The Last Boyfriend

He could only stare. “I did?”

“You said she had her hair up in a net in the back. That’s a snood.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. I’ve got a minute or two. Can I?” she asked, gesturing at his keyboard.

“Help yourself.”

He turned it toward her as she sat, and waited, enjoying his coffee as she typed.

“I’m pretty sure if you put those elements together, you’re talking early to mid 1860s.”

He let her work in silence for a few minutes. Peaceful here, he thought, in the middle of the day. He should get back next door before too much longer, give Ryder a hand. And maybe slip over to Vesta later, see if he could talk Avery into going out—or staying in.

“How about this?” Hope turned the screen toward him. “What do you think?”

Curious, he studied the illustration of a small group of women in a kind of drawing room. “I think I wonder why women wanted to wear something that looks that uncomfortable.”

“Fashion hurts, Owen. We live with it.”

“I guess. This is pretty close, in type, I mean. The skirt was pretty much like this one, and the sleeves, and it had a high neck like this one. Maybe some lace or something on it.”

“This is fashion from 1862. So you could start there. And I doubt you’re looking for a maid or servant,” Hope added as she studied the illustration. “It’s too fashionable. Not impossible as it could’ve been a dress passed to her by an employer or relative, but going with the odds, she dressed like a woman of some means.”

“We’ll play the odds to start. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, and it’s interesting. I’ll be in the office if you need me.”

He intended to give it a half hour, then strap on his tool belt. But he got caught up, poking through old records, old newspaper articles, genealogy sites.

At some point, Hope walked back in, freshened his coffee, added a plate of warm cookies.

He finally sat back, frowned at his screen.

“What the hell is this?” Ryder demanded. “You’re sitting here eating cookies while I’m up to my ass next door?”

“Huh?”

“It’s two-fucking-thirty.”

“Oh. Sorry. I think I found her.”

“Found who?” Ryder snatched the last cookie, and his scowl eased off after he bit in.

“You know.” Owen pointed toward the ceiling. “Her.”

“For Christ’s sake, Owen, we’ve got work. Play ghost-hunter on your own time.”

“Eliza Ford, of the New York Fords.”

“I’m glad we cleared that up.”

“Seriously, Ry, I think it fits. She died here, from some kind of fever, in mid September 1862. She’s buried in New York. She was eighteen. Eliza, Elizabeth, Lizzy. That’s kind of cool, isn’t it?”

“I’m riveted. She’s been here for about a hundred and fifty years. I think she can wait until we finish the goddamn work next door.” He picked up the mug, took a drink. “Coffee’s cold.”

“I’m going to go up, try to talk to her. I’ll make up the time after. Avery’s working until six anyway.”

“Really glad this petty business of the job fits in with your social schedule.”

Because Ryder’s tone put his back up, Owen matched it with his own. “I said I’d make up the time, and goddamn it, we owe her. She warned us about Sam Freemont. He might’ve—damn well would have—done worse to Clare if Beck hadn’t gotten there in time.”

“Shit.” Ryder dragged off his gimme cap, raked his hand through his hair. “All right, go talk to your dead friend, then get next door. Are there any more of those cookies?”

“I don’t know. Ask Hope.”

On a grunt, Ryder headed out.

Owen shut down, but left his laptop on the table as he climbed the stairs. He’d found several women between the ages of eighteen and thirty who’d died in town during the right time frame. And there’d be more yet if he went with the theory that a ghost could pick his or her own age.

But Eliza Ford felt right.

He got all the way up before he remembered standard operating procedure had Hope or Carolee locking all the guest room doors when they weren’t occupied. By the living anyway.

He started to turn, go back down. And the door to Elizabeth and Darcy opened.

“Okay. I’ll take that as a come on in.”

It felt strange, stepping into the room that smelled of its signature English lavender scent and Elizabeth’s—or Eliza’s—honeysuckle.

“So.”

The door eased closed, with a quick click, behind him, and had a little chill running along his spine.

“So,” he repeated. “We’ve been open over a month now. Things are going pretty good. We had a little wedding last weekend. I guess you know about that. It went fine, from what Hope reported. So anyway, I’ve got to get to work in the next building, but I’ve been doing some research downstairs. On you. It’d help us help you if we knew who you are. Eliza?”

The lights flickered on and off, made his fingers tingle.

“Are you Eliza Ford?”

The shape came first, blurred and soft, then sharpened into the figure of a woman. She smiled at him, and curtsied.

“I knew it! Eliza.”

She laid a hand on her heart, and he swore he heard the whisper inside his own head. Lizzy.

“They called you Lizzy, a nickname.”

Billy.

“Billy called you Lizzy. Billy who?”

She crossed her other hand over the one at her heart, closed her eyes.

“You loved him. I got that. Did he live here, in Boonsboro, near here, what? Did you come to visit him? Was he with you when you died? Or maybe he died first.”

Her eyes flew open. He recognized shock, cursed himself. Maybe she didn’t know she was dead—or that Billy had to be dead. He’d read up on that, too. “I mean, did you meet him here. At the hotel, at the inn?”

She faded. A moment later the porch door swung wide, then slammed shut.

“Okay. I guess you’ve got some thinking to do. I’ll talk to you later. Nice going, Owen,” he muttered to himself as he went downstairs. “Really tactful. So, Lizzy, how does being dead feel? Shit.”

He carted his laptop out to his truck, got his tools. Then he went through the gate and into the building next door to do penance with his nail gun.


* * *



“THAT’S SO SAD.” Avery poured the marinade she’d made that morning over the tuna steaks. “Only eighteen. I know people didn’t live as long, and women usually got married and had kids a lot sooner. But still. Eighteen. A fever?”

“I couldn’t find much—I’ll look more now that I have this name to go on. It was really just a few lines.”

“Eliza. That’s so close to what Beckett started calling her—and the Lizzy nickname, too.”

“It makes it all feel kind of ordained, I guess. Mom picked the name and location of the room, Beckett started calling her Elizabeth because of that. Then Lizzy.”

“I don’t know about ordained, but it’s spooky—a good spooky. And I think you’re great—I’ll even give you brilliant—for finding her, but how’s that going to help you find this Billy?”

“I needed something solid. I have her name, where she lived, where and how she died—even if she didn’t know that—so I can try to follow those dots to him. Was she meeting him here? Was he a local? Another traveler?”

As she washed field greens, she glanced back at him. “September 1862. That could be the answer.”

“Why?”

“Owen.” She let the greens drain, stepped toward him. “How long have you lived in southern Washington County?”

“All my— Oh, shit. I didn’t think of it. I was so focused on finding her, and when I hit that name . . . the Battle of Antietam.”

“Or Sharpsburg, depending which side you were on. September 17, 1862. Bloodiest single day in the Civil War.”

“He could’ve been a soldier. Maybe, maybe,” he mused. “She could’ve come here to try to see him, make some contact. People even went out and watched battles, right? Made frickin’ picnics out of it.”

“People have always been screwy. Anyway, she died the day of the battle. You said she came from New York, so it seems logical she stayed at the inn. If she had friends or relatives in the area, it feels like she would’ve stayed with them. Could be Billy’s from New York, too, and she followed him down here for some reason.”

“Or he’s from the area, and she came to be with him. Or he, like most men his age—if we figure he’s close to hers—was fighting in the war.”

“That seems most likely. Taste this.”

He took the piece of thin, crispy bread. “Good. Really good. What is it?”

“An experiment. Pizza dough, rolled almost paper thin, herbed, baked. I’m thinking of serving it in the new place. So, it feels like if she’d come to see him, and they’d hooked up, she wouldn’t need to find him now. She died, but if he was here, wouldn’t he have been with her? So he, following that train, wasn’t here when she got sick.”

“Or he just let her down. Didn’t come. Could’ve been married, not interested.”

She snatched the plate of bread away before he could grab another piece. “That’s not romantic. Stick with romantic, or no more for you.”

“I’m just considering possibilities.” When she continued to hold the bread out of reach, he rolled his eyes. “Okay, they were the Civil War version of Romeo and Juliet. Star-crossed lovers.”

“I don’t like teenage suicide. Think of another.”

“I’m too hungry to think.”

Relenting, she set the plate back down. “Either way, or any way, it doesn’t seem like it helps find Billy.”

“I’m going to see what else I can find out about Lizzy. Stage one.” He broke the bread in two, offered her half. “You could call it Crack Bread. For the sound when you break it, and because it’s addicting.”

“Ha-ha. Maybe Snap Bread. I’m thinking of putting it and breadsticks in a kind of glass tube on each table.”

“We should be able to start the demo next week.”

“Next week? Really? Seriously?”

He loved watching her light right up. “Just the demo, but yeah. I checked on the permit status. I should be able to pick it up tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh boy!” She swung around the counter, jumped in his lap. “Oh boy, oh boy!”

When his mouth was free again, he grinned. “Can’t wait to see what you do when I get the building permit.”

“It may include costumes. Oh boy.”

“What kind of costumes?”

“Owen.” On a sigh, she nuzzled in. “It’s probably going to be crazy for a while. The planning, the prep, the execution. I’m probably going to be crazy for a while.”

“And that’s different from usual how?”

She got a pinch in before she slid off his lap. “I just want you to know it won’t be because I’m avoiding you or pulling back.”

“Okay.” Since she’d opened the door a little, he stepped through. “Did your mother send any contact information to your dad?”

“No.” She lifted her shoulders, let them fall. But she couldn’t shrug it off when he took her hands, held her gaze, just waited her out.

“Okay, I’m not holding my breath, but maybe she’s not settled yet. Or, face up, maybe she’s never going to send anything. He gave her money, and it’s possible that was the bottom line. I don’t know how I feel about it, or her, exactly,” Avery continued. “It’s like thinking Billy wasn’t with Lizzy, on purpose. It’s harsh. There’s enough harsh in the world. I’m going to try a little optimism for a change.”

“Then we’ll go with he’d have been with her if he could.”

“I like that better. If Traci never sends anything, I’m going to have to be okay with it. I don’t know, honestly, why I’d contact her anyway. She’s not a part of my life, and that was her choice.”

“I hate that it hurts you.”

“So do I. It’s hard knowing anyone has that kind of power over my feelings. So, I’m going to get over it. Enough about her.”

Avery waved her hands in the air as if erasing. “Welcome to MacT’s Testing Kitchen. I’m going to be your server, your chef, and your sommelier this evening.”

“All that?”

“And more, after—if you’re lucky.”

“I’m feeling lucky.”

“Tonight we’re presenting seared, pepper-crusted tuna over a bed of field greens and julienne vegetables, finished with a champagne vinaigrette.”

“Luckier and luckier.”

“To start, our hopefully soon-to-be-famous Crab and Artichoke Heart appetizer. All served with our recommendation of a crisp sauvignon blanc.”

“Sign me up.”

“Honest feedback,” she said.

“You can count on me.”

She got out a pan for the tuna, smiled. “I do.”


* * *



TO MAKE UP the time spent on his search for Billy and his evenings with Avery, Owen put himself at Ryder’s disposal. At the rate they were going, he calculated they’d have the bakery ready by June, and the apartments above it ready for tenants.

He’d gathered a little more information on Eliza Ford, but wanted to let it settle in his mind awhile.

As promised, demo began on the pub side of Avery’s new restaurant, and the two projects moved forward as February raced toward March.

As the April wedding drew closer, the brothers—and some of the crew—devoted weekends to Beckett’s house.

On a Sunday afternoon, the sudden rise in temperatures melted the snow cover, and turned the ground into a muddy mess. But inside the house, the floors gleamed around the trails of muddy cardboard as the three brothers stood scanning the nearly finished kitchen.

“It looks good,” Beckett pronounced. “Damn good. Counter guys are coming in tomorrow to start the install, here and in the bathrooms. We may just make it.”

“You’ll make it.” Owen had the schedule, and refused to be daunted.

“If you hadn’t let it sit here, half finished—less,” Ryder pointed out, “we wouldn’t be busting ass now.”

“Live and learn. Anyway, this way Clare gets to put her own stamp on it. It’s ours instead of mine.”

“So speaks the man already prepared to be whipped.”

“So speaks the man marrying the love of his life.” Beckett turned. “Good light, good space. It’ll be great to spread out again. There’s not an inch of room left at Clare’s place. I’m always stepping over a kid or a dog.”

“And you think that’s going to change?” Owen asked.

“No.” Beckett thought about it, and laughed. “I’m okay with that, and looking forward to stepping over kids and dogs right here. Barely a month to go till the wedding.”

“It’s cool they’re using the inn for the bridal shower thing,” Owen commented. “It may be another area of revenue down the road.”

“More important. Bachelor party.” Ryder hooked his thumbs in his tool belt. “We’ve gotta send you off to the great unknown right.”

“I’m working on it,” Owen reminded him.

“Yeah, yeah. Why all the work and fuss? Why can’t we just go to a titty bar? It’s a classic for a reason.”

“Poker, cigars, and whiskey—groom’s choice.”

“No strippers,” Beckett confirmed. “It’s just too weird.”

“Man, you’re breaking my heart.”

“When it’s your turn, we’ll have strippers.”

“I’ll be too old to appreciate them. No plans to walk into the great unknown until I’m eligible for Social Security. On second thought, a man’s never too old to appreciate naked women. Make a note.”

Justine, arms full, used her elbow to tap on the glass atrium door.

Owen opened it, took the big insulated bag, the enormous thermos.

“Oh, look at this! Beckett, it’s wonderful.”

“He didn’t do it alone,” Ryder reminded her.

“All for one,” she murmured. “You’re going to have a beautiful home. You’ve all done so much since I was here a few weeks ago.”

“I’ll give you the full tour.”

“I’ll take it. First, I brought lunch. Minestrone, grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, apple crisp.”

“Best mom ever.” Ryder opened the insulated bag.

“I’ll stick with the soup.” Owen laid a hand on his stomach. “I’ve been eating more since Avery’s using me as a tester, and working out less with Beck’s place on the schedule.”

“Interesting you should mention working out.” Justine took paper plates, bowls, spoons out of her enormous purse. “That’s something I want to talk to you all about.”

She set everything out on the plywood currently covering the base cabinets. “I’ve got cold drinks out in the car.”

“We got you covered.” Beckett opened a cooler.

“Any diet in there?”

“Why would there be?” Ryder wondered.

“Oh well, give me the straight shot,” Justine decided. “I’ll work it off soon enough. Especially in, oh, say nine months to a year, when I can put in an hour or so in Fit In BoonsBoro.”

Ryder paused on his way to taking a huge bite of grilled ham and cheese. “Mom.”

Placidly, Justine poured soup into a bowl, offered it to Owen. “It’s come to my attention the building behind the inn, one we currently share a parking lot with, is for sale.”

Beckett sighed. “Mom.”

“And it occurred to me there’s no fitness center in town, even close to town. People have to get in the car, drive, go to the gym, get back in the car. And Hope’s already reported a number of guests at the inn have asked about workout facilities.”

Owen stared down at his soup. “Mom.”

Cheerfully, Justine plowed on. “Currently it’s not a particularly attractive building, not one that affords our guests a nice view from The Courtyard or the back porches. But it could be. We’d also gain parking.”