Dinah McCall - White Mountain

She nodded.

“This is quite a place. Did you build it?”

She turned. “No, it’s quite old, actually. My father bought it over thirty years ago. It’s been in the family ever since. I was born here.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

“So you are following your father’s footsteps into the hotel business.”

Her chin trembled, and at that moment he hated himself for continuing with the charade. To his intense relief, she answered without any more coercion.

“The hotel was only a sideline,” she said softly. “My father was a doctor. He and Uncle David and Uncle Jasper founded the White Mountain Fertility Clinic in Braden.”

Jack quickly picked up on her use of past tense.

“Your father is no longer living?”

Isabella bit the inside of her mouth to keep from crying. She had to get used to talking about this. It was now a hard fact of her life.

“No. He died a little over a week ago.”

“So it was his memorial service today?”

Isabella shook her head as her eyes filled with tears. “No, today was for my Uncle Frank. He was on vacation. Someone killed him.” She took a quick breath and then turned around.

“I’m very sorry,” Jack said. “That’s got to be tough…losing two members of your family so close together.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

There was a long moment of silence as she completed the sandwich. He watched without comment, noting the methodical movements of her hands as she cut the sandwich at an angle, creating two triangular halves. Then she placed it on a plate, added pickles, olives and a handful of chips, and set it on a tray. Without wasted motion, she laid a white linen napkin beside the plate, then took a glass from the cabinet and turned to him, the glass held lightly in her hand. But there was nothing casual about the look she gave him. He felt pierced through by her stare.

“What would you like to drink?”

“What do you have?” he asked.

“This is a hotel. You can have pretty much anything you want.”

“Any soft drink will do.”

She took a can of cola from the refrigerator, added some ice to his glass, and then put them on the tray before handing it to him.

“Here is your food. I hope it will hold you until morning. We begin serving breakfast at six o’clock.”

Jack nodded and smiled. “It looks great. Thank you for going to so much trouble.”

Isabella folded her hands in front of her and tilted her head to one side. For a moment Jack had a vision of a certain teacher who used to chastise him for being tardy when he was a child.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Have a good night.”

He’d been dismissed. Without a reason to linger longer, he picked up the tray and started out of the room. He was almost to the door when she spoke.

“Forgive my emotional outburst,” she said softly. “The wound is still so fresh.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said, then looked at the tension on her face. “Will you be all right? I mean…I’d be happy to wait and walk you through the lobby.”

The offer was unexpected, and because it was, it was that much more precious.

“No, but thank you just the same, Mr….”

“Dolan. Jack Dolan.”

She tilted her head in the other direction, as if fitting the name to the man, then nodded, as if to herself.

“Good night, Jack Dolan.”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Good night, Miss Abbott.”

She turned her back on him to pour a serving of milk in a pan and set it on a burner to heat. At that point he remembered that she’d told him she’d been unable to sleep.

As he started up the stairs with his tray, he glanced at the portrait. The resemblance between mother and daughter was uncanny. No wonder he’d thought she was a ghost. He glanced down at the tray full of food and grimaced. If he ate all of this, he would be sleepless, too. And even if he slept, he suspected his sleep would not be dreamless—not after the encounter he’d just had.

He shook his head and tore his gaze from the painting.

Ghosts indeed.

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