She only moved her shoulder and turned back to finish the coffee. “She’s just set in her ways.” Shifting, she reached into one of the glass-fronted cabinets for a cup and a small plate. When Devin’s hand curled over her shoulder, she jerked and nearly dropped the stoneware to the tiles.
He started to step back, then changed his mind. Instead, he turned her around so that they were face-to-face, and kept both of his hands on her shoulders. “She’s still giving you a hard time about Joe?”
She had to swallow, but couldn’t quite get her throat muscles to work. His hands were firm, but they weren’t hurting. There was annoyance in his eyes, but no meanness. She ordered herself to be calm, not to lower her gaze.
“She doesn’t believe in divorce.”
“Does she believe in wife-beating?”
Now she did wince, did lower her gaze. Devin cursed himself and lowered his hands to his sides. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s all right. I don’t expect you to understand. I can’t understand myself anymore.” Relieved that he’d stepped back, she turned to the cookie jar and filled the plate with chocolate chip and oatmeal cookies she’d baked that morning. “It doesn’t seem to matter that I’m happy, that the kids are happy. It doesn’t matter that the law says what Joe did to me was wrong. That he attacked Regan. It only matters that I broke my vows and divorced him.”
“Are you happy, Cassie?”
“I’d stopped believing I could be, or even that I should be.” She set the plate on the table, went to pour him coffee. “Yes, I am happy.”
“Are you going to make me drink this coffee by myself?”
She stared at him a minute. It was still such a novel concept, the idea that she could sit down in the middle of the day with a friend. Taking matters into his own hands, he got out a second cup.
“So tell me…” After pouring her coffee, he held out a chair for her. “How do the tourists feel about spending the night in a haunted house?”
“Some of them are disappointed when they don’t see or hear anything.” Cassie lifted her cup and tried not to feel guilty that she wasn’t doing some chore. “Rafe was clever to publicize the inn as haunted.”
“He’s always been clever.”
“Yes, he has. A few people are nervous when they come down for breakfast, but most of them are…well, excited, I guess. They’ll have heard doors slamming or voices, or have heard her crying.”
“Abigail Barlow. The tragic mistress of the house, the compassionate Southern belle married to the Yankee murderer.”
“Yes. They’ll hear her, or smell her roses, or just feel something. We’ve only had one couple leave in the middle of the night.” For once, her smile was quick, and just a little wicked. “They were both terrified.”
“But you’re not. It doesn’t bother you to have ghosts wandering?”
“No.”
He cocked his head. “Have you heard her? Abigail?”
“Oh, yes, often. Not just at night. Sometimes when I’m alone here, making beds or tidying up, I’ll hear her. Or feel her.”
“And it doesn’t spook you?”
/>
“No, I feel…” She started to say “connected,” but thought it would sound foolish. “Sorry for her. She was trapped and unhappy, married to a man who despised her, in love with someone else—”
“In love with someone else?” Devin asked, interrupting her. “I’ve never heard that.”
Baffled, Cassie set her cup down with a little clink. “I haven’t, either. I just—” Know it, she realized. “I suppose I added it in. It’s more romantic. Emma calls her the lady. She likes to go into the bridal suite.”
“And Connor?”
“It’s a big adventure for him. All of it. They love it here. Once when Bryan was spending the night, I caught the three of them sneaking down to the guest floor. They wanted to go ghost-hunting.”
“My brothers and I spent the night here when we were kids.”
“Did you? Of course you did,” she said before he could comment. “The MacKades and an empty, derelict, haunted house. They belong together. Did you go ghost-hunting?”