Chapter 7

Beatrice couldn’t believe her ears. Monday mornings came and went, but to hear a chain saw at 7:00 a.m.? That just beat all. She tried to get up out of her bed quickly. Well, as quickly as she could. Her body was stiff each morning—and it was getting worse. When she finally untangled herself from the blankets and swung her legs to the floor, it sounded like the sawing had stopped. What on earth? Who would be cutting anything at this time of day?

She sat in her bed and listened. Nothing.

Should she get up and get the day started or lie back down? Humph. Maybe she was dreaming. Her stomach growled, and she reached for her shawl, remembering the muffins in her bread box. She’d pop them in the microwave and smear them with butter. That would make a fine breakfast. Pumpkin cranberry muffins. And if they weren’t enough to fill her, she was sure about the blueberry muffins in the freezer.

She padded down the stairs and noticed the soft sunlight shining directly on the portrait of her husband, dead now twenty-some years. Until she had gone to Paris, he had been with her—as a ghost—off and on all those years. Oh, some folks thought she was a crazy old coot, and maybe she was, but he was a great comfort to her. Knowing he was still around, even if as a ghost, took the edge off her sometime loneliness, though for the most part she didn’t mind being alone.

Life sure was funny. She had thought she had it all figured out. Keep busy. Keep your mind occupied. But the next thing you know, you’re boffing some Frenchman you barely even know. God, what was she thinking?

And of course she hadn’t heard from Jon since she came back to Cumberland Creek last month—and her late husband’s ghost also appeared to be giving her the cold shoulder. Men would never change. Neither would women. A handsome Frenchman tells you you’re pretty, and even at the age of eighty-one, you buy it. He whispers lovely words into your old ears, and you melt. How ridiculous.

Up until then, she had never so much as looked at any man but her husband—and had never even wanted to. She didn’t know what came over her in Paris. She’d felt too young and free there, and Jon was ten years younger than her, which didn’t seem to bother him at all.

After they met at the museum and went for their first coffee together, they were inseparable. A month of silliness. But still, she thought, grinning, the experience was sweet. She shoveled a muffin into her mouth. Mmm. Good.

She had never acted so foolishly in her life. A giggle erupted. Even if he didn’t call her, who would have imagined that at her age, she could still manage to attract such a young, handsome man?

Of course, Ed, her dead husband, was upset with her. She knew it. Felt him leaving her, finally, as she kissed Jon, opened her heart to him. That broke her heart, and she missed him—but maybe it was time she moved on.

Cookie had said he’d be back. She was the only person Beatrice confided in. Her daughter had never believed in the existence of ghosts and thought Ed was a figment of Beatrice’s imagination. Annie was open to the idea, but she was so analytical sometimes, it even scared Beatrice, herself a trained scientist. And she had a feeling that Annie would rush to tell Vera about the affair. She certainly didn’t want Vera to know. She’d never let it rest.

That was exactly what Beatrice was trying to do. Make peace with it. She didn’t need Vera poking her nose into everything.

“Maybe Ed is just giving you some time,” Cookie had suggested.

“Or maybe he’s moved on.”

“He should have moved on years ago, yes?”

Beatrice’s stomach had tightened. She knew she was part of what held him here. She’d nodded, trying to fight back the tears.

“Oh, Beatrice, we are never too old for a broken heart, are we? But don’t ever be sorry about, um, er, Jon. You are human. There’s enough room in that heart of yours to love again. My goodness, you’ve been a widow for twenty-five years.”

Cookie knew all the right things to say—strange brew of a person that she was. Wouldn’t eat meat of any kind, sometimes wore way too much eye make-up, and other times she ran around town without an ounce of make-up on her pale face. Beatrice had caught her dancing around the nursery with Elizabeth, humming and grinning at the child. She can’t be that bad. Witch and all.