Page 18 of After Life
Julian shrugged, chewing for a moment before swallowing to reply. “She’s prickly, but she is the manager here. So, whatever her problem is, she’s apparently still making an effort to run the place for guests.”
“I wonder if she gets many. This place isn’t exactly on the map for tourism unless you’re heading to Tibbins Quay.”
Julian hummed thoughtfully. “Hm. I hadn’t really thought of it. The chief attraction of this place was the lack of heavy tourist traffic.”
“Which is what drew you to it, hm?” When he gave me a half-roll of his eyes, I chuckled. “If you were looking for a quiet, low-pressure getaway, there’re bound to be others who are, too. And they’d probably enjoy a nice walk on the beach as well.”
“You make me sound so oatmeal,” he muttered, stabbing another sausage.
“Warm, comforting, delicious?”
He used the breakfast meat to point at me. “Boring. Bland.”
“We have very different experiences with oatmeal.”
“Oatmeal’s only good if you put a ton of sugar or something with it.” He frowned at his plate. “Do I need to add more... sugar? To this?”
“To your breakfast?”
“Don’t be precious,” he grumbled. “I mean, am I too boring? Or... bland, or—”
His faltering insecurity made my chest ache. Sometimes it was easy to forget that, as much as our lives had meshed so thoroughly over the past year, we were still strangers in some ways, or, at best, acquaintances in others. When the pressure and flash of filming and investigating weren’t looming, who were we with one another?
That’s why you’re here, you knob, I reminded myself. To find out.
“I think that oatmeal is one of my favorite things,” I said. “And too much sugar ruins the flavor.”
He set his fork down, flashing me a glance that was a mixture of shy and cautious. “You have terrible metaphors.”
I grinned. “But I still love oatmeal.”
“ARE YOU SURE WE SHOULD be out?” I asked. The sky wasn’t dark but some thick gray clouds were drifting in, and a dark line on the horizon looked very upsetting.
“It’s fine. We’ve got plenty of time. Probably won’t even see rain till tonight. Besides,” he said, waving me through the gate at the museum ahead of him, “it’s a small island. It won’t take us long to get back to the house if we have to make a run for it.”
The Rosie Sands Museum was easy enough to find, being the only large home in the town proper. It had a view of the curving eastern shore of Broken Palm, perched as it was on a jutting cliff that gave the home an impression of floating over the beach if you looked at it just right. The remaining yard and gardens were fenced off with a classic wrought iron number, complete with pointy staves, and a tasteful little wooden sign proclaimed:
The Charles and Eliza Noonan Home, Est 1698.
THE ROSIE SANDS HISTORICAL MUSEUM AND CULTURAL CENTER.
The hours of operation were added on an additional little wooden plaque hanging beneath the sign, creaking gently in the breeze. “This place is massive,” Julian muttered as we stepped through the waist-high gate.
“And haunted,” I sing-songed, following him up the path.
He snorted softly. “I’m starting to think that’s pretty much everywhere we go. Wait... is it?”
I shrugged, smiling slyly. “I couldn’t really say. I’ve been places where I’ve not encountered a ghost, but it doesn’t mean they weren’t there. Or hadn’t been. Or won’t be.”
“I think you’re trying to confuse me.”
“That’s my plan. Addle you so badly you bend to my wicked ways.”
He smirked, stopping as we reached the museum door. “If you want me to bend for you, all you have to do is ask...”
“Later.”
He chuckled, opening the door to let me in first. A small sign just inside, propped on a wooden easel, announced all tours were self-guided and donations were gladly accepted, docents available if you call in advance or on Thursdays between two and five p.m.
