White Mountain. Dinah McCall

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.