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  “What a shame,” his dad said. “Lily and I went to dinner there once. When we were there, it was still glorious. The swimming pool and grounds reminded me of something out of Great Gatsby.”

  Jackson listened to the exchange in stunned silence. The Arnoult house was for sale. How could this be? It was Maggie’s birthday and the house they’d dreamt of owning someday was for sale? Was it a coincidence? Or, was this Maggie’s way of sending him the forgiveness he craved?

  “Maggie and I used to ride our bikes up there,” Jackson said. “And peer through the gate.”

  “You told your mother you’d own that house someday,” his dad said. “I’d forgotten that.”

  “It’s not even listed yet, but the selling agent’s a friend of mine,” Kyle said. “He knew I was looking for a house for you. If you want it, we can make an offer before they put it officially on the market.”

  Jackson wandered over to the window. The filmy curtains moved in ripples from the evening breeze.

  The Arnoult house. He had to see it. Now.

  “Let’s go out there and take a look.” The tremor in his voice betrayed him.

  “You got it,” Kyle said.

  His father set aside his glass of wine. “I’m coming too.”

  Jackson sat in the back seat of Kyle’s car as they drove up to the gate of the Arnoult house. At one time, an emblem of an eagle had adorned the center. When both sides were open, the eagle separated into halves, but came together when closed. Now, one of the wings had rusted and fallen loose and hung crookedly, like the broken wing of a living bird. Jackson looked away. Gates could be restored or replaced. The broken wing meant nothing. He could not look for signs in everything.

  His father, in the passenger seat, looked up from the real estate listing sheet. “No lock on the gate?”

  “It rusted away years ago. Sea air wreaks havoc on metal,” Kyle said as they drove through and into the property. “Honestly, I was surprised the house didn’t have squatters living in here.”

  “Wasn’t there an old story going around that the house was haunted?” his father asked.

  “When I was in high school, that was the story,” Jackson said. “But Maggie and I always figured that was a rumor sent around from the family to keep pesky kids from breaking in.”

  The driveway, once graveled, was now plagued with potholes. Overgrown meadows peppered with wildflowers swayed in the slight breeze. “There used to be horses,” Jackson said. “They kept the grasses short.”

  “The house and gardens have deteriorated,” Kyle said. “No question. Just remember that surface damage is easily fixed. Under the cosmetic issues, this house was built to last.”

  The car bounced in a deep pothole. Jackson’s heart had jumped between his ears and seemed to race as they reached the house.

  Maggie had thought it looked like the French chateaus they’d seen in photographs. Jackson agreed with his father. The house and grounds reminded him of The Great Gatsby. Back in the glory days, the light stone exterior was partially covered in climbing rose bushes. Now, ivy had taken over, strangling the rose bushes into brown, twisted vines.

  “I did a little research on the place today,” Kyle said. “The house was built in 1920 by a French count or nobleman—whatever the title is—basically, a rich dude from France named Pierre Arnoult. He lived there until his death in 1960, at which point it was passed to his son, who lived there until 1996.”

  “That’s the Arnoult I knew. Peter was his first name,” Jackson’s dad said. “He was only here occasionally, as he and his wife owned a vineyard in Napa.”

  “I remember seeing him around town once in a blue moon,” Jackson said. “But he kept to himself. All of us kids were afraid of him.” Peter Arnoult had walked with the assistance of a cane and had dark, glittering eyes.

  His dad nodded. “His wife, Ana, was friendlier, but she was raised in France and didn’t understand much English. Your mom always spoke to her if she needed medical care. Lily wasn’t totally fluent, but between the two of them, they communicated well enough to describe the ailment.”

  “After they died in a plane crash in 1996, Peter’s eccentric sister, Stella, moved in. She spent the last twenty years Grey-Gardening it,” Kyle said.

  Jackson chuckled at Kyle’s made up verb, despite the despair that pooled in the pit of his stomach. This once splendid home was in ruins. Walkways were obscured with moss and weeds. Misshapen shrubs hadn’t seen pruning for ages. Abandoned flower pots lay vanquished on their sides, with dirty water hosting various species of insects. Spider webs hung from every window pane. Jackson shivered. He hated spiders.

  “It’s like Sleeping Beauty’s castle,” Jackson said.

  “Except there isn’t a princess waiting for a kiss,” Kyle said. “Maybe some rats and cockroaches, but that’s it.”

  They got out of the car.

  Next to the separate garage, a dilapidated car rusted. They meandered up the stone walkway.

  Kyle let them in through the massive front door. The scent of feces and urine besieged them the moment they stepped into the foyer.

  “Keep an open mind,” Kyle said.

  “But a closed nose,” Jackson said.

  “Did the old lady have a lot of dogs?” His dad raised his eyebrows in horror. “It smells like a third world country in here.”

  “I’m afraid the answer is yes. The listing agent told me she had several dogs and allowed them to defecate all over the house. Obviously, it would need an entire gutting,” Kyle said.

  They walked down the hallway until they reached the main room, piled high with boxes and old furniture. Scents of dust and mildew joined the already unpleasant odor. High ceilings with ornate detail, along with a winding staircase to the upstairs, hinted at the home’s former opulence.

  Kyle led them to the back of the house. An outdated kitchen, obviously remodeled during the seventies given the orange tile and green appliances, looked out to a once stunning backyard. A layer of mud and dead leaves buried the swimming pool.

  Still, Jackson could imagine what it could be. He could restore the pool and uncover the stone walkways. A swing could hang from a branch of the old oak that shaded the area to the left of the swimming pool. The lawn could be replanted. A set of lawn furniture and an outdoor kitchen would bring it into this century.

  Jackson could imagine it, but he couldn’t pay for it. He didn’t have the kind of money it would take to buy the place and restore it to its rightful glory.

  Kyle looked at his notes. “There are four bedrooms and two baths upstairs. They also need to be gutted and redone.” He pointed toward the front of the house. “A home office is that way. And there’s a family room off the kitchen.” They walked through a skinny door into a room with a fireplace and orange carpet. If possible, the stench worsened. “I would take down the wall here and have the kitchen flow into the family area.”

  “That would update it for sure,” Jackson’s dad said.

  “Absolutely. Better for family life,” Kyle said. “Let’s talk outside. The smell’s making it hard to think rationally.”

  They agreed and followed him out to the front of the house. The sun was low in the sky and shot rays of light through the skinny pines at the edge of the meadow.

  The moment of truth was upon them. “What’s the price?” Jackson asked.

  “Remember, there are two acres of prime real estate,” Kyle said. “With a view of the ocean from the upstairs rooms.”

  “Just tell me,” Jackson said.

  “It’s priced just over a million,” Kyle said. “Which, honestly, is a steal.”

  His dad nodded. “For this area, it really is. Why’s it priced so low?”

  Kyle lifted one side of his mouth in a grimace. “Look at it. Stella’s great-niece and nephew are the sole heirs. The niece thinks the place is haunted and refuses to live here. Plus, her realtor told me she needs the cash. The nephew lives in France and wants nothing to do with it.”

  “I woul
d make an offer in a second if I had the money,” Jackson said. “Even if I could secure a loan, I can’t raise the twenty percent for a down payment.”

  “I have an idea,” Kyle said. “Just hear me out before you start in with the proud-man speak. What if we go in on it together? I know this sounds weird coming from me, but if I want to settle down at some point, I can’t imagine a better piece of property. It feels like the country up here.” Kyle looked out the window to the yard. “And there’s two acres, which means I could build a house on the other half of the land when I’m ready.”

  “When exactly do you plan on settling down?” Jackson asked.

  Kyle grinned. “Maybe not settle all the way down. But it would be awesome to have a house here to entertain in, at least. Once the resort is up and running, I won’t have a reason to be here, and maybe I want one. I can’t let you Dogs play poker without me.”

  Jackson punched his friend on the shoulder. “You’re getting soft on us.”

  “Come on, what do you say? I’ll run the loan through my business and my attorney can draw up an agreement between us. It’ll be like a loan from me.”

  “I don’t know. Should friends do business together?” his dad asked with a worried expression.

  “My attorney will make sure it’s iron clad so that we both feel protected. Not to mention, we go way back, Doctor Waller. And, I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but this is pennies in the bucket for me. I’ve made a lot of money with my other investments. Other than wanting an acre of this property, consider this a favor, Jackson—a payback for all the times you paid my rent or bought groceries back when we were in college.”

  “It’s hardly the same,” Jackson said. “But I accept.”

  “You sure? This is a big decision. It’ll take a year to make it habitable.” Kyle peered at him with his sharp eyes.

  “And what about Sharon?” his dad asked. “Shouldn’t you consult her?”

  He knew his father was right. He should consider her feelings, but a feeling of urgency nagged at him. It was now or never. Maggie wanted him here.

  “I don’t see that as a huge problem,” Kyle said. “Even if she doesn’t want to live here—this is an investment for both of us. I’ll buy you out later, if you want me to. Anyway, if Sharon doesn’t fall in love with it after we fix it up, I don’t know a thing about women.”

  Jackson smiled. Kyle knew a thing or two about women. Mostly, how to get them to fall into his bed.

  “She’ll like that it was built by a count,” Jackson said.

  “We’re not entirely sure he was a count,” Kyle said.

  “He will be in the story she tells her friends,” Jackson said.

  Chapter Five

  Maggie

  * * *

  MAGGIE PASSED A construction project on the way out to the cemetery. A resort? That was odd, given Cliffside Bay’s loathing for outside visitors. Whoever was building it had the right idea. This town needed a decent place to stay.

  The cemetery was a mile north of town down a winding road lined with oaks. Their sweeping branches made a heart tunnel just before the turn into the cemetery.

  Her mother rested in their family plot beside Maggie’s grandparents and great-grandparents. Someday she would be buried beside her mother. One of the last things she did before she left town was to make sure her father could not be buried in her mother’s family plot. He didn’t belong. Let him lie with the Postmistress.

  She parked in the lane closest to her mother’s grave site and grabbed one of the bouquets of flowers from the passenger seat. Lily Waller’s site was across the cemetery. She would visit it next.

  The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees and shed yellow light over the rolling hills. Maggie breathed in the scent of wild sweet peas that grew just beyond the cemetery gates. What did the scent remind her of? It took her a moment to remember—the Arnoult house. The property had acres of wild flowers. In June and July, the sweet peas had bloomed in shades of vibrant pink and purple near the gate where she and Jackson would stand with their hands intertwined and dream of the day when the property would be theirs.

  Now, a sparrow sang sweetly from the branch of a sycamore tree. About ten or so feet from the family plot, a sight froze her feet. What was she seeing? Another tombstone. Yes, another gray slab was erected next to her mother’s. Maggie’s pulse quickened. Her heart now beat between her ears, loud and too fast. Black dots danced before her eyes. She tightened her grip on the flowers. If that bastard had dared to buy his tombstone before he was even dead, she would rip it out with her bare hands and drop it onto his hospital bed. As she drew closer, however, she realized it was not her father’s name etched into the stone, but her own.

  Maggie Laura Keene

  June 27, 1987- August 7, 2005

  Our Songbird.

  No, this wasn’t right. She closed her eyes, sure her heightened emotion had caused her to hallucinate. But no. When she opened her eyes, it was still there. Her birth and death dates? It made no sense. Why would her own name be on a stone? She wasn’t dead. For a mad second, she questioned her own existence. Was she a ghost? She pinched the skin of her bare forearms. Had her wanderings the past twelve years been that of a woman stuck between heaven and earth?

  No, no. This was a mistake. She was alive. She bled and cried and ate and slept. No one was more alive than she, even on the days when she wished she wasn’t.

  Who had done this? And why?

  The dots before her eyes grew larger and blurred her vision. She put out a hand to steady herself, but there was nothing to grasp. The spots merged into blackness.

  Maggie woke with her face in the grass, next to the tombstone. Her tombstone. She’d fainted. It was true what they said. When you faint, you fall forward, not backward like in the movies. She sat up, pulling her hair away from her face, and drew her knees up to her chest. Please, God, tell me what’s happening.

  She heard footsteps behind her and whipped around to see a blond man striding toward her.

  “Excuse me, but what are you doing?” he asked.

  She squinted her eyes at the familiar voice, placing the exact timbre. Zane Shaw. It took a second to adjust to his older, narrower face. But his eyes were the same. An aquamarine color, like the Mediterranean Sea. His body was larger now—buff and wide-shouldered. He carried a bouquet of bright pink roses.

  “Zane?”

  As she said his name, his eyes widened, and his complexion changed hues until it was the color of asparagus soup under his tan. His mouth opened and closed in a way that reminded her of babies when they were hoping for a bite of banana.

  “Maggie?”

  “It’s me.” She waved her hand toward the tombstone. “What the hell is this?”

  Zane stared at her. His broad chest went up as he seemed to gasp for air. “It can’t be.”

  “I don’t understand. I’m not dead.” Maggie moved closer to him, surprised she could still form words. Perhaps shock made one calm and logical.

  “Is this some kind of sick joke?” he asked.

  “Joke? No, the joke’s here.” She fluttered her hand toward the tombstone. “Who did this?”

  “No, Maggie’s dead. We saw them lower her ashes into this grave. Who the hell are you?” Zane asked.

  “I’m Maggie. I can prove it.”

  “How?” It came out as more of a growl than a word. Some of the color had returned to his face. Zane, quick to temper, always prepared for a fight.

  “You have a scar on your left thigh the shape of a quarter moon from a fish hook when you and Jackson went fishing. You got it the summer between seventh and eighth grade.”

  His complexion now morphed into the color of uncooked dough. “Oh my God.” He peered at her with eyes that could burn holes in a cloth. “I’m seeing a ghost.”

  “No, you’re not. I’m alive. You can pinch me.”

  “It can’t be.”

  “It’s me,” she whispered.

  “All this time. We thoug
ht you were dead. We were at your funeral. Right here.”

  “Did you see my body?”

  “No, your dad said you were mangled in the car accident. He didn’t want anyone to see you like that. He had you cremated. That’s what he told us, anyway.”

  “He told everyone I died?” It was him. Roger Keene lied and told everyone she was dead. Why? Why would he do such a thing?

  It was her mother’s voice in her head that gave her the answer. To wreck your life. To hurt everyone who loved you.

  “He said it was a car accident,” Zane said. “On your way to New York. In Kansas somewhere.”

  “Kansas? I’ve never even been to Kansas.”

  “You had to drive through Kansas to get to New York,” he said, speaking like she was a crazed child.

  “I did? Yes, that’s right. But it’s nothing but flat cornfields for miles and miles. No one could die on that highway.”

  “He said you fell asleep at the wheel. Because of the monotony. I figured, anyway. He never said that part.” Zane’s eyes were glazed over. He might be the next one to faint.

  “I’ve been in New York all this time. Very much alive.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Zane said. “There has to be an explanation.”

  “He did it to hurt us. All of us.” Her knees wobbled. She grasped air between her fingers, again looking for that object to hold onto that wasn’t there. I cannot faint again.

  “I don’t understand what’s happening,” Zane whispered.

  She noticed the flowers in his hand. They glowed under the dimming sun. “Why are you here?”

  “For you. I bring flowers to you at least once a month,” he said. “Today’s your birthday. So, I came today.” He raised his hands and took two steps backward. “You’re a ghost. I’ve lost it. I’m seeing ghosts.”

  “I’m not a ghost. I’m real. My dad’s a liar.”

  “Your dad. He’s sick. Dying.” He abruptly stopped talking and fell to his knees. “I don’t feel so good.”

  She knelt next to him and took his hands. “Zane, look at me.”