Page 1 of A Guardian for Christmas

Chapter One

Esme

Morning light seeps into my cold bedroom, a losing battle against the dark cloud that hangs over me.

The ghosts are supposed to disappear during the daytime, aren’t they?

But I still feel them, like a chain around my neck. They whisper in my ear. They tap on the sill.

Dr. White is convinced that these phenomena are paranoid delusions.

He’s probably right.

But knowing that doesn’t stop the heavy feeling. Even when I’m alone in my bed, unable to get up. Unable to move.

Or “unwilling,” as the weary doctor corrects me.

I should do as he suggests. He’s the best in the business, and he’s been providing house calls to our family and others like us for decades.

I squint at the creeping morning light as static from the intercom fills the room. The unfortunate noise promises another long day of being cajoled to do something. To make the most of the day. To make some decisions about the house. Or to attend a charitable function. To meet with a contractor. To meet with my counselor, my aromatherapist, and so on and so on.

How in the hell am I supposed to do any of that when none of it matters?

“Ms. Bryant. It snowed overnight.”

I lift my head and look at the door, half expecting Frye to open it and scold me out of bed. But he doesn’t do that. He’s tried that before. Tough love doesn’t work on me. And lately he doesn’t seem to have the fortitude to overcome his fear of heights to climb the grated metal stairs to my turret bedroom. Looking down through the slats always makes him queasy, poor man.

I don’t answer. I’d have to get out of bed and shuffle to the device on the wall to do that, and this room is cold, an easy excuse to stay huddled where I am.

Frye pushes, though. Through the intercom, he gives an off-sounding chuckle, dry and forced. “Remember how excited you used to get when you were a little girl? When you would wake up to snow and I could hardly keep up with you long enough to button your coat before you would burst outside to make snow angels?”

I don’t remember that.

I don’t remember it because I refuse to. Because of the people who are no longer with me, to share in any new memories.

I know what Frye is doing. He’s trying to remind me that I used to be happy, hoping that will help me.

But he can’t help me. No one can. Or, as Dr. White has taught me to say: No one has. So far. I can help myself, though. I just have to believe.

I catch Frye’s sigh. It radiates through the intercom, full of disappointment. Frye misses the old Esme. The one who used to burst through doors with a bang so loud he would clutch his chest and declare I was going to be the death of him. I wonder if he, the cook, and the housekeeper miss the old Esme who spent all of 2020-2021 online shopping and taking over the kitchen, learning how to bake sourdough. Those were especially trying times for us all. I’m convinced that 2020 was the year that broke me.

Didn’t it break us all?

That year did not break Frye, though. The Bryant estate’s longtime house manager is like a German shepherd in need of an occupation. If he took a truth serum, Frye would admit he’d rather be employed by a demanding, bratty, capricious heiress, because at least she would keep him busy. Looking after an inexplicably exhausted 29-year-old who has given up the will to do much of anything is not in his job description. Nor should it be.

Frye clears his throat. “Your appointment with Dr. White is in three hours. Afterward, Mr. Cowen would like to discuss the restoration project ideas. Cressida will bring you breakfast shortly.”

I wriggle one arm out from the covers and reach for my phone. Mr. Cowen has texted me twice this morning.

In addition, there are half a dozen messages regarding fundraising galas and cotillions. How many tickets do I want for this dinner? Would I like Bryant Estate to be listed among the top-tier donors for the charity auction? It’s all white noise. It’s all too much.

Cowen: The carriage house is worse than we thought. I’ll bring a comprehensive list of issues that need to be addressed.

And, ten minutes later,

Cowen: Have you spoken with a historical expert about chimney restorations? I have a list of names for you to call…

And, two minutes after that,

---