not because I was scared of the spirit, whoever it was. Ever since I’d come to live with Lady Azura in Stellamar, she’d been teaching me how to overcome my fear of the dead. It was this out-of-control feeling, this not knowing, that I hated.
The microwave beeped. Dry ingredients poured, as if by themselves, into the bowl.
A fork hovered above a smaller bowl that was pulled from an open cabinet. Rapidly it descended, pushing down on two peeled bananas, mashing the fruit. The scent of artificial popcorn butter mixed with a familiar tangy, overripe sweetness.
The refrigerator opened. Eggs catapulted themselves out of their side holder. Cracked shells dropped onto the counter as the bright yellow yolks plopped neatly into the large bowl. A carton of milk vibrated, as if held by an unsteady hand.
The microwave beeped again. Then the oven chimed. Alarms echoed in my head, waking me from my trance. Lily was going to be here any minute! If she walked in and I had to explain . . . I couldn’t even think about where I’d begin. My plan was to ease her into the idea that I saw ghosts, not slam her with it.
I had to stop this, I realized.
I lunged toward the floating milk. I didn’t spot the banana peel at my feet until I felt myself falling. Frantically, my hands reached for the island, grabbing on just as gravity almost succeed in pulling me down.
“That’s it!” I cried, catching my breath. “Did you see what you almost did to me? Did you see? Show yourself!” Slowly the air before me began to shimmer. A translucent glow grew brighter and more solid. My temples throbbed with an overwhelming pressure, and the tingling ran rapidly along my leg.
My eyes widened as a plump woman with round cheeks, small dark eyes, and a bob of curly reddish hair appeared. Not quite solid like the living. Her rolled shirtsleeves revealed dimpled forearms. A ruffled white apron tied around her wide middle displayed writing in a fancy brown script. I squinted at the words: IF THEY DON’T HAVE CHOCOLATE IN HEAVEN, I’M NOT GOING.
“Funny, right?” She let out a husky laugh. “My neighbor prided herself on being the best gift giver in town. She’d start shopping in July to match the Christmas present with the person. It was a thing with her. A talent, she called it. She gave this to me one Christmas, and wouldn’t you know it, that was my last Christmas.” She laughed again. “A talent, for sure!”
“Who are you?” I demanded.
I’d never seen her before. Could she have stayed behind from one of Lady Azura’s séances? Lady Azura had a business in our house’s front room. She told fortunes and contacted clients’ dead relatives.
“I’m the cook. The chef.” The woman rapidly beat the batter with the wooden spoon. “The mixer of ingredients.”
“You need to leave,” I said. My voice wavered. What did she want? What was she doing here? I wondered.
She ignored me, scooping the mashed banana into the batter.
“This isn’t your kitchen.” I tried to remember all Lady Azura had taught me. Be strong. Create boundaries. Take charge.
“Oh, don’t I know this is not my kitchen!” The woman let out another husky laugh, although this one was more of a snort. “My kitchen was state-of-the art. Really, how can one truly create in here? Ah, but we work with what we are given.” She pulled a muffin pan from a lower cabinet. Her body shimmered as she moved.
“You need to leave,” I tried again.
“Really, Sara, you should be more gracious, especially to a guest who cooks.”
“Lady Azura!” I cried, relieved to see my great-grandmother. “She just appeared. She’s taking over our kitchen!” I pointed to the spirit, now spooning batter into the muffin tin. “She needs to leave!”
“Not at all.” Lady Azura waved her bony hand in the air, dismissing the idea as silly.
“But—but—” I sputtered. How could she not be concerned that a strange dead woman was cooking something in her kitchen?
“Mmmmm.” Lady Azura ran her finger along the batter on the inside of the bowl, then licked her finger. “Looks as if they’re ready to bake. This part I should be able to handle.”
“Good.” The spirit rubbed her plump hands on her apron. “Remember, thirty minutes at three hundred fifty degrees. Check the centers with a toothpick to see that they are done.”
Then she faded away completely.
My sick feeling also faded away. “What was that?”
“That was Delilah. Don’t these smell divine?” She pushed the tin toward my nose.
“Yeah, great.” I couldn’t focus on the odor of sweet bananas and cinnamon. “You know her?”
“Delilah used to own the most delicious bakery in town. Delilah’s Delicious Desserts, that’s what it was called. The hours I’d spend there, nibbling away at her pastries . . . and Delilah was such a sweetheart.” Lady Azura’s thin shoulders shrugged beneath the gauzy fabric of her beige blouse. “Still is.”
“Still is?” My voice sounded shrill. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to how calm Lady Azura was around the dead.
“As you saw, she’s stuck. Ten years gone and not alive but not yet ready to take her rightful place with the dead.” Lady Azura placed the muffin tin in my hands. “All morning I couldn’t stop thinking of her divine banana muffins. After all these years, I can still bring up the taste. So I summoned her.”
“You just called her back from the dead?”
“Well, yes. I mean, child, you see how I burn toast”—she scrunched her angular face in disgust—“so I certainly needed help if I wanted banana muffins. Be a dear and pop these in the oven for me.”
“I was sure she wanted something. That she wanted to bother us,” I confessed as I slid the tin in and set the timer.
“You can’t always assume the worst, Sara.”
“But how am I supposed to tell if a spirit’s come to do harm or to bake muffins?” I asked. “I’m serious,” I added as her crimson lips turned into a thin smile.
“The only way—” The doorbell startled us. “I don’t have anyone on the schedule today.” Lady Azura licked her finger, then used it to smooth her flyaways. She dyed her hair a rich mahogany, but the gray roots had begun to show. At eighty-plus years old, Lady Azura still spent a lot of time on her appearance. Every morning she went through a two-hour ritual, moisturizing her skin, then applying her makeup.
I followed her through the narrow hall that led from the kitchen to the front door. Lady Azura pushed back the white curtains from the vertical window alongside the door. “It’s Beth Randazzo.”
That’s weird, I thought. Why’s Lily’s mom here?
I pulled open the door. Mrs. Randazzo stood alone.
“Hi!” I peered around her, across the wide porch, and down the empty sidewalk. “Where’s Lily?”
“At home. I needed her to watch Cammie and her brothers for a bit.” Mrs. Randazzo seemed jittery, which was strange. She was usually so relaxed and calm, even when her kids were causing total chaos. Now her leg bounced as she greeted Lady Azura.
“Is Mike here?” she asked as she stepped inside.
“He’s upstairs. Fixing the bathroom faucet,” Lady Azura said.
“Dad!” I bellowed. Then I turned to Mrs. Randazzo. “Why do you want to talk to my dad?”
“Something smells so good.” Mrs. Randazzo said to Lady Azura. “Bananas, is it?”
She didn’t answer my question, and she avoided looking at me. Why was she acting like this? Lily’s mom and I were close. I hung out at their house all the time. Sometimes I even pretended she was my mom too.
As my dad’s sneakers made heavy thuds down the old wooden staircase, I thought back to my conversation with Mason earlier and how Mrs. Randazzo had risen from the bushes. Did this have something to do with that?
Dad greeted Lily’s mom. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. They discussed the weather for a minute before she asked, “Is there somewhere private for us to talk?”
“Sure.” Dad rubbed his hand over the light-brown stubble on his square chin. He had a thing about not shaving on the weekends. “Let’s go in here.” He opened the French doors leading into the front sitting room. We barely ever used this formal room. “What’s it about?” he asked as she followed him toward the stiff teal sofa.
Just as the doors closed behind them, I heard her reply. My stomach dropped.
“Sara,” she said. “I came to talk about Sara.”