“What are we looking for today?” I ask as we pull into the first stop, a huge brown barn that has more rusty machinery and old gas station signs outside than grass.
“What I call object d’junk. Not really junk, but little cute things, unusual things. Things I can buy for five and sell for ten. Picture frames, mirrors, crystals, little statues, vases, and bowls... A lot of that sells to college kids looking to dress up their dorm rooms with something unique. And then vintage dishes, vases, cookie jars, milk jugs, sugar bowls—those things sell well in Pine Ridge. I blame Gloria White-Creighton for that. Her parties at White Pines always combine that Roaring Twenties atmosphere and elegance with modern conveniences. I mean, she was decorating the house in the latest style back then—”
“Who was?”
“Gloria.”
“The lady at White Pines?”
“Yes. Anyway, so many of the local events are held at White Pines, and I think everyone wants a little of thatGreat Gatsbyelegance, you know?”
“Wait, Gloria lives there now? Or was she the lady decorating it in the 1920s?”
“Both! Oh, she’s a ghost.”
I’m so glad I just parked the car. “Oh, really?” It sounds like I just ate helium.
“Sorry, did I freak you out?”
“Just a little. And she hosts parties?”
“Not everyone knows she’s there. Or some people see her and don’t realize she’s a ghost. It’s complicated.”
“I bet it is.” I open the door and pause as I get out. “Wait, White Pines. That’s near the campus on the north side of town.”
“That’s right.”
“It’s gorgeous.”
“It’s where a lot of my friends have gotten married.” She gives me a long, sweet smile and wanders away, and I follow after her like a lovesick puppy.
“Where doyouwant to get married?” I ask. Nothing is off-limits with her, at least not so far. We stroll into the barn-slash-antique dealer’s holding hands, our sides pressed together.
“I’m not sure. Not in Ireland, oddly enough. My mother will want that, but I don’t. I don’t feel like my life is there as much as it once was. And your family? Are they local?”
“Scattered all over the East Coast from Connecticut to Virginia.”
“And your friends from college? That research team you mentioned? I’m sure they’d appreciate not having to travel too far. I—”
“I don’t know if I’d invite most of them. There are a handful I would invite, but not the jerks who pranked me out of my vacation.”
I feel Chloe’s grip tighten, and pressure shoots through my arm. Her hair lifts in the drafty barn, but there’s no breeze.
“They did what?”
So, I tell her about what happened. That maybe it was a joke, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was an accidental miscommunication, but maybe it wasn’t. I’m about to tell her that a lot of professors and researchers can be like that when my phone rings. “Speak of the devil.” My phone buzzes, and when I check it, it’s none other than Dr. Hull.
“Who is it?”
“Dr. Hull, of the Not-So-Mighty-Trio of Hudson, Hull, and Camwiddie, douchebags at large,” I grumble. “They’re on vacation, and so am I. I’m not answering. I’m with my girl.”
Chloe beams up at me. “You know how to treat a lady.”
“You make me want to treat you the best I can.” I ignore the call, but the phone buzzes again. “Why?” I hiss and hit the decline button on my screen, but the pushover part of my brain is squirming.It could be something important, a little nagging voice tells me. Something important that they discovered in Mexico. Some file they’ve sent you. Or an apology after the email you sent two nights ago...
“Take it,” Chloe urges when the buzzing starts for the third time. “I hope it’s a nice, groveling apology.” She squeezes my hands and smiles.
“An apology, maybe, but no groveling. Guys like this don’t always treat their assistants like equals. Or it could be because I’m new. Or they see me as a loser.” When I think about it, maybe all of those things are true. I’m the new guy, divorced, no kids, plays games, collects old vinyl and action figures...
