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some of the salt tang from the Sound.
    My guitar skills were minimal, but I enjoyed picking and strumming the tunes of Bob Dylan, Jesse Winchester, John Prine, Simon and Garfunkel, and Arlo Guthrie, the poets of my generation. Coden was a place with few opportunities for young men, so a number of older boys I’d known in school had died in the humid jungles of Vietnam. While I kept my political opinions out of my job, I had strong feelings. Paul Dubois, a boy I met in college, left medical school to go into the Marines, one of the last to join the fight. He felt a civic duty to serve his country. And he had died in that faraway place. I could still see him so clearly, his dark hair and eyes. Funny that his image was etched in such detail when other things had slipped away.
    â€œMimi?” Donald stood at the threshold of my room.
    I put aside the guitar and went to him. He wore pajamas covered in Casper the Ghost. “What is it?”
    â€œI can’t sleep. I heard someone in the house.”
    â€œI’m not surprised you’re having bad dreams.” I tousled his hair. “Stories about dead starlets aren’t good for sleeping.” I couldn’t stop myself. “Donald, what did you really see? Annie said there was a shadow in the water, but you said you saw someone in the marsh grass.”
    He took my hand and we walked back to his room. “I saw a girl. Dark and pretty, like Annie. She stared at me like she wanted something. Are ghosts real?”
    It was a question without an easy answer. I wasn’t certain what I believed. There had been times when I was positive I’d seen my parents in the shade of an old tree or standing in a dark corner of Cora’s house. But were they ghosts, or were they manifestations of my desperation? I couldn’t say for certain, because to be honest, I couldn’t remember what they looked like. They’d died a long time ago. Cora said it was better for me not to remember, that the fire had been a terrible tragedy and only the quick actions of a neighbor had saved me.
    â€œAre they real?” he pressed, dragging me from my memories.
    â€œI think Annie is a marvelous storyteller, Donald, but she made that story up. She doesn’t know anything about the Paradise Inn or Coden or anywhere else. She’d never even heard of those places until she got here today. She’s a lonely girl with a big imagination.”
    He climbed beneath the sheets I held up for him. As I tucked them around him I could see he was still disturbed.
    â€œI didn’t imagine the girl I saw. She was there, watching me.”
    â€œEven if ghosts are real, they can’t hurt you.” I kissed his forehead.
    He looked toward the window. He was so pale, so agitated that I put a hand on his cheek. He was cool to the touch.
    â€œAnnie told me about Madeline while we were fishing. Only she told me different things.” He hesitated. “Madeline was a slut.”
    I couldn’t have been more shocked had he slapped me. “Do you know what that word means?”
    His blue eyes were wide. He knew he’d upset me. “It’s a bad girl. A girl who does bad things.”
    â€œYes, it is. Who told you that?”
    He closed his eyes, long dark lashes fanning out on his cheeks. “I don’t remember.”
    â€œDid Annie tell you Madeline was a slut?” I had no idea where Annie had been or what hard things she’d endured in her brief life, but it was inappropriate to use such language with a child. I would have a talk with her first thing tomorrow.
    â€œNo. I don’t remember. Don’t be angry.”
    I hadn’t the heart to be too hard. “I’m not angry, but words can hurt. And that’s a word you shouldn’t know and certainly shouldn’t use.”
    â€œOkay.” He turned to look toward the window. His room gave onto the Sound side of the house. With the windows open, the rush and kiss of