Haunt Your Heart Out

Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

James stayed at my place that night, preferring a ghost-free space to the rental where Julian and the crew would be editing and rewatching the day’s footage. We lounged in my bed until way-too-late at night and woke up wrapped in each other—likewise, way-too-late in the morning. Our peaceful sleeping-in ended with me sitting bolt upright, completely naked, gaping at the alarm clock that I’d forgotten to set.

I flipped the blankets open and felt goosebumps pop up across my arms and stomach as the chilly air hit my skin. James grasped for the corner of my comforter and nestled himself back under the covers with a groan, but I yanked the blankets away again.

“I’m going to be late.” I buried the panic for a moment to bite my lip as I eyed the muscles that stretched across his shoulders and down his back. “You’re gloriously, wonderfully naked and while I value that, I don’t think it’ll win any arguments when Charles asks why the store’s still locked up.”

James rolled out of bed and gathered his clothes, taking every opportunity to bend, reach, and stretch. The tease.

As the shower faucet spurted to life, the sound of my ancient coffee grinder came down the hallway. Before the shower had warmed to my preferred scalding temperature, the pipes thunked, leaving me with even worse pressure. Water dribbled from the shower head, separate streams turning to a central trickle. There wasn’t enough water pressure to wake a housefly on the best of mornings, but this new low brought spurts interrupted by gasps of air. I scrubbed and rinsed the best I could, barely able to get the conditioner out of my hair.

After the unsatisfactory shower, I dashed into the kitchen where James stood, a travel mug and neatly folded breakfast burrito waiting for me to devour and dash. Manners took a backseat as I dove in to the burrito, desperate to replace the calories burnt the night before.

“Should I pack you a lunch, or would you eat it before you got to the store?” he asked. His lips pulled into an amused smirk.

“No food item would be safe. I’ll order something in.” I finished the last bite of the burrito, and James gathered the plate to rinse it before I’d finished chewing.

The faucet sputtered and spat, providing less water pressure than the shower.

“Well, that’s not good,” James said.

“The pressure here always sucks, but what can you do, huh? The plumber told me the cost to upgrade and I choked. Visibly choked. I’ll get to it when I can afford it.”

“I think we’ve got more going on here than bad water pressure.” James turned off the spitting faucet. “Frozen or burst pipes, maybe.” He fiddled with the faucet; the spitting continued.

I grimaced. “That sounds expensive.”

“Can be.” He popped the cabinet open and peeked under the sink, then strolled into the bathroom to inspect that faucet. I sipped my coffee, following but dreading his findings. “I’m going to check out the basement, just to be safe.”

I gestured toward the door that led downstairs. I avoided the space whenever possible. It was dark and moist, with plenty of shadows to freak me out. He trotted down the stairs and yelped, which didn’t help my fear of the lower level any.

Then, the sound of feet shuffling through water—water, in my basement!—lured me to the depths below. The floor was soaked halfway across the basement, pouring from the pipe along the exterior wall. James splashed toward the shut-off valve and turned it until the water slowed, then stopped.

“There’s water in my house,” I said, aware how obtuse it sounded. The basement had flooded, of course there was water in my house.

“Just a bit,” James said.

As I stood a few steps from the basement floor, examining the latest damage to my beloved building, my lips started to tingle and a bit of numbness crept into my fingertips—usually the first clues that I was heading toward an anxiety attack. I clenched my fists, closed my eyes, and sucked air through my nose to fill my lungs, then exhaled through my mouth. Catching the signs early enough usually meant I could breathe my way back to the moment. When I opened my eyes again, James was examining the drenched space with his hands tucked into his back pockets.

“For fuck’s sake, what the hell am I going to do now?” I’d already taken advantage of every small repair business in the town. I’d paid Katerina in cookies when she fixed my kitchen light fixture. Connor was waiting for the fifth and final payment for the window he’d replaced over the summer. I owed half the town my entire worth and then some. Another repair meant another step backward in my bookstore purchase plan.

James splashed back through the ankle-deep water, walked up the stairs in his soggy slippered feet, and wrapped his arms around my waist. “You,” he kissed me, “are going to work. I’ll figure this out.”

Maybe there was someone left in town who didn’t know my financial situation. Maybe James would talk them into getting everything fixed up, then I could weasel my way into a payment plan. It was the least sustainable home ownership method, but it had worked up until this point.

Three hours into my shift, I got a happy, if unexpected, call from James: He’d stopped the leak, fixed the broken section of the pipe, and was researching plumbers and water damage specialists in the area.

“How handy.” Despite my joking tone, the news cleared some of the stress that had kept me wound tight all morning. “Do you have a toolbelt to go along with those skills?” I asked.

“I do, in fact. Canvas, tan.”

“Very impressive, Mr. Fix-It. But here’s the thing, I can’t afford a plumber. Or anyone with the term ‘specialist’ included on their business card. I’ve got a business loan application pending for the bookstore purchase already, and I can barely afford the oil to heat that place as it is.”

“You’re going to be able to afford fixing a mold problem even less. Pipes aren’t something to mess around with. I can do the basics, and I’m not against bucket-draining this basement for you—but anything else is beyond me. You need a professional. One who can tackle everything. I know you’re into the whole rustic aesthetic, but you can’t keep cobbling things together and expect the house to come out for the better.”

“James, are you mocking my house?” I gasped loud enough for the dramatics to make it through the phone line intact.

“Just picking on you , of course. Never the house. But, really, Lex. Maybe a home equity loan would be a good option.”

A loan. More money. I’d only just finished paying off my student loans for my brief college experience, and that took more than a decade. I didn’t need to add more debt to the pile. Then again, since I’d paid off the student loans, I wouldn’t necessarily miss the money. It would be the same-old broke instead of a new broke.

“Depending on if you’re using the house as collateral, your business loan might be affected by this damage. Best to reach out and discuss your options, I think.”

Of course he was right. After hanging up with James, I was on the phone with the local bank, scheduling an appraiser to get another loan process started.

Banks didn’t waste time when large sums of money were involved. Carina, the loans officer, had an appraisal set up for the next morning. The appraiser showed up bright and early, a ladder and tablet in-hand.

While the appraiser ducked into closets, examined light fixtures, and grunted at the dated counter tops, I followed him through the house with my coffee mug hugged between my hands. I sipped each time he jotted down something on his clipboard. The action kept me from trying to peer at the paperwork.

“Been here long, then?” he asked from his place atop the ladder, his voice coming muffled from inside the attic crawl space above the stairs that led to my little library.

“You could say that.” Basically since birth.

He strode from room to room, pressing his pen to his chin as he considered each corner of my home. The windowsills in the kitchen—a long scratch that had been painted over, without being properly filled first, from my Matchbox car phase. Everything was a race track to a five-year-old. When I got bigger, it was where I’d sat in the afternoons to watch for Natalie to show up on her bike. I’d picked and worried at the edge of the sill, anxious to escape the scrutiny of my parents for the welcoming embrace of hers. Mom always made me wait to go, because she said it was rude to show up at someone’s house unannounced and uninvited. When I told that to Nat’s parents, they said there was an open invitation, and I didn’t even need to knock.

The appraiser used the edge of his clipboard to move the curtain out of the way to check the window in the living room, and my sun catcher jiggled on its hook. Natalie and I had made them to match: friendship sun catchers. It had been in that corner of the window since the summer before we started eighth grade.

He ran a thumb across one of the bricks on the outside of the fireplace, where I’d scratched a heart using a red thumbtack—I’d read in a magic spells book that it was a sure way to ignite a fire in my crush’s heart. It never worked, but the evidence of my first love lived on in the masonry built into the thing I loved the very most of all.

He stepped on the one creaky floorboard just in front of the stairway, the one that I’d listen for every weekend, because when it creaked it meant my grandfather was coming to wake me up extra-early in the morning with cider donuts—because my parents detested sweets and sunrise was the best time for us to share a treat.

When we reached the stairs, his ladder clunked against the wall. I held my breath until I could glance to check for damage. There was a tiny scuff on the wall, marring the floral wallpaper my grandmother had let me pick out when I was four and had no eye for interior design. The swirling, vining florals and vertical stripes had a pearlized finish that shimmered slightly, even decades later—except for the one spot where I always trailed my finger along the textured wallpaper on my way up the stairs to my book nook.

He stomped up the rungs on his ladder and poked his head through the attic access. “Insulation is surprisingly good, for a house this age.”

“I had it updated when I fixed the roof—there was a leak. Two years ago.”

“Roof damage.” The tip of the pen hovered just above his paper as he considered his next note.

“There was roof damage. It’s been fixed now,” I corrected. “No leaks. Good as new.”

He amended his note, then tapped the door with two fingers. “What’s back here? Closet?”

I popped the rattly iron gate latch and opened the door for him.

“Hmm.” He made more notes on his paper, then pulled a measuring tape from his coat pocket. “The original tax appraisal says this is a three-bedroom, but you’ll lose points here. Can’t call this a bedroom—no fire escape, doesn’t count. Any other inconsistencies?”

“Not that I know of.”

He tutted, measured, and noted his findings while my chest caved in as my favorite place in the world was reduced to nothing more than shorthand on a form that was barely legible because it was a photocopy of a photocopy … of a photocopy.

“Well, it’s not as bad as it could be, but don’t hold your breath. There’s damage that’ll cost you, fixtures are outdated. Wallpaper’s a huge mark against you. I’ll work up the assessment and send you”—he flipped to the contact information on the first page—“oh, the bank—the official report in a few days.”

As he stepped out the door onto the front porch, I reached out to shake his hand, but he pressed a business card into my palm instead.

“Thank you,” I said. Thanks for nothing.

Bad news accompanied the bank’s appraisal and home equity value report—terrible numbers on both counts. While there was enough equity in the home for a repair loan, they couldn’t grant me both the home repair loan and the business loan. And because I’d applied for the business loan using my house as collateral, it hurt my chances of getting approved to buy the bookstore in the house’s current condition.

Natalie offered sympathy and dinner. Gatherings at the Stiller house were always loud, entertaining, and filling. You never left without enough leftovers for a week, and a frown never lingered for more than two seconds after crossing the threshold.

With Christmas just over a week away, they were in a celebratory mood. While some people were drained by human interaction and needed an introvert-style recharge at this time of year, Natalie’s family thrived on engaging with locals and meeting the visitors. The inn was always packed to bursting, the noisier the better, and it wasn’t unheard of for people to show up at the tree farm for a six-foot pine only to stick around for an hour to gossip after the tree was loaded on top of their SUV.

Spending summers, vacations, and random holidays at Natalie’s house had taught me their ways, and I could nearly fake their level of enthusiasm on any occasion.

This occasion was something different entirely.

I’d just willingly walked a man through my house so he could tell me how little it would be worth to anyone. “Be ready to take a loss” and “don’t hold your breath” weren’t polite ways to talk about a building that was as good as family.

“Lex, you’ve barely touched your broccoli,” Natalie’s mom said. “I roasted it the way you love it. Are you feeling okay?” Had we been sitting near enough to each other, she probably would have placed the back of her hand against my forehead to check for a fever.

“I’m fine, thanks, Mama Stiller. I had a big lunch, that’s all.”

Natalie pushed her potatoes around her plate and bunched her mouth to one side. Her nose wrinkled. I raised my eyebrows, urging her to keep quiet.

Her parents had never approved of the way my parents raised me—or didn’t raise me. They disapproved of their lack of proximity, pushy nature, and harsh criticisms. They’d taken up their complaints with my parents directly when they left me to fend for myself as a college student—and my parents pushed back, insisting that I would ask for help if I couldn’t handle it. As if my parents were approachable enough for that.

If Natalie’s parents knew I was struggling, they’d fall over themselves to help. But I could manage on my own. I had to.

To prove how fine I was, I stabbed a piece of broccoli and nibbled at the edges, allowing an mmm between bites to really sell it.

“So, what’s new with you?” Natalie’s dad asked.

“Same old stuff, Papa Stiller. Books and more books. I have a vision, but all Charles sees is the present. At least I get to surround myself with paper and ink all day. I could be plucking splinters from my hands every night.” I pointed at his bandaged finger—nothing unusual, since blades were unpredictable beasts and flesh was weak.

“You ready to take me up on the offer to revamp your bookcases? I could add more space in that nook of yours, all it would take is a weekend and your preferred stain color.”

I swallowed a bite of broccoli and tried to force the hollow feeling in my chest away with it. The remaining vegetable mocked me from my fork. A delicious bite of my favorite side dish, but too heartsick to enjoy it.

“I don’t think winter is the best time to be constructing bookshelves, Pops.” Natalie stabbed a potato. “Let’s talk about something other than Lex’s house, okay?”

“I’ve been promising those shelves for years, and it seems like the perfect time to get it done. After the Christmas rush, just before sugaring season gets started. Could there be better timing than that?”

I sucked air into my lungs. Exhaled slowly. Loosened my jaw and focused on my breathing—my therapist would have been so proud of me in that moment. Mindfulness, just like she’d taught me. Too bad I still couldn’t manage to put it to use with my own parents.

“Thanks, but really, let’s wait a while. I might not be in that house forever, you know? Let’s hold off until we know where I’m going to land.”

Natalie’s mom’s hand lowered, her fork tapping against her plate. She leaned toward me. “Are you moving?”

“Ugh, I don’t know. I just met with an appraiser today to assess, but the repairs are just so expensive. So, barring miracles, I might be moving. Don’t ask when, or where, because I have no idea.”

“That’s terrible, Lex, honey. I’m sorry. And what timing. Couldn’t your parents loan you the money?”

“I’d rather not ask them. It’ll give them leverage in the ‘it’s time to sell’ argument. It’s fine, really. I’ve been angry about it, but I think it’s time to move on. I’m just going to enjoy it while it lasts and look for new opportunities when things change. I’ve got my job, and my books. Since when have I needed any more than that?”

Natalie’s mom pressed her lips into a thin line. Her dad scraped the leftover bits of food on his plate into one final bite. Natalie’s eyes tracked between them, testing, waiting.

“I have a favor to ask,” Natalie said, either to prevent more questions or to save me from the awkwardness. “Dad, I was hoping to borrow some tools. And the truck. And, maybe, Derick. This weekend.”

“This weekend?” Papa Stiller put his fork down. “As in, the weekend before Christmas? As in, the busiest weekend at the inn and tree farm?”

She flashed her teeth in a pleading smile. “It’s for a good cause?”

“Name the cause, and I’ll name my price.” Her dad leaned in and winked, in the craftiest, dad-est move I’d ever seen him pull.

“I met this guy.” Natalie glanced between her parents, then continued when neither jumped in. “So, he films a ghost-hunting show. He wants to get some shots at the Stone Chapel, but I told him he can’t make the hike through the icy woods alone. I need Derick, because he can get Todd and Sammy on board, and we—Julian and I—could use their expertise. And by expertise, I mean strength, because we need to haul a lot of equipment up there.”

Her dad folded one hand over the other and leaned his chin on them, his elbows braced against the table.

“And I’ll take two weekend shifts at the tree farm,” I offered, hoping the promise of a full staff would get him on board.

He pressed his lips together, glanced toward her mother, then turned his gaze back to Natalie. “I can’t get manual labor out of you anymore for these things, so if you get in trouble, you’re in charge of bail.”

“We won’t get in trouble. He got permission from the owners, and we’re getting guests to sign consent forms and stuff. He’s a professional, Pops. We’ve got this.”

“Aside from the tools and crew.”

“Yes, aside from those things. Which, I have now. Thank you.” She plucked a roll from the center of the table and slathered butter on the top. We finished dinner, devoured dessert, and sipped tea together, just like every meal we ever had there. My house would always be home, but this table would always mean family. I’d created a place to call home by filling it with things. Books and trinkets, photos and throw blankets. The atmosphere had become something warm and welcoming. Their house was welcoming simply because they were in it. My heart lifted, because Natalie had them—then fell, because Natalie felt stifled by them.

We could argue the facts day in and day out, but the truth was, I’d never understand why she felt smothered, and she’d never have to know how it felt to be left behind. They’d never do that, and they’d always welcome her back.

Meanwhile, I was getting the silent treatment because I’d replied to my mother’s email—subject line “Re: Arrival time? Please confirm”—with a gentle reminder that I’d had to cancel the trip due to a bleeding bank account.

Nat didn’t know how good she had it. Never had they told either of us we were wrong. We always had the chance to explain. But Natalie didn’t want their explanations. She wanted her freedom—even though she’d never told them as much, out of a sense of obligation, guilt, and loyalty.

I considered her side as I wandered home, but by the time I made it to my front door, I understood something they probably couldn’t. By holding on tight, they were probably contributing to her slipping away.

James had texted a handful of times. A photo of Lulu sporting a brand-new dog jacket, with her leash in her mouth and ready for a walk. A forwarded article about the annual Midwinter Fest with “Can we go?” and a heart-eyes emoji. And one that said to give him a call when I got home because he missed me.

I dialed his number with one hand and unlocked my door with the other. While it rang, I tilted my head to press the phone to my shoulder and tucked away my coat and boots.

“Hey, there.” He picked up after the third ring, and the greeting was less than enthusiastic.

“What’s up?”

“Just hanging out with Lulu. Julian’s out. The rest of the crew is trying out night skiing, which sounds like a great way to break bones.”

“Looking for company?” My tone was equally hopeful and chill; we can hang if you want, but no pressure.

“Not tonight,” he said.

My heart sank at his tone, which was far less chill. I snapped to attention at the unusual lack of energy in his voice. “Is everything okay?”

His inhalation came clearly through the phone receiver. A sharp intake of breath, silence, then, “My dad is coming to visit this weekend. Just got the itinerary.”

“My condolences.”

“Yeah, skiing, then dinner. A hearty helping of ‘why aren’t you living up to your potential.’ He’s staying somewhere, I don’t know, not with me at least.”

“Hey, you know, I used you as an excuse to get out of dinner once before, so I can return the favor if you want. Tell him you have a very important date with the hottest girl in town. You absolutely can’t cancel because she would be devastated.”

“Devastated, you say? Well, we can’t have that.” The phone rustled as if he had shifted positions. “I can’t cancel though—I have to prove, I don’t know, my ability to function like an adult human being. But I fully intend to make it up to you. What’ll it be? Dinner and a movie? A weekend getaway? An all-expenses paid shopping trip to every used bookstore within fifty miles so you can pick their shelves clean and finish building your library fortress?”

“Tempting,” I said. A library fortress for a house I was going to lose within months. “I don’t think it’s prudent to add to the collection when the building is on the verge of collapse.”

“I am such an ass, I’m sorry. I completely forgot about the appraisal. How did it go?”

I recapped the details—the value sucked, and the home equity loans were terrifying to navigate—and chewed the inside of my cheek waiting for his response.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way. But, your grandfather, he wouldn’t have wanted you struggling like this. Scraping for cash for temporary repairs. Trying so hard to make his dream work. Have you considered that selling might be your best option?”

“No, no way. Because then my parents will think they won, and they’ll expect me to upend my life and move to California.”

“So is it the house you’re attached to, or the idea of sticking it to them one more time?”

“I …” I stumbled over my words—any words—to avoid pausing. If I paused, I’d sound unsure. I knew I wanted the house, not just the win. I was sure of it. Wasn’t I? Yes. I knew what I wanted, and it was the life I had built. “I’m happy here. Right. Here.”

“Will you be happy right there forever? Is it worth considering a change? I know you love it, and I know you love your store. And your friends. And your weird, quirky town with its ghost stories and creaky barns and narrow, icy as all hell streets. But would it be so terrible to consider a new life somewhere else?”

Why were we talking about this again? “I can’t just take off, drop everything, and move on, like you. You and Julian, on the road, just living life as it comes. Like some modern-day version of Sal and Dean. Hopping from job to job, woman to woman, as it pleases your rebellious spirit?”

“Hmm, Kerouac?” he asked.

I blinked and adjusted the phone at my ear. “Yeah, Kerouac.”

“Which one am I?” He’d slid quickly from quiet to teasing.

I let a tiny, shaky laugh slip, relieved that he’d diffused what could have been an unnecessary, stress-induced argument. “You’re Sal, of course.”

“I’ve always thought of myself as a Dean, actually.” The conviction in his voice had me picturing him standing with fists on his hips, confident and determined.

“I’m not so sure that’s something you want to admit to your girl—umm, to the person you’re seeing.”

“Yes, it would be horrible to admit to the girl that I’m seeing that I was a Dean. You win this round, I’m a Sal, and there’s no denying it. Listen, I’m sorry. I know you’re upset about the house, but it’s not for sure yet. Maybe there’s another option. There’s still time to figure something out. Maybe I can help. I’ve got to hang up now, Lulu’s asking to go out and I need my beauty sleep.”

I closed my eyes and breathed deep. “Good night, beautiful,” I said.

He snorted a laugh and hung up without acknowledging the whole “his girl” slip-up, which fueled my anxiety for the entire night. I wasn’t sure if that, or the house-related stress was worse.

Haunted Happenings transcript

Date: December 22, 2006

Location: The Barn Diner in Stowe, Vermont

Luna: Happy haunted holidays! I’m harassing, erm, hanging out with Frank—the owner and head pancake flipper at The Barn. Tell me about your latest haunted happenings, Frank.

Frank: This is ridiculous, don’t you have school or something?

Luna: Christmas vacation, Frankie.

Frank: Homework, then?

Luna: Finished it. We heard there’s a ghost in the kitchen. Really likes toast. Ring a bell?

Frank: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Natalie: [Leaning in-frame and staring into the lens.] A skeptic, ohh, intriguing.

Luna: [to the camera] Everyone’s entitled to their beliefs, Nat. Give him a break. [to Frank] Are you sure you haven’t heard anything? The theory is that she’s the woman who owned this building before you turned it into a diner. Did you know she used to bake bread to give away, until arthritis kept her from kneading all of the dough?

Frank: Would you get that camera out of here? You’re going to get me in trouble.

Luna: For not disclosing the ghost to customers?

Frank: For destruction of property when I throw the camera out the window. I’m trying to run a business here.

Luna: [shrugging] You win some, you lose some. [Grabs a wrapped muffin off the counter and raises it to Frank.] I guess if every haunting was true, we’d have our work cut out for us. Thanks for your time, Frank.

[Camera zooms in on Frank’s face as he attempts to remain unamused. Obviously, he’s finding the antics hilarious because Luna and Natalie are delightful.]

Frank: [Hiding face behind a spatula.] Where are your parents?

Luna: Free-range teen! Have a good one, Frank!

[Luna leaves through the front door, camera follows.]

Frank: [off-camera] Hey, that muffin costs three ninety-nine!