Free The Ghost in the Glass House by Carey Wallace Page B

Which was strange, she realized. One of the first lessons she’d learned about people, on the endless journey that followed her father’s death, was that they were almost always their own favorite subject. Over and over again, people proclaimed her both clever and charming not because they’d actually learned anything about her but because she’d spent the whole time asking questions about them. But Jack had matched her almost question for question. She hadn’t recognized it at the time because there were too many other things to get used to: the voice without a face, the pages that turned themselves. But Jack’s reserve would have been strange for any boy. And, if Bridget’s mother could be believed, it was even out of character for a ghost.
    A step creaked in the hall outside. Bridget’s father appeared in the kitchen door, dressed like a movie actor in a pale silk shirt and light trousers. He took several paces before he realized anyone was there besides his wife, his face so flat and slack that Clare barely recognized him. But at the sight of Clare, a new spirit seemed to take control of him. His famous smile spread over his handsome features. He veered toward his wife, slipped his arms around her waist, and gave her a kiss on the cheek that would have been perfectly credible if Clare hadn’t caught the earlier glimpse of him, before he realized she was there.
    Bridget’s mother tolerated the attention for a moment, then gave a light shrug, as if trying to shake off a bit of cottonwood that had settled on her shoulder.
    Bridget’s father turned his smile on Clare.
    â€œDon’t you look like a new day,” he said. “You’re growing up to be a very pretty girl. Of course, that’s no surprise, since you’re Cynthia’s daughter.”
    Clare glanced at Bridget’s mother, but she poured a steady stream of lemon juice onto a pyramid of sugar at the base of a clear pitcher, as if she hadn’t heard a thing.
    â€œClare?” Bridget said. “What are you doing here?”
    Clare turned toward the door, startled. She hadn’t planned to go looking for Bridget until she was done pumping Bridget’s mother for information. And she hadn’t planned on mentioning the conversation with Bridget’s mother to Bridget, whose petulance over Clare’s interest in the otherworld could easily cast a shadow well into the afternoon.
    Clare attempted a diversion with a fact Mack had offered her as she left the big house. “Do you want to go down to the candy store?” she asked. “They’re making macarons this morning, but once they sell through, they’ll close up the shop.”
    â€œI’d hardly call it a store,” Bridget said. “More like a giant cigar box.”
    She was right. None of the storefronts that made up the town’s tiny commercial district were distinguished architectural accomplishments. But the candy store in particular was a narrow, unwieldy eyesore that seemed to perch on the ridge above the beach even more precariously than its neighbors. Inside, the ceiling was inexplicably high, as if the builder had reached skyward to claim space he couldn’t afford at ground level. And beyond these aesthetic objections, the shop owner, a ruddy, sharp-tongued fisherman’s wife whose passion for creating French-style sweets made her deeply uneasy even as she indulged it, changed the menu every day, so that a favorite item might not appear again for a week, or even longer if a customer was unwise enough to become importunate in her pleading. The establishment didn’t offer the refined experience the seasonal children were accustomed to, but it did have the clear advantage of being one of the only places in town that would tolerate young people at all. So despite Bridget’s grievances, she and Clare found themselves there often.
    Bridget’s father fumbled in his pockets and withdrew a pair