CONTENT WARNING
Haunt Your Heart Out is a feel-good romance that centers love, hope, healing, and happily ever after. It also includes subjects that some readers may fi nd difficult, including past death of a grandparent (offpage), family tensions, and descriptions of anxiety and depression. Ghost stories appear throughout, and while these tales are mostly told in a comedic or lighthearted way, one ghost is briefly mentioned to have died by hanging, which recounts existing Stowe, Vermont lore. If these elements are sensitive for you, please take care.
CHAPTER ONE
Th ree feet of snow. Th ree feet of snow, and a broken shovel. Th ree feet of snow, a broken shovel, and ten minutes until I was supposed to clock into work.
No, it wasn’t some deranged Christmas carol. Just my life. On a Tuesday. In December.
I stomped out into the center of the driveway and shook my fi st at the leftover fl akes drifting from the post-snowstorm clouds hanging in the air. Damn blizzard. Damn shovel. Damn it.
Swearing, fl ailing, and a half-assed attempt at shoveling didn’t get my car out of its spot, so I went for the next-best thing: fl agging down the next car to pass by and begging the driver for a ride to the bookstore. It was only a few miles down the road, no big deal. A local would know me and be thrilled to help; a tourist would think it quaint and brag for a lifetime about getting the cold little country girl to work on time so she could sell books to the needy readers of Stowe, Vermont. Sure, I could call my best friend Natalie to pick me up, but with last night’s snowfall, she was likely already at work. Th is way would be a lot quicker.
I snatched my bag from the passenger seat and climbed my way up and over the built-up snowbank, waving my buff alo plaid earfl ap hat like a fl ag. Not frantic enough to scream emergency!, but intentional enough so the next driver wouldn’t mistake it for clumsiness.
My efforts were rewarded within moments when a shiny blue sedan with New York plates slowed, then came to a complete stop in front of me. The tinted windows rolled down to reveal a broad-shouldered man who appeared about my age—thirty-three—or maybe a little older. He greeted me with an amused smirk. He had a Yankees cap pulled low on his forehead, but there was a little crinkle in the corner of his eyes that sent a tingle through my ribcage. “Need a lift?”
While a set of green Vermont plates would have felt more welcoming, there was no time to be picky. I had a store to open, on time, and this was the car to get me there.
“Sure do,” I said. “Th anks.”
He leaned across the passenger seat and popped the door open from the inside. “Where to?”
I climbed in, sneaking another totally respectful appraising glance at the guy’s perfect features. “Just down the road to Main Street, only as far as the bookstore. I swear, these snowbanks pop up overnight.”
“I hear the Abominable Snowman is quite active in this area. Maybe he’s to blame?”
“Fairly sure you’re thinking of the Snow Miser, but yeah, they’re all in cahoots.” I clicked my seatbelt into place and smiled toward the driver, who carefully pulled away from my snowbank-crowded driveway for the winding trek down the dirt road.
He pushed limits, speed-wise, topping 27 in a 25MPH zone. The rebel. Ski- and snowboard-topped SUVs passed us, heading back up the hillside. Tourists taking advantage of the good powder, leaving us working stiff s hard-packed trails and whatever’s leftover at the bar.
Not that I was a skier. Or snowboarder. Or participated in any form of winter sport, really. Outside, cold. Inside, cozy.
Jordan, my perfect sister, and her husband, Lucas, were skiers. Mom and Dad preferred the act of bragging at the lodge about their
doctor daughter and her handsome husband to the actual act of skiing, which kept their bones (and reputations) intact. Win/win.
“Here to ski?” I asked the driver.
“Haven’t thought that far ahead,” he said, rolling to a stop at the sign at the bottom of the hill. “But maybe I’ll work it into the schedule.”
I pointed to the left, directing him toward the center of Stowe— where the magic happens, especially after the fi rst big snowfall of the year. Giant, fluff y snowfl akes continued to drift from the sky, which was giving way from cloudy grey to almost blue with wisps of yellow that hinted at sun to come.
“If you haven’t already staked out the food situation, here are some inside tips.” I gestured at each restaurant as we passed, pointing out my favorite spots to grab a bite. “You’re not going to want to miss the seafood at Sal’s. Have the scampi, and don’t bother waiting for a table—you get better service at the bar and Sal himself loves to tell stories about his life in Italy. For pizza, always Nonni’s. Baja’s is prime Tex-Mex for the area, but I’m sure what you’re used to is far superior. The Barn is the place for breakfast, but watch out, I hear it’s haunted.”
“I can handle a few spirits,” the driver said, his gloved hands flexing on the steering wheel. His chin tightened a bit as he smiled, and holy crap I could have cut a mango with that jawline.
I returned the smile, thinking back to the vlog I hosted back in high school. YouTube was still this shiny new thing, and my parents thought that handing me a video camera was a good idea; something to keep me occupied while they traveled for business and to visit my sister, who’d been newly enrolled in college across the country. Obviously, with Alkaline Trio and AFI on my iPod on repeat, I made it my mission to make things weird: I maintained a vlog sharing spooky tales about Stowe’s “haunted” happenings. While the ghostlore was mostly fabricated by yours truly—with some local legends mixed in—my semi-regular videos had earned a semi-regular following. And lots of believers.
“Th is one?” the driver asked, fl icking on his signal and slipping into my usual parking spot in front of the store.
I nodded. “Th anks for the ride,” I said, leaping from the car without so much as asking his name. New York plates. Not worth the effort. He’d be gone as soon as the powder was packed, just like the rest of them. I didn’t even watch as he pulled out of his parking spot and back out onto the road.
A truck with a giant V-shaped plow rounded the corner then, fl inging snow and grit everywhere, and splashing through a salt-andslush puddle before coming to a stop in the spot my chauffeur had just vacated.
Though her official title was “best friend,” Natalie fi lled the role of family better than my closest relatives. She and her trusty rusted plow truck cleared snowy driveways in the winter—when she wasn’t rolling up her sleeves to help her parents run their multiple Hallmarkesque hospitality-focused ventures. She cranked down her window— halfway, since its ability to open fully had disappeared somewhere in the early 2000s—and grinned through the gap.
“Getting rides from strangers, Lex? Looks like your morning started off pretty great.”
“I had a little snow situation.” I mimed measuring the height of a snowbank, putting the peak at an exaggerated chest level.
“I told you to get a new shovel before the weather rolled in,” Natalie said. “Someday, you’ll listen to me.”
“Someday, you’ll show up with a shovel for me, and I’ll be off the hook.”
Natalie thrust a thumb over her shoulder. My eyes followed the gesture to the bed of her truck where a shiny new shovel waited.
I grinned. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”
“Only every day.” She leaped from the vehicle, a silent plea for coffee on her lips.
“I’ll let you in to make your own while I get the store opened.”
I jiggled the key in the lock, double-kicked the base of the door to loosen the stick caused by years of shifts in humidity and moisture, and shoulder-shoved my way into the building. “Charles’s openinghour call should be coming at any—”
The phone rang. I tossed my head back, groaned, and rolled my eyes before I turned on my helpful voice, snagged the handset, and greeted the bookstore’s owner.
“Good morning, Dog-Eared Books and More, where select used paperbacks are three for two, this is Lex, how can I help you?”
Charles cleared his throat but said nothing.
“And home of the Coffee of the Month Club,” I amended. “Charles, I’m going to have an asthma attack if I have to keep saying all of that, every time.”
“Our customers may not know our specials if they’re from out of town. They count on you to make sure they’re getting the best deal.”
Out-of-towners were probably the wrong audience for a club that required monthly visits for the full benefit. But Charles wanted what he wanted.
I could almost hear the rays of sun bouncing off the Florida coastline through the phone. I shuddered at the mental image of Charles lounging beachside, daring the sun to take its best shot. His skin was practically leather, showing off a texture that had taken years of exposure to build up. Since hitting retirement age, he’d spent summers in Vermont and winters in Florida. I was “in charge” during his absences—air quotes required, because his micromanaging never took a vacation.
Natalie fi red up the milk steamer and I slapped my palm over the phone’s receiver too late.
“Is someone using the espresso machine?” Charles asked.
“Of course not, just me, prepping. I’m about to unlock the door, looks like there’s someone waiting, talk to you tomorrow.”
I dropped the phone back into the cradle, raised my eyebrows at Natalie, and sighed.
“When is that guy just going to chill?” she said.
“Never. He’s a demon put here to make my life miserable. Dreams, so close, but yet . . . Charles.”
“Maybe he’ll meet someone down there, and he’ll be so desperate to offload the store, you’ll get to scoop the place up nice and cheap.”
“Fantastic, and I can buy it with my loads and loads of cold, hard cash.”
“Or you can ask your parents for a loan,” Natalie said.
I snorted. “Th at’ll go over well. ‘Hey, parents dearest, I know my house is a bit, uh, shabby, but I wish to purchase a failing bookstore and turn it into something fabulous. May I borrow a couple-ten thousand bucks and pay you back once I’m actually turning a profit?’ Yeah, right.”
“Bank loans, then. Equity is your friend. There are avenues.” She punctuated her admonishment with a fi nal burst of steam from the espresso machine.
“Give me a door, I’ll create a barrier, Nat. It’s my best talent.”
She topped her macchiato with an overwhelming spritz of whipped cream, drizzled a bit of maple syrup over the top, then sprinkled on some maple sugar for good measure.
“You’re gonna spill that in the truck, so consider this your warning that it’s hot, will burn you, and will make that retro interior sticky as all hell. No lawsuits.”
“It’s the fi rst big storm of the season, doll. Caffeinate or die. I can’t skimp.” She capped her travel mug, waggled her fi ngers, and headed toward the door. “I’ll get your driveway plowed at the end of my run, but I’m not clearing off the car. Th at’s all you.”
“You got it.” I offered a mock salute. “Call if you’re driving by, I’ll arrange a curbside coffee delivery.”
“You know I will.” She breezed out the door. A flurry of fl akes dashed through the crack as she pulled the door shut, and the little bell above the door jingled in her wake. I steadied a precarious sci-fi stack—lots of Asimov, very few books published post- Snow Crash and slipped behind the giant wooden desk that stood in as a checkout counter.
Dog-Eared wasn’t large, nor did it stock any of the latest bestsellers. The standard answer was “we can order that in for you, if you’d like,” which didn’t do much good for weekend skiers. But it did have mismatched rugs made for sprawling, the comforting smell of old
paper, and that good floor creak that promised the perfect unexpected read just around the corner. Th is wasn’t a store for the fl ashiest covers or new twists on favorite tropes. Th is building housed paperbacks with worn-soft edges, travel mementos and old receipts tucked inside as bookmarks. Some contained hidden inscriptions, long forgotten and left behind for the next reader to discover. Searching inside covers for heartfelt notes gave me life, and I’d gathered the best of the best to add to my own personal collection. The volumes lined the walls in my reading nook at home, my own little sanctuary.
The bookstore’s convenient location, right beside the public bike path and adjacent to some of the top tourist traps in the state—none of which included public restrooms—meant Dog-Eared got a hefty load of traffic, all meant for the bathroom. Rarely were purchases made to go along with the toilet-and-hand-washing visits. Occasionally, a ragged paperback would catch the eye of a passerby. Business was far from booming; it was the coffee sales that kept the doors open. Which left plenty of time for me to sit and contemplate the world. And I would never run out of anything to read, even if the most recently published book on our shelves had come out around the same time as my fi nal vlog upload—fi fteen years ago. As the offloading space for estate sales and library discard bins, Dog-Eared lived up to its name.
I plucked my latest read from the shelf behind the desk, angled myself just-so to catch the light coming through the dirty window, and lost myself in a bit of Isabel Allende . Few customers meant plenty of free time to come up with marketing plans to boost patronage. The things I’d do if Charles allowed me even a smidge of freedom to bring the store into the twenty-fi rst century . . . But there wasn’t an idea Charles hadn’t shut down with a grunt and quick subject change.
I left college partway through my second year. I hadn’t even gone far from home: the University of Vermont was less than an hour away. But from the very fi rst week, the course load was intense and I’d struggled to make it to my therapy appointments. The stress of rushing to my therapist’s office between classes only added to my already
crushing anxiety—I couldn’t help feeling that I should be able to make it all work, just like everyone else was. An “it’s not them, it’s me” dilemma. My roommate transferred midyear, leaving me with a highly coveted single for the second semester. But the “spacious” room felt more like a cavern—and with the silence came an antsy sort of loneliness I couldn’t shake, one that vibrated somewhere deep inside my ribcage. I craved the comfort of home. School smarts were all my sister’s territory, anyway.
I’d been at Dog-Eared ever since—about thirteen years. No matter the marketing scheme or business proposal I pitched, Charles deemed it unnecessary. He was of the mind that the customer preferred the bookstore of yore, which left little room for improvement. After a few years of trying my best to turn the place around, I’d accepted my role as the reliable shopkeeper who didn’t rock the boat.
But I held on to hope that someday I’d be a lotto ticket closer to my big fortune, and the opportunity to buy the store. He’d sell, for the right price. I bought one scratch ticket per week—my own small act of rebellion because Dad hated that I bought them at all—won minuscule amounts occasionally, and never counted on anything. Everyone talks about how they’d quit their job the second a fortune fell into their lap. I’d buy my workplace so I never had to leave.
After a grand total of seven transactions and thirteen “can I use your bathroom” pit stops, I closed up shop and skated my way home on the salt-slush sidewalk.
I prepped myself to perform a half-assed driveway- and car-clearing when I got home, but Natalie had already plowed all of the snowbanks into submission and swiped the car spotless. Wipers pointed skyward, warding off ice gremlins that would contribute to future stuck-wiper drama. I snapped a selfie with the car, added a heart eyes emoji and “thank you” to the photo, and sent it off to Natalie.
Nat and I made a point to have dinner together at least once a week, and usually more often if our schedules aligned. I knew, without a
doubt, that she would come through my door every Tuesday night with a bottle of wine and dessert. She was the most reliable person on the face of the planet; our friendship knew no bounds.
Living so near each other our whole lives had given us the opportunity to forge a bond so close it rivaled siblinghood. I used to go to her house for dinner almost nightly. My parents weren’t exactly warm and fuzzy, and meals at home were more like a med school interview than a family occasion—if my parents were even home for dinner in the fi rst place.
My sister’s favorite-child status was solidified early when she’d earned the “Future Woman Leader” award in fi rst grade. I was still in diapers at the time, so how was I going to compete with that? For me, dinner at Natalie’s was an escape. A chance to gather around the table, laugh, and talk about the day without a lecture.
For Natalie, dinner with her family was akin to talons gripping her until she died a suffocating, horrible death. Our different outlooks performed a constant balancing act. I’d never convinced her that her parents weren’t trying to destroy her life by holding her near, expecting her to help them with the family businesses. She’d never convinced me that my parents weren’t choosing their more successful daughter over the failure when, during my freshman year at UVM, my parents picked up everything and moved to California to be closer to Jordan and her family. Nat couldn’t believe I wasn’t thrilled at the freedom. My parents, abandoning me to live my life in the state I’d vowed never to leave.
After losing my grandfather the next year, I left school—and the parents never forgave me for it. They wanted me to “live up to my potential,” which they reminded me via multiple emails with the subject “Re: Your Education.” Nat’s parents had helped me pack up the dorm and moved me back into the house my grandfather had left me.
Natalie tapped the front door’s rattly windowpane, then slipped inside when I shouted “It’s open!” She snagged two wine glasses from the cabinet, popped the cork from the bottle of red she’d brought, and poured a hearty serving for each of us.
We ate, swapped stories about the day, then fi nished the bottle of wine by the fi replace. Th ings were light and easy, until the edge of a picture frame caught my eye. The silver frame had been a gift from my ex, some mini-milestone gift, and I’d slipped a goofy selfie of our trip to the zoo into it the day he gave me the frame—but now it rested face-down, because I couldn’t bear having the photo stare at me each day, even if I wasn’t ready to part with it.
“I wonder how Kyle’s celebrating our one-year breakup anniversary,” I murmured. “He’s probably gotten everything he set out to do with his life.”
“Stop, and back it right the hell up. ‘What if I went with him anyway?’ No. We’re not doing the what-ifs. You had perfectly valid reasons to want to stay in your comfort zone, and he wasn’t willing to discuss an alternate plan. He’s the asshole. Forget him.” Natalie pointed at me with the same hand that held her glass of wine.
She’d been there from the fi rst fi ght to the big break-up, and I knew she’d have had my back no matter what. I’d been willing to overlook Kyle’s bad habits and terrible table manners, but I wouldn’t budge when he wanted me to move away to Nashville. I belonged in the house my grandfather had left me. Sure, it was a bit outdated, and I could have wallpapered the entire fi rst floor in the repair bills I’d been collecting like Pokémon cards, but I wasn’t going to leave. Not for a partner. Not for anything. Walking the worn stone path beneath the towering maple trees my grandfather planted and tended felt as much like love as one of Natalie’s mom’s hugs—and I couldn’t get either if I moved away. I wasn’t like my sister, who could make a friend at the drive-through window. I didn’t do lonely. I needed this house and this town—with its weird ghost stories and secret spooky spots—more than they needed me, but I wasn’t too proud to admit it.
“Any dating prospects?” Natalie asked.
I shook my head.
“Would you even admit to me if anyone caught your eye?”
“So.” I slapped my palms on my thighs, an attempt to startle her out of the impending dating pep talk. “How are your parents?”
Haunt Your Heart Out
She made a lip-zipping gesture and accepted my plea for a subject change. “Dad’s trees are selling like wild, Mom’s been completely swamped at the inn. Corporate parties, mostly. City people trying to impress clients with rustic locations and lift passes. The usual. Bring on spring.”
I held up my glass in a toast. “Bring it on.”
Haunted Happenings transcript
Date: November 16, 2006
Location: Emily’s Bridge
Luna: We’ve waited until sunset, and so far it’s been quiet, but we all know how that goes. Waiting it out. As long as it takes. It’s just a game of . . . oh wait, wait a minute. What was that? I saw a little shimmer—maybe a glint of frost in the air? Or something more sinister?
[Camera cuts momentarily.]
Luna: Okay so it was a false alarm. Just a car driving over the bridge. For those of you who don’t know, we’re at Emily’s Bridge, a location that’s well known for hauntings. Here with me is my camera person, Natalie—say hi, Natalie!
Natalie: Hi!
Luna: Now, we’ve come here alone, so we don’t disturb our intended spirit. Last night’s visit to the Whitfield Inn didn’t turn up any ghosts but tonight we’re—
Natalie: Shhh, shh, see that?
Luna: Hold the camera still, Natalie. You’re going to miss it!
Natalie: Oh my god, Luna, what is that?
Luna: I see a fi gure. Defi nitely a fi gure. She’s in the center of the bridge, walking back toward the entrance nearest us. Are you getting this, Natalie? It’s a ghostly outline, a woman in a white gown, like a tattered wedding dress. She’s moving, shuffl ing side to side on the bridge over there. I think . . . I
think I’m going to go try to talk to her. Natalie, can you get closer? Can you get this on fi lm?
Natalie: My camera seems to have some interference, it’s . . . the light settings keep shifting. I don’t think I can get closer. Go ahead, I’ll fi lm from here.
Luna: I’ll get closer. Emily? Is that you? I have a gift for you. It’s a button, with an embossed forget-me-not design—whoa!
Natalie: Luna, what happened? Are you okay?
Luna: Cold. So cold. I think . . . maybe she hugged me? Emily, is that what happened? I feel . . . I’m still cold. But I feel . . . something. It was a lot like loneliness at fi rst, and now I’m . . . Okay, there’s a car coming through. Emily, I’m sorry, I have to leave. Th ank you for being here with me today.
Natalie: I’ll cut after this car comes through.
Luna: No, no they’re going too fast. She’s not going to like that. Wait, are they stopping ? Oh, amateurs.
[Squealing tires and screams coming from inside the car.]
Luna: Did you see that? The sides of the car? It was like someone had clawed it. Did you get it? Please tell me it’s on fi lm.
Natalie: Of course I got it. You think I’m new at this?
[Microphone crackles and camera is obscured by a hand as it is adjusted.]
Luna: Th at was . . . intense. I’ve never seen anything like it. Emily was not pleased with them intruding like that. I’m feeling pretty closed off right now, like she’s asking for some privacy, but I think we’ve made some progress with her tonight. We’ll be back, Emily. We’ll come again. Don’t let them bother you. Stand up for yourself. You’re worth everything.
[Microphone crackles, camera cuts.]
CHAPTER TWO
Some nights, I kept the bookstore open a bit later, just for kicks. It rarely drew customers, but it was an excuse for me to put off laundry. I’d pitched author signings and open mic nights to Charles, who’d insisted there wasn’t a market for “that sort of thing.” The Montpelier night scene begged to differ, but what did I know?
The après-ski crowds swarmed the streets; LED holiday wreaths, menorahs, and kinaras attached to the phone poles bathed them in an eerie, festive glow. Just another reminder that people stopped into our town only briefly, just to rush home and pick up their lives where they’d left off. Nobody stuck around. They were in and out in a week, with nothing but vacation photos languishing on social media posts and in automatically backed-up cloud storage to prove they’d enjoyed themselves. They barhopped until they dropped, but I always held out hope that someone would slip into the store and be relieved to escape the hustle and bustle.
I’d set a goal to fi nish The Return of the King in a single day, so I downed a bit of espresso and settled back in. I scraped a fi ngernail along the cracked spine of the book as I relived the tale, fueled by caffeine and nostalgia. The goal was lofty, though, and my eyelids were
heavy by eight-thirty, so I abandoned ship and prepped a hot chocolate for the trip home instead.
The front door swung open, and a man swept in as I drizzled chocolate syrup over my drink.
“We’re closing, sorry,” I said, without sparing a glance.
“I’ll just be a minute,” he said, glancing around and rubbing his hands together. “I was hoping I could use your restroom.”
I stole a peek when I heard a newly familiar voice: the stranger who’d given me a lift to work just yesterday. He wore a long black wool coat, a knitted scarf, pressed-enough pants, and the notable Yankees cap to top it off. The cap’s brim shadowed most of his face, as it had in his car.
“You’ve gotta make a purchase, customers only.” The tone was meant to be joking—friendly, even. But the last few years of pointing to the dark back corner and handing off a key had influenced me more than I’d realized.
He pressed his lips together, more challenge than smile. “I don’t see any signs.”
I grabbed the chalkboard marker and scrawled “Bathroom for Customers Only” on the menu board. My brain always shut down when pretty people were involved, so it was probably an attempt at fl irting gone terribly wrong.
His eyes fl ashed amusement and a subtle dimple appeared in the middle of his chin. “My mistake. I’ll have a latte, double shot. Soy, no foam.”
“Not from around here, then?” I asked, cringing inwardly that I’d created more clean-up for myself through the failed fl irting attempt.
“Why would you assume that?” he asked.
I tilted my head and raised an eyebrow.
“There’s nothing strange about a soy-no-foam order.”
“It’s not the order,” I said, snagging a to-go cup from the counter and pointing it at his head. “It’s the hat.” And the out of state plates on his peppy sedan.
He brushed his fi ngertips along the hat’s brim. “I’ve been found out.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t been assaulted. Brave of you to wear that around here. Th is is Red Sox land.”
“Th ank you for your concern, but I think I can take ’em.” He tossed a playful wink in my direction.
I interrupted his peacocking by grinding fresh beans—an unnecessary move, ingredients-wise, but absolutely required to drown him out before my idiot heart took over. Confident, fast talker, and not sticking around. Exactly the type I’d fall for.
I tugged the key from its hook and slid it across the counter to the man. “Down that way, take a left at Nietzsche.”
He disappeared between stacks of books. I tended to his coffee order, peering down the aisle after him, hoping to catch another glimpse.
A few minutes later, the floorboards creaked under the weight of his footfalls. When he reached the counter, I slid the capped to-go cup across the counter and crossed my arms.
“What do I owe you?” he asked.
I pointed to the cash register, the amount lighting the room with its digital green glow. “Unless you want to sign up for the Coffee of the Month Club. Ten percent off your cuppa, every time, if you get the featured beverage. A free coffee every ten purchases.”
“I’ll pass,” he said. He patted his back pockets, then his coat, then dug into the front pockets of his pants. He pulled his hand free and slid a few quarters from his palm onto the countertop, counting under his breath as the metallic ring echoed through the bookstore.
“Misplaced wallet?” I asked. “It’s cool, I’ll just take this one for the road.”
“Must be in the car back at the inn.” He sighed and fiddled with his coat’s pocket fl ap. “Sorry to have wasted your time. Excuse me, I’m expected at the cemetery in a few minutes.”
I clenched my hands into guilty little fi sts beneath the counter. I’d mocked the guy for his preferred sports team, heckled him about his coffee order, and been all grumpy because he was an out-of-towner— and he was here because someone had died . Way to go, Lex. Stellar performance.
“You know, I may have forgotten to mention that new coffee club members get a free beverage. Just need your cell number, right here.” I nudged a membership slip toward him and lifted my shoulders apologetically.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Is that so?” he asked, eyes scanning the floorboards.
“Oh, and we promise never to sell or give away your information or spam you. Or anything.”
He accepted the pen and tapped the tip to the sign-up slip. I braved a glance at his profi le as he bent to jot down his information. Rough hair grew at his chin, like he’d skipped a couple days shaving. Travel and grief do that to you. His jawline tightened as he started to write, so I averted my eyes in case I was making him uncomfortable. He fi nished, and passed the slip to me. “Seems like a punch card would be a less sketchy option, don’t you think.”
“I don’t make the rules . . . James,” I said, reading his name off the slip of paper. “I just do what the boss tells me. Th ank you for joining the Dog-Eared Coffee Club. Just give us your number next time you’re in and we’ll track your purchases in our system.” If he ever came back, which was unlikely given his here-for-a-funeral status and out-of-state area code. Not sticking around.
“Th anks, uhh . . .?” He pointed at me with his free hand.
“Have a good one,” I said. Don’t give him your name, check. Suggest he enjoy a trip to the cemetery, also check.
“Absolutely.” He took a sip of coffee as he backed toward the door. “Th anks again. I owe you one.”
“We’re even,” I said. “Consider it payment for yesterday’s wonderful taxi service.”
Falling snow danced around him as he crossed the road and halfjogged toward the park. I fiddled with the slider top of my travel mug, staring after him until he disappeared beyond the streetlight’s glow.
James didn’t show up the next day. Not that I expected an appearance— it was just a simple observation and reading into things was a dangerous game. The store was slow, as usual. Only a handful of customers, a rush on drip coffee when a caravan of skiers dropped in on their way toward the resort, and an antique book collector who stopped by looking for a copy of some obscure book—and to criticize Dog-Eared’s cataloging methods.
I fl ipped the sign to “closed” and started counting out the register when I heard a tiny tap at the window. I fi nished tallying my handful of pennies, not willing to get tripped up somewhere in the thirties only to have to start counting the register all over again. If it was important, they’d stick around until the change-counting was complete.
When I had the chance to squint through the smudged windows, I spotted a familiar silhouette. Long jacket, ball cap, and a hand holding up a driftwood key chain in the window.
I scurried to the door, fl ipped the lock, and beckoned for the bathroom key. After realizing the key was gone this morning, I’d picked the bathroom deadbolt and left it unlocked all day. Not having to hand it off to customers had actually been a real time-saver.
“Missing something?” James asked, dangling the key slightly out of reach.
“What, did you steal it just to have a reason to come back?”
“Of course not. I tucked it in my pocket while I was washing my hands last night and forgot to return it because you tricked me into signing up for your secret club. No foul intentions. No harm.”
I hopped to grab the key from his hand and snatched it from his grip before he could tease me with it any more. He grinned and stepped around me, then headed toward the coffee counter.
“Your timing is terrible.” I wrinkled my nose as if it could convey an apology I wasn’t sure I was prepared to give. “We’re closed. Again.”
“Just checking out the décor,” he said, meandering. His hands were shoved deep in his coat pockets and his feet crossed with each step. The movement turned his walk into a swagger. “Cozy little place you have here. Smells like a library.”
“Might be the books,” I said.
He pressed his weight onto one foot, testing a creaky floorboard. “Noisy.”
“Creaky floorboards add ambience,” I said. “Now that you’ve returned the contraband, can I fi nish closing up?”
“Go right ahead.” He took two strides across the floor and settled into the ragged armchair by the window.
“Door has to be locked if I’m counting cash. Owner’s rules.” I waved him toward the door.
He got up, walked toward the door, and fl ipped the lock. “Better?”
I snorted a laugh. “Close enough.” My heart wasn’t going to survive.
James crossed toward the desk, swept his hat off his head, and leaned onto the desk with both hands in fi sts. He gripped his hat, and his eye contact sent a shiver through my spine.
“I wanted to properly thank you for the coffee last night.”
“Oh, that.” I shrugged, not at all coolly. “No big deal, benefits of the club.”
“Absolutely. Th at’s right, the club. Well, thank you for bringing it to my attention.” He smirked, and his dimple appeared. Without the brim of his cap in the way, his eyes glittered from the overhead lights. Was he trying to torture me?
“I’m trying to close up here. For real.” I hit the button to close out the register and nodded toward the door.
“Right.” He pointed with both hands at the door. “I’ll just go then. But, hey, I hope to see you around.”
He pressed himself away from the desk and walked to the door, not a second glance spared. He fl ipped the lock and tugged it open.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” I said, fully aware that it was shitty to apologize to a guy I didn’t know for the death of a person I’d probably never met.
He glanced back at me with a grin. “No worries, I’ll make a note of your business hours so I’m more likely to be served next time.”
Next time. Like he wouldn’t be skipping town in a couple of days. He jogged off in the direction of the park again, offering a low wave to the driver who let him cross the road. My eyes remained glued on his disappearing silhouette until there was no discerning his shadow from December’s pitch black.
With the register counted, money tucked away in the safe, and lights switched off, I walked back to the desk to turn off the banker’s lamp. And there was James’s hat, exactly where he’d been leaning minutes before.
I’d never fi gure out where he was staying, not with twenty-five inns and a handful of B&Bs within spitting distance of the store. Even if I did know, I wasn’t going to fall for it. He’d probably left it on purpose. He wasn’t going to come in here, all scruff y beard and charm, and get me to chase him down. Not in my town.
I hung the hat from a hook on the wall using the adjustable back strap, then made my escape.
CHAPTER THREE
No fresh snowfall meant Natalie and I could meet up for our standing Saturday morning date, since there were no driveways to plow, paths to shovel, or sidewalks to salt. When we were teenagers we would have spent the day tucked away in Nat’s bedroom scaring up schemes to perpetuate local legends. We’d been all about haunting-related hijinks, from harassing tourists to sleepovers in the cemetery just to prove we could.
Many assumed there had to have been something to the dozens of ghost stories and eerie sightings for the tales to keep circulating, even all these years later, but it was less spirits and more Nat and me who haunted the town. Unsupervised, we turned corn fields, empty buildings, and covered bridges into the Twilight Zone, and each of the lowbudget “hauntings” was catalogued on my vlog. Existing local legends inspired us—we’d grown up hearing ghostly stories about Emily’s Bridge and the Green Mountain Inn—but after a while, our imaginations took over. The fi lm work was closer to Blair Witch Project than Slender Man . We had fans, regardless.
Adulthood had forced us to quit the bogus ghost gig, but now our Saturdays were better than sacred. By this time each week, I was more than ready to turn the bookshop over to Darla, the college student
