Chapter One

Without question, the hardest part about being a fake ghost was crafting the origin story. Ashley Hale—who was very much alive—learned that on the first day of haunting the lighthouse on the little island off the shore of Loon Lake. Jilted Bride felt too trite, and no one could do that narrative better than Dickens. Without the tired cliche, however, she came up empty. Her ideas were too modern for a supposedly early-twentieth-century spirit.

      Hauntings didn’t just happen. And yet, the trauma of the event should be opaque to the actual phantom. Once the ghost understood their existence on the ephemeral plane, wouldn’t said soul fly away? Unless some unfinished business needed to be reconciled first.

      Ashley should be able to invent something. After all, she was living through an unresolved problem of her own, and she was looking right at him through the smudged, single-pane window.

      Her estranged husband strolled along the perfectly maintained lawn of the historic Queen Anne revival lakeside resort. The white siding gleamed crisp and clean. Green shutters and a cedar shingle roof only added to the pristine appearance. The Inn at Loon Lake was her family legacy.

Her family’s. Hers. Not his. Marriage hadn’t granted him blood rights. Nevertheless, he strolled along on a sunny June afternoon exchanging pleasantries with the guests as if nary a worry weighed him down.

      Christopher’s toothy grin remained firmly in place, like a mayoral candidate on the campaign trail. She hated the way his smile curled her toes and electrified her skin. As much as she tried to loathe him over the years, she’d never succeeded. She’d loved him first, and she’d adore him forever. He was her weakness. Ten years ago, she’d learned a hard truth. She’d never be his choice.

      The resort wasn’t his to claim yet. She had time. Xavier, her father, had waxed poetic about the family legacy for as long as she could remember. But, in the end, he hadn’t cared about the typical blood relations’ first inheritance. She shouldn’t have been surprised.

Dad’s backtracking had frustrated her for years. Although Dad had initially railed against her marriage, he had come to consider Christopher his son and his professional right hand. When Ashley wanted to leave after college, Dad promised her a role as an apprentice. Within six months, however, it became clear that Dad wanted to train her husband, not her. Frustrated at not being given a serious role in the organization, she told her husband she wanted to leave.

      She didn’t have a plan but that never mattered. Her detail-oriented spouse always figured out boring details like food and shelter. Except, he didn’t want to go. She figured he would follow if she made good on her departure, and, determined to show Dad what he would lose with her absence, she had struck out. Too quickly, she realized she was on her own.

      After his untimely death, Dad had left the property to either Ashley or her husband. The Inn would belong to whoever was the first to stay on the property for thirty consecutive days following her father’s death. As the acting innkeeper, her husband had a head start of five days. If she couldn’t get him off the property so the clock could start over in her favor, Ashley would lose her only chance at a future. But that wouldn’t happen. She’d scare her husband off the grounds in the next twenty-four hours and come out victorious.

      As soon as she received word about her father’s passing from the family lawyer, she had left her life in Chicago. Growing up, all she’d wanted was to leave. Not too long after she hit the road, she regretted her choice. But the minute she found out her father was gone, she couldn’t return home fast enough.

      She’d arrived late last night, leaving her car in the municipal parking lot a few miles away. Under the cover of darkness, she had snuck onto the property and into the fake lighthouse, constructed as a folly for tourists in the 1920s.

She had missed the memorial service, arriving after the ceremony and the tossing of his remains somewhere in the murky lake. With her free hand, she rubbed the side of her rib cage against the tight pang close to her heart. Dad had sworn she’d show up and mourn him at his funeral. His parting words traveled with her every stop from Portland, Maine, to Portland, Oregon, and her last known address in the windy city. She had promised him she’d dance on his grave and bitterly regretted those words every day since uttering the careless remark.

      Since leaving Loon Lake she’d collected regrets like souvenirs. She swallowed the lump in her throat and narrowed her gaze, focusing all her frustration on her husband on the grassy lawn. After her marriage, her father had demanded the young couple sign a post-nuptial agreement to protect Ashley’s assets and the Inn.

      Now, she had nothing valuable to safeguard, and the legal document worked against her. She couldn’t recoup half of the property in a divorce settlement. Christopher would owe her nothing. He might want to end their relationship officially to be free and clear of her for good. She had never stopped hoping he’d find her so they could reconcile. Had she fooled herself with a childish fantasy?

      She sat on a step on the spiral staircase below the window halfway up the tower. Her cheek pressed close to the dusty, spiderweb-covered walls. Arachnophobia had never been her style. Allergies, however, were. Her nose itched. She refused to give in to the sneeze and angled a handheld mirror close to the window sheers, catching the sunlight outside and redirecting it across the water into the corner of Christopher’s eye as he sauntered along the shore. He didn’t react. He didn’t squint or flinch or bat at the annoying spot of light.

Guests relaxed in lawn chairs, played bocce, and enjoyed the on-site restaurant’s menu options. From her vantage point, she couldn’t spot a single laptop, tablet, or cell phone. It was a scene from another time.

      Founded in the nineteenth century, the Inn managed enough activities to distract guests from their devices. Loon Lake was an offshoot from the southern shore of Lake Superior, and a channel connected the two bodies of freshwater. When the Hale family had established their resort, they’d been the subject of scorn from many of the tradespeople in the area. But Randolph Hale, her great-great-great-grandfather, had imagined a time when the lake wouldn’t be solely dedicated to commerce. And he’d been absolutely correct.

      Another dust mote floated past her. She held her breath, choking on the sneeze. The Inn she’d left had been dingy like the lighthouse. Why hadn’t Christopher fixed up this building, too?

      Her father had invented a story about cursed treasure to discourage curious guests after the building had fallen into disrepair. However, the fake legend backfired, luring a few hearty, and gullible, souls to scour the lakeshore with metal detectors. A smart manager would realize an opportunity and use the prime location.

      When she was in charge, she’d make the picturesque spot a priority. With a lifetime spent in the hospitality industry, she had only discovered her penchant for marketing after she left. She could use her skills to revamp the Inn for the modern traveler.

      She was tempted to grab her cell phone and snap pictures for her carefully crafted social media accounts. Hey, girlies! Wish you were here? You could be. “I’m back at my family’s Inn for good. #girlboss. She’d caption an image of herself in a flowy, white sundress under an overcast sky. She’d give the camera her back. The vibrant greens of the grass and forest would pop. She’d get a ton of likes. In recent months, she hadn’t had too many envy-inducing posts. Lately, her accounts had focused on her exploits at her coffee shop job, seeking to reframe her poor barista skills as self-deprecating and relatable.

      Nothing about her current circumstance was enviable. She hadn’t updated her pages in several days. Curating her life online was much more satisfying than actually living it. In her captions and carefully staged images, she was the heroine of her story. Too often, she felt like the sidekick or the joke. The stories she told herself had changed over the years. Every revisit of her archives was like time traveling. This morning, when she had awoken too early after a night on an air mattress, she relived some highlights. Christmas in Chicago looked aspirational instead of hopelessly lonely as she wandered the Magnificent Mile on the verge of tears.

      She gave herself a shake. In every weakness was a strength. She could employ every bit of her recent past, including the current charade, to her benefit. Maybe her backstory as the wayward child wasn’t reason enough for a ghost to haunt a building, but it was motivation to reach for her goals and succeed. Everyone loved a second chance, and she couldn’t wait for hers to start.