Chapter Twenty-One

“It was the lark, the herald of the morn,

No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks

Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.

Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day

Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.”

(Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Scene 5)

I’d finished a particularly challenging chess game with Hannah on my new laptop when Michael found me. The porch where Hannah and I had sipped chamomile tea was my new favorite spot at Stonebridge. We often hung out here together via text or video messaging.

And she’d been wrong.

Having a friend to share my secrets with hadn’t been awkward at all.

Even a friend with a little too much intuition because of her spiritual connections.

This morning she’d told me I would win the chess game. Then she’d proceeded in making it a hard-earned victory.

A cup of tea steamed beside me. Hannah had left me a container of the blend her gran had taught her to make. I may not have been a firm believer in herbal medicine, but I probably drank a gallon of the stuff a day…just in case.

When I told her Michael had arrived and that I had to go, I could almost see her blue eyes flash.

“Tell him he still owes me a drink,” she texted.

When I relayed the message, he told me to reply, “In your dreams, Rosy.”

I did so with a smile playing around my lips.

I hadn’t seen Michael around for over a week. I was glad to see him now. The bandage on his temple above his right eye reassured me that he was taking care of himself after his fall.

I set my computer to the side, shutting down chess and text. Once my hands were empty, he filled them with a large box I recognized as a hat box from old movies on television. It was worn baby blue leather, and it was heavy in my lap.

“A little of my family history,” he said.

He moved to stand by the porch rail and look out over the ocean while I opened the box.

It was filled with mementos—photos, postcards, letters, and things like ribbons and lace. The lighthouse featured prominently in many of the shots. I had already guessed it was family property not a rental.

“My great-great-grandmother’s name was Beatrice,” Michael said.

I’d met Michael’s little sister, Beatrice. She was a shy eight-year-old with eyes much older than her years. She’d been having nightmares for a few months before Michael began to work at Stonebridge.

Come get me.

Beatrice had visited, and we sipped chamomile tea. She smiled and laughed several times as the gulls swooped and flew near the porch. Michael might not have believed in ghosts or his great-great-grandmother’s superstitions, but he’d tried to fix things all the same. He had come to Beatrice’s rescue as my father had come to mine.

Love makes all the difference.

And I had come to his.

I had followed him. I had found him in the cave, facing horror all alone, and I’d stepped forward to be by his side.

I wasn’t afraid of loud and messy and horrible anymore.

Because life isn’t always quiet and perfect.

Nightmares happen.

And they have to be faced head on.

I found the photographs I guessed were Michael’s great-great-grandmother. She was lovely in all of them. But easy like Michael, as is. So ordinary and yet she’d managed to hold her own against an evil spirit for many years. She’d had children. I saw them all around her in many of the photographs. Her hair had been going gray. Her skirts growing shorter when the last photograph was taken. She’d been wearing an apron in that last photograph, and I recognized the handle peeking from one of its pockets. Michael Malone’s multi-tool had been around for a long time. I guess the Malones were a face-it-and-fix-it family.

The expression in her eyes as she faced the camera with her chin up and her jaw tight made my chest ache. No wonder Michael had wanted to delve into Stonebridge’s secrets, to maybe save others from her fate.

I gathered up all the photographs and placed them carefully back in the box. I stood up. I placed the hat box on the chair where I’d been sitting, then I joined Michael at the rail.

It was midmorning. The gulls dipped and swerved in the air above the cliff, banking back over the house as if they saw humans and hoped for an easy treat.

“Some people think their calls sound sad, but they would change their minds if they would only watch them fly.”

I remembered Michael saying that when we’d first met. I thought about the box behind us full of Beatrice’s children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She’d been haunted, but she’d made a life for herself. In many of her photographs, she’d been smiling.

Michael looked at me, but I’m the one who had to reach for him. I threaded my fingers into his sand-colored, windswept hair, being careful not to hurt him, and urged him to lean down so I could reach his lips. It felt like the first time our lips had touched. I’d once thought he had secrets in his eyes. I’d been right. But I forgave him because we’re all only compositions of everything that came before and all that’s yet to be.