Worry lines creased the corners of Delia’s eyes as she said, “You do know there’s a family cemetery on the Ezekiel property, right?”
Another shiver went down my spine. “Don’t remind me.”
Holding on to her own charmed locket, an identical to mine given to her by Grammy as well, she said, “You know, they’re not planning to hurt you. They just want your help.”
They.
The ghosts.
We had opposing approaches on how to deal with the spirits. “You can help them,” I said. “I’m hunkering down. Battening the hatches. I have DVDs aplenty and enough peanut butter to survive the ghostpocalypse.”
“I will help them,” she said brusquely. “I always do.”
Despite our similar appearances (same age, both blond—though different shades, same nose, same jawline, same height, same nail-biting habit), underneath I’d always believed us to be fundamentally different. Delia had grown up embracing dark magic, while I embraced white magic. She was hexes, I was potions. She created pain, I healed it. Good versus evil.
However, in the time that I’d grown to know her, I was coming to believe she was more like me than not. I eyed her. “Isn’t this a switch? There might be a healer in you yet.”
Thin eyebrows snapped downward. “Don’t tell my mama.”
Delia didn’t really have to worry. I hadn’t spoken to my aunt Neige in . . . ever. “My lips are sealed.”
Tapping black-tipped fingernails on the counter, Delia said, “You should think about helping the ghosts again. They have so little time before being sent back to their graves for another year.”
I had been in my late teens when I learned I had the ability to help the ghosts, and I did assist them. Right up until seven years ago when I discovered that not all ghosts were friendly. I’d come across one who had wanted only to wreak havoc while out of his grave and it nearly did me in. The toxic energy had been so overwhelming that I’d lost all sense of myself, and only an intervention from Grammy Adelaide had helped rid me of the spirit.
It had taken nearly a month to feel somewhat normal again after that incident. “Been there, done that, never going back, you can keep the T-shirt, thankyouverymuch.”
“It’s not like you to give up, Carly. You’re a fighter,” Delia added, her gaze intense as she studied me.
That was true, but . . . “Courage isn’t always about fighting the battle. Sometimes it’s knowing when to surrender. I’ll leave the ghosts to you,” I said, watching Poly continue to abuse poor Boo in the name of fun and games. “But truly, you should consider hibernating with me. I’ll share my peanut butter.”
After all, I didn’t want her meeting up with a bad ghost, either. Sure, the chances that she would were slim. Grammy Adelaide had said experiencing a spirit like that was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and that I shouldn’t worry so much, but to me the risk of helping them wasn’t worth it.
“You can’t let one bad experience taint the situation, Carly,” Delia pressed. “The need is greater than the fear. If you just give it another chance . . .”
The fact that she was still trying to talk me into giving ghost counseling another go told me a lot about her character.
Not only was she trying to help the ghosts, but she was trying to help me overcome a fear.
There was definitely a healer in her.
And that meant there might just be some hope to bring her over from the dark side . . .
“Why are you smiling like that?” She eyed me suspiciously.
I said, “No reason.”
“You’re touched in the head—you know that?”
“Oh, I’m aware.”
“Fine,” she said on a long sigh. “I’ll let the ghost thing go . . . for now.”
“Thank you. I have enough to worry about with this party tonight.” Eagerly, I rubbed my hands together. “Can I see the dress now?”
Nodding, she said, “You have a petticoat, right?”
“Aunt Eulalie’s letting me borrow one of hers.”
“Why am I not surprised she owns more than one?”
Laughing, I said, “The only reason I’m not getting her hoop skirt is because she’ll be using it tonight.”
Of my mama’s three sisters—fraternal triplets known around town as the Odd Ducks—Eulalie Fowl was the most theatrical of them all. There was little she liked more than playing dress up, and knowing so, I’d scored her a date to tonight’s shindig with Mr. Wendell Butterbaugh, the caretaker of the Ezekiel mansion, who was one of my best customers. I’d been trying to matchmake her for months, but she was a difficult woman to please. Although he wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, he had a good heart. I hoped it would be enough for my picky aunt.
“Are Marjie and Hazel going tonight, too?” Delia asked.
“Aunt Hazel said she’d rather eat the dirt straight out of her garden than attend a party thrown by the Harpies, and Aunt Marjie is out of town.”