Page 1 of Love At First Fright
1
Rosemary was ten years oldthe first time she saw a ghost. She’d been sipping a cream soda in the cosy wallpapered kitchen of her grandmother’s house, the overhead fan struggling to create even a feeble breeze in the sticky Georgia heat. Her parents never let her have soda, so that’s how Rosemary knew, fingers tracing the strawberry pattern on the tablecloth, that the thing they’d all been dreading had finally happened: her grandmother had passed away.
Not that she quite understood what that meant in practice. Characters died in books all the time, but that didn’t count, because you could just start the book from scratch and they’d be alive again. In real life she supposed it would be different.
But then Rosemary’s grandmother walked into the kitchen. Rosemary looked up at her; she certainly didn’t look like she was dying. If anything, there was more colour in her cheeks, and her hair wasn’t parchment white anymore but a fiery red, just like Rosemary’s own. Even the wrinkles etched around her eyes appeared to have shallowed and smoothed.
She didn’t look like the ghosts in the stories Rosemary read, either—there were no white bedsheets in sight—but there was a softening in the air around her, a sort of glowing haze that enveloped her as she reached out a hand and ruffled Rosemary’s ruddy waves.
“Hey, honey,” Nana said.
“Are you a ghost?” Rosemary blurted out. “Or an angel?” She’d been taught about angels in Sunday school, but she read books about ghosts and monsters when no one was looking.
Her nana chuckled, looking down at herself.
“Well, I don’t have wings, so let’s say I’m a ghost. But listen, honey, I don’t have long before I go.”
“Go where?”
“Somewhere good and peaceful, I think. Do you want to do a little cooking before I go? Maybe we make your mama some of my strawberry jam to cheer her up.”
She pulled Rosemary out of her chair with arms much stronger than she remembered. Years—and many ghostly experiences—later, Rosemary would understand that this was because her grandmother had died only moments before.
Tying an apron around Rosemary, Nana instructed her to fetch some measuring bowls from the cupboards, and to grab a fresh punnet of strawberries from the fridge.
“These ones still have little bugs on them, that’s how you know they’re fresh.” Her grandmother pointed them out, then showed Rosemary how to properly wash and cut the strawberries.
They spent the next hour or so making a batch of her nana’s strawberry jam. The air in the kitchen grew sweet with sugar and the tanginess of the fruit, and Rosemary licked sweet strawberry juice off her fingers.
“Half sugar, half fruit, and then a little bit of lemon juice toseal it all up,” her grandmother explained, leaning against the counter as Rosemary stirred the bubbling concoction.
“I’ve always loved this kitchen,” Nana said, running a hand on the wooden countertop. “I used to bake with your mama here all the time when she was as little as you.”
“I’m not that little.”
“Of course not, honey.” Her nana looked wistfully out of the window to the overgrown yard. “You see that tree? The short, stubby-looking one?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Every spring we’d get redwing blackbirds coming to visit, and they would spend all morning singing in that tree. You can tell they aren’t normal blackbirds because they have a badge of red and gold on their breasts. Such pretty birds. You tell your mama that’s where I want to be.”
Rosemary’s grandmother had been a bit of an amateur ornithologist in her time, a hobby which Rosemary’s mama thought was a little silly, but Rosemary secretly loved.
“Will we still be able to visit you?” Rosemary asked.
Her grandmother frowned.
“You can visit me at that tree, or at my grave, but I won’t be here, not like this.” She sighed.
“What is it, Nana?”
“Oh, I just realised this is the last time I get to see this view. Someone is going to need to water my rosebushes.”
Her nana pressed a feather-light kiss to her cheek. “I wish I could have stayed longer to see you grow up into a young woman, but you’re going to be fine, aren’t you?” She gave Rosemary a knowing look. “And listen, honey, I think it’s best if you don’t tell anyone about this.”
“About making jam?”
“No, you can tell them about the jam. But most people can’tsee ghosts, and some might not understand. Some of them might not believe you when you tell them I helped you. I don’t want you to get into any trouble, understand?”
