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She wouldn’t trust someone enough to give him a key yet never even mention his name to me. She wouldn’t set up some weekly…rendezvous in her bedroom just for…that. Mom hasn’t even talked about meeting anyone. It’s too soon since Dad died.”
    “It’s been five years,” Jeannie chimed in helpfully.
    I pulled into the driveway at my guesthouse and droveall the way back behind the house to the carport. There was a little overhang there that would shield the car from most of the snow, if I got lucky and the wind was blowing the right way. A girl could dream. “It’s been a slice, Jeannie,” I told her, “but I have to go batten down my hatches. Is Tony home yet?”
    “No, but he’ll be here soon. It’s the baby’s first snowstorm, and we want to make sure he enjoys it with his whole family.” At four months, Oliver would be lucky to stay awake until a full inch was on the ground, and certainly wouldn’t know the difference, but you can’t tell new parents anything.
    I hung up my phone and got out of my car, wondering if Murray Feldner, the guy I’d hired to plow snow from my sidewalk and driveway areas, would remember our contract. I’d have to call and remind him. I raised the windshield wipers straight up in the air so they wouldn’t stick to the windshield (although I’ve always harbored a secret plan to leave the car running with the wipers on all through a blizzard), and was halfway to my back door when the realization hit me.
    There had been something familiar about the way Mom spoke to the person in her bedroom. It had conjured up an emotional memory. There was only one person my mother had ever spoken to with such a scolding tone, because she was secure in the knowledge he’d still love her no matter what she said.
    The ghost Mom had been shooing out of her house because I was there had been my father.

Two

    “Your father?” Paul asked. “What makes you think it was your father?”
    Hovering over the pool table in my game room, Paul stroked his goatee, which I’d learned was a sign that he found what I’d said worth considering. It also made him look like a very transparent comparative lit professor from a small New England college instead of the ghost of a rather muscular Canadian PI, which is what he was.
    I’d told him about my conversation with Mom after checking in with the only two guests I was hosting this week, Nan and Morgan Henderson. The Hendersons, in their late fifties, were not part of a Senior Plus Tour, so they weren’t expecting any ghostly happenings, which meant that Paul and Maxie had a winter week off.
    “Anything you guys need?” I asked Nan, who had just come back from a walk on the beach, saying the cold weather was perfect for such things (Nan had grown up in Vermont and liked the cold; I’d grown up in New Jersey and wishedI’d grown up in Bermuda, so my sensibility was a little different).
    “Not so far,” she answered. “We’re looking forward to the snow, but I’m wondering what we’ll do about meals if we’re snowed in.” I don’t supply meals at the guesthouse—we’re not a bed and breakfast, nor a bed and any other meal. I do get my guests discounts at local restaurants in exchange for some accommodations (kickbacks) from the restaurateurs. Hey, it’s a business.
    “Usually, things don’t stay unplowed for more than a few hours,” I assured her. “But if we’re really stuck for a long time, I’ll provide meals. Don’t you worry, we won’t let you go hungry.” Knowing how well I cook, I was slightly terrified at the prospect, but it seemed really unlikely, so I moved on. “How was the walk on the beach?”
    “Oh, it was wonderful!” Nan gushed. “So bracing to be out there while the wind starts to kick up!”
    “Bracing,” Morgan echoed. He didn’t sound quite as enthusiastic.
    “I’m glad you’re having a good time,” I said.
    “A good time.” Morgan seemed incapable of forming his own words; he’d just hit