Free Ghost Times Two by Carolyn Hart

leave. Until that happens, Graham’s won.”
    Jimmy exploded. “There has to be something we can do.” I knew he was standing nearby, handsome face furrowed, hands clenched.
    I tried to help. “Maybe Megan can check out insurance policies. Maybe Blaine could offer a policy that would cover Bridget’s doctor.”
    A slight ping sounded from the cell she held in her hand. “Hush. Both of you.” She looked at the screen and a new illuminated text.
    I peered over her shoulder, knew Jimmy was right beside me.
    Champagne on ice. Have grill and steaks. Sixo’clock?

Chapter 4
    â€œI ’m sorry, babe.” Jimmy’s voice was soft.
    She blinked away tears. “Isn’t this what you want?” Her voice was shaky. “Smith and Wynn knocked off the map? When I tell Blaine, he’ll think . . . I don’t know what he’ll think. I can’t tell him why.”
    â€œOf course you can,” I said emphatically. “He’s a decent man. Anyone can tell that.”
    Megan looked in the direction of my voice. “He’s a very decent man. If I tell him what happened, he’ll be furious. He’ll want to confront Doug. I don’t need anyone, not even Blaine, to fight a battle for me. Bridget’s battle is the one that has to be fought. I’m the one on the front line. Even if Blaine could offer the kind of insurance we get here, it isn’t worth a hassle. Anita can’t take a chance on derailing her coverage. You know how it goes—sure, there’s insurance available but it’s likely to cost more, have higher deductibles,and the idea you can keep your doctor or hospital is a joke for everybody except the people in Washington.”
    She pressed her lips together, texted: Hold champagne. Will explain. White Deer pier six o’clock. She clicked off the cell, dropped it in her purse. At her desk, she drew out the bottom right drawer, dropped her purse into the drawer, slid the drawer shut. Slipping into her chair, she punched the intercom. “If anyone”—a slight pause—“calls for me, I’m not available. Offer to take a message. You don’t know when I’ll be in the office.” She clicked off the intercom.
    A muffled peal sounded from the closed drawer holding her purse.
    Megan rubbed knuckles hard against one cheek. When the ringtone—the cheerful sound of marimbas—ended, she picked up a pen, reached for a folder.
    â€œBabe—”
    â€œGo away, Jimmy.” Her voice was tired. “I’m working.” She flipped open the folder, began to read a record of a deposition.
    I spoke quickly. “Megan needs some time alone, Jimmy. What do you like to do on a summer day?”
    A considering pause. “Spoon chocolate ice cream out of a strawberry soda. Flop in a hammock. Fish. Tube on the river.”
    Big black truck inner tubes offered a silky wet journey, fairly cooling when the temperature nudged a hundred. I squeezed my eyes in thought. Perhaps there was something similar. “Megan, does Graham’s fancy house run to a swimming pool?”
    She looked up, her expression wary. “Yes. Why?”
    â€œObviously, he’s single since he’s getting ready to marry a rich widow, so no one should be at the house.”
    â€œLike they say, the rich get richer. He came out on top in the divorce. He has the fancy home with spires and turrets and a swimming pool. His ex-wife Rhoda lives in a 1950s brick house in the old part of town. She’s a bookkeeper for a construction company. Two kids, both in college. Last I heard one was a camp counselor in Missouri and the other one’s waiting tables in Colorado. There won’t be any family at Graham’s house. Maybe a housekeeper.” Megan shrugged. “For that matter, maybe a chorus line for all I know. He thinks he’s irresistible to women.”
    â€œIs that why they divorced? Did he have