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in the morning. Your next shift is tomorrow, right? Then Thursday?”
    I nodded. Maggie was like a general in the heat of battle when she got wound up. Even her dad, an officer and a gentleman who lives in town and has shown me his army ribbons and medals, calls her his warrior.
    “Then give them time to consider before you take any action. You’re not at fault, and you sure as hell shouldn’t act like you are. And as far as these vigilantes go—” She stopped, took a breath, and speared Neil with a narrow-eyed glance. “We’ll get a restraining order, hire a bodyguard if we have to. I will not have my friends coerced or threatened, and that’s final.”
    “Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” I said smartly, just like Radar might to Hot Lips.
    She blinked, then grinned. “I went off, didn’t I?”
    “Like a bomb,” Neil said.
    “Well, injustice pisses me off. And the point remains that you don’t quit unless Old Coast Ghosts forces the issue. Which they won’t. Tourism is the lifeblood of this town, and you’ve been a transfusion for that company. The competition would snap you up in a minute, and the owners know it.”
    I could’ve done without Maggie’s blood analogy, but she was probably right. In the ghost tour business, I was more an asset than a liability. So long as a patron didn’t get hurt.
    And, hey, a bodyguard was a great idea. A hunk who’d be forced to spend lots of time with me? It had potential. A guy like George Clooney—
    Maggie snapped her fingers in my face. “Earth to Cesca. What are you grinning about?”
    “Doesn’t look like anything I want to hear,” Neil grumped. “Talk to you tomorrow, Mags.”
    He leaned to kiss Maggie’s cheek, then paused when she tipped her head ever so slightly in my direction. He straightened and turned to me.
    “Um, Fresca. Surf’s supposed to be flat tomorrow, but there’s a nor’easter coming. We could try the waves Thursday morning early. At Crescent,” he said, meaning Crescent Beach. “That is, if you’re interested.”
    Wow, Neil was inviting me to surf with him? Maggie must’ve turned the poor man inside out in bed. “What time?”
    “Dawn? Should be high tide, too.”
    “Bitchin’, dude,” I said and gave him the hang loose sign.
    He rolled his eyes but cracked a smile. “And, Fresca.”
    “What?” I asked. “Don’t be late?”
    “Keep your cell phone charged and on you in case you need it. You’ll be a hell of a surfer if you live long enough.”

    Maggie’s bedrooms aren’t mere rooms, they’re suites. Mine is to the right of the hall; Maggie’s is to the left. She’d had the bed and bath ceilings in both suites dropped to nine feet to hide the ductwork and pipes. In my room, she ’d painted the ceilings a medium soft tan with a lighter tan on the walls. Crisp white crown molding trimmed the ceilings and was repeated in the oversized baseboards. The bathroom was big enough to host a table of bridge, and it connected to a closet just as large with so many builtins I didn’t need a chest of drawers. I don’t fry in the sun, but long exposure will make me nauseated and cause skin sores. Much the way I’ve learned a lupus patient reacts to ultraviolet light. Maggie, bless her, installed room-darkening shades beneath the sage drapes on the massive northand west-facing windows to keep me from getting sun sick. The neutral paint color kept the room feeling light, even with the dark oak and cherry antiques Maggie favored.
    Maggie told me I could change things, but I knew she had lovingly decorated the suite before I came along. Besides, I watch enough home improvement shows to know that warm neutrals appeal to buyers. I didn’t want to repaint before Maggie put the condo on the market. The Victorian home and my own new digs in back of the big house would be ready soon enough. I hung my Empire gown in the closet, snapped on a shower cap, and let hot water shower away my tension. Or one kind of it.
    Another kind of tension,