So tell me,” Miles said to Sarah as they left Sarah’s building later that night, “what do you miss most about the big city?”

“Galleries, the museums, concerts. Restaurants that are open past nine o’clock.”

Miles laughed. “But what do you miss the most?”

Sarah looped her arm through his. “I miss the bistros. You know—little cafés where I could sit and sip my tea while I read the Sunday paper. It was enjoyable to be able to do that in the middle of downtown. It was like a little oasis somehow, because everyone who passed you on the street always looked like they were rushing somewhere.”

They walked in silence for a few moments.

“You know, you can do that here, too,” Miles finally offered.

“Really?”

“Sure. There’s a place like that right over there on Broad Street.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“Well, it’s not exactly a bistro.”

“What is it, then?”

He shrugged. “It’s a gas station, but it’s got a nice bench out front, and I’m sure if you brought in your own teabag, they’d be able to scrounge up a cup of hot water for you.”

She giggled. “Sounds enticing.”

As they crossed the street, they fell in behind a group of people who were obviously part of the festivities. Dressed in period clothing, they looked as if they’d just stepped out of the eighteenth century—thick, heavy skirts on the women, black pants and high boots for the men, high collars, wide-brimmed hats.  At the corner they broke into two separate groups, heading in opposite directions. Miles and Sarah followed the smaller group.  “You’ve always lived here, right?” Sarah asked.

“Except for the years I went to college.”

“Didn’t you ever want to move away? To experience something new?”

“Like bistros?”

She nudged him playfully with her elbow. “No, not just that. Cities have a vibrancy, a sense of excitement that you can’t find in a small town.” “I don’t doubt it. But to be honest, I’ve never been interested in things like that. I don’t need those things to make me happy. A nice quiet place to unwind at the end of the day, beautiful views, a few good friends. What else is there?” “What was it like growing up here?”

“Did you ever seeThe Andy Griffith Show ? Mayberry?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Well, it was kind of like that. New Bern wasn’t quite so small, of course, but it had that small-town feel, you know? Where things seemed safe? I remember that when I was little—seven or eight—and I used to head out with my friends to go fishing or exploring or just out to play and I’d be gone until supper. And my parents wouldn’t worry at all, because they didn’t have to. Other times, we’d camp out down by the river all night long and the thought that something bad might happen to us never entered our minds. It’s a wonderful way to grow up, and I’d like Jonah to have the chance to grow up that way, too.” “You’d let Jonah camp out by the river all night?”

“Not a chance,” he said. “Things have changed, even in little New Bern.” As they reached the corner, a car rolled to a stop beside them. Just down the street, clusters of people strolled up and down the walks of various homes.  “We’re friends, right?” Miles asked.

“I’d like to think so.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“I guess it depends on the question.”

“What was your ex-husband like?”

She glanced toward him in surprise. “My ex-husband?” “I’ve been wondering about that. You’ve never mentioned him in all the time we’ve talked.”

Sarah said nothing, suddenly intent on the sidewalk in front of her.  “If you’d rather not answer, you don’t have to,” Miles offered. “I’m sure it wouldn’t change my impression of him, anyway.”

“And what impression is that?”

“I don’t like him.”

Sarah laughed. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you don’t like him.”

“You’re pretty perceptive.”

“That’s why I’m in law enforcement.” He tapped his temple and winked at her. “I can spot clues that ordinary people overlook.”

She smiled, giving his arm an extra squeeze. “All right . . . my ex-husband. His name was Michael King and we met right after he finished his MBA. We were married for three years. He was rich, well educated, and good-looking . . .” She ticked those off, one right after the other, and when she paused, Miles nodded.  “Mmm . . . I can see why you don’t like the guy.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“There’s more?”

“Do you want to hear this?”

“I’m sorry. Go on.”

She hesitated before finally going on.

“Well, for the first couple of years, we were happy. At least, I was. We had a beautiful apartment, we spent all of our free time together, and I thought I knew who he was. But I didn’t. Not really, anyway. In the end, we were arguing all the time, we hardly talked at all, and . . . and it just didn’t work out,” she finished quickly.

“Just like that?” he asked.

“Just like that,” she said.

“Do you ever see him anymore?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

“I’m sorry I brought it up,” he said.

“Don’t be. I’m better off without him.”

“So when did you know it was over?”

“When he handed me the divorce papers.”

“You had no idea they were coming?”

“No.”

“I knew I didn’t like him.” He also knew she hadn’t told him everything.  She smiled appreciatively. “Maybe that’s why we get along so well. We see eye to eye on things.”

“Except, of course, about the wonders of small-town living, right?”

“I never said I didn’t like it here.”

“But could you see yourself staying in a place like this?”

“You mean forever?”

“C’mon, you have to admit it’s nice.”

“It is. I’ve already said that.”

“But it’s not for you? In the long run, I mean?”

“I guess that depends.”

“On what?”

She smiled at him. “On what my reason for staying would be.” Staring at her, he couldn’t help but imagine that her words were either an invitation or a promise.

? ? ?

The moon began its slow evening arc upward, glowing yellow and then orange as it crested the weathered roofline of the Travis-Banner home, their first stop on the ghost walk. The house was an ancient two-story Victorian with wide, wraparound porches desperately in need of painting. On the porch, a small crowd had gathered as two women, dressed as witches, stood around a large pot, serving apple cider and pretending to conjure up the first owner of the house, a man who’d supposedly been beheaded in a logging accident. The front door of the home was open; from inside came faint sounds of a carnival funhouse: terrified shrieks and creaking doors, strange thumps and cackling laughter. Suddenly the two witches dropped their heads, the lights went out on the porch, and a headless ghost made a dramatic appearance in the foyer behind them—a blackened shape dressed in a cape with arms extended and bones where hands should have been. One woman yelped as she dropped her cup of cider on the porch. Sarah moved instinctively toward Miles, half turning toward him as she reached for his arm with a grip that surprised him. Up close, her hair looked soft, and though it was a different color from Missy’s, he was reminded of what it had felt like to comb through Missy’s hair with his fingers as they lay together in the evenings.  A minute later, at the muttered incantations of the witches, the ghost vanished and the lights came back on. Amid nervous laughter, the audience dispersed.  Over the next couple of hours, Miles and Sarah visited a number of houses. They were invited inside for a quick tour of some; in others they stood in the foyer or were entertained in the garden with stories about the history of the home.  Miles had taken this tour before, and as they strolled from home to home, he suggested places of particular interest and regaled her with stories about homes that weren’t part of the ghost walk this year.

They drifted along the cracked cement sidewalks, murmuring to each other, savoring the evening. In time, the crowds began to thin and some of the homes began to close up for the night. When Sarah asked if he was ready for dinner, Miles shook his head.

“There’s one more stop,” he said.

He led her down the street, holding her hand, gently brushing his thumb against it. From one of the towering hickory trees, an owl called out as they passed, then grew silent again. Up ahead, a group of people dressed as ghosts were piling into a station wagon. At the corner, Miles pointed toward a large, two-story home, this one devoid of the crowds she’d come to expect. The windows were absolutely black, as if shuttered from the interior. Instead, the only light was provided by a dozen candles lining the porch railings and a small wooden bench near the front door. Beside the bench sat an elderly woman in a rocking chair, a blanket draped over her legs. In the eerie light, she looked almost like a mannequin; her hair was white and thinning, her body frail and brittle. Her skin looked translucent in the flickering glow of candles, and her face was lined deeply, like the cracked glaze of an old china cup. Miles and Sarah seated themselves on the porch swing as the elderly woman studied them.  “Hello, Miss Harkins,” Miles said slowly, “did you have a good crowd tonight?” “Same as usual,” Miss Harkins answered. Her voice was raspy, like that of a lifetime smoker. “You know how it goes.” She squinted at Miles, as if trying to make him out from a distance. “So you’ve come to hear the story of Harris and Kathryn Presser, have you?”

“I thought she should hear it,” Miles answered solemnly.  For a moment, Miss Harkins’s eyes seemed to twinkle, and she reached for the cup of tea that sat beside her.

Miles slipped his arm over Sarah’s shoulder, pulling her close. Sarah felt herself relax beneath his touch.

“You’ll like this,” Miles whispered. His breath on her ear ran a current under her skin.

I already do, she thought to herself.

Miss Harkins set the cup of tea aside. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper.

There are ghosts and there is love,

And both are present here,

To those who listen, this tale will tell

The truth of love and if it’s near.

Sarah stole a quick peek at Miles.

“Harris Presser,” Miss Harkins announced, “had been born in 1843 to owners of a small candle-making shop in downtown New Bern. Like many young men of the period, Harris wanted to serve for the Confederacy when the War of Southern Independence began. Because he was an only son, however, both his mother and father begged him not to go. In listening to their wishes, Harris Presser irrevocably sealed his fate.”

Here, Miss Harkins paused and looked at them.

“He fell in love,” she said softly.

For a second, Sarah wondered if Miss Harkins was also referring to them. Miss Harkins’s eyebrows rose slightly, as if she were reading Sarah’s thoughts, and Sarah glanced away.

“Kathryn Purdy was only seventeen, and like Harris, she was also an only child.  Her parents owned both the hotel and the logging mill, and were the wealthiest family in town. They didn’t associate with the Pressers, but both families were among those that stayed in town after New Bern fell to Union forces in 1862.  Despite the war and the occupation, Harris and Kathryn began meeting by the Neuse River on early summer evenings, just to talk, and eventually Kathryn’s parents found out. They were angry and forbade their daughter to see Harris anymore, since the Pressers were regarded as commoners, but it had the effect of binding the young couple even closer together. But it wasn’t easy for them to see each other. In time, they devised a plan, in order to escape the watchful eyes of Kathryn’s parents. Harris would stand in his parents’ candle shop down the street, watching for the signal. If her parents were asleep, Kathryn would put a lighted candle on the sill, and Harris would sneak over. He would climb the massive oak tree right outside her window and help her down. In this way, they met as often as they could, and as the months passed, they fell deeper and deeper in love.”

Miss Harkins took another sip of her tea, then narrowed her eyes slightly. Her voice took on a more ominous tone.

“By now, the Union forces were tightening their grip on the South—the news from Virginia was grim, and there were rumors that General Lee was going to swing down with his army from northern Virginia and try to retake eastern North Carolina for the Confederacy. A curfew was instituted and anyone caught outside in the evening, especially young men, was likely to be shot. Unable now to meet with Kathryn, Harris contrived to work late in his parents’ shop, lighting his own candle in the store window so that Kathryn would know he was longing to see her. This went on for weeks, until one day, he smuggled a note to Kathryn through a sympathetic preacher, asking her to elope with him. If her answer was yes, she was supposed to put two candles in the window—one that said she agreed, and the second as a signal for when it was safe for him to come and get her.  That night, the two candles were lit, and despite all the odds, they were married that night under a full moon, by the same sympathetic preacher who’d delivered the note. All of them had risked their lives for love.  “But, unfortunately, Kathryn’s parents discovered another secret letter that Harris had written. Enraged, they confronted Kathryn with what they knew.  Kathryn defiantly told them that there was nothing they could do. Sadly, she was only partly right.

“A few days later, Kathryn’s father, who had a working relationship with the Union colonel in charge of the occupation, contacted the colonel and informed him that there was a Confederate spy in their midst, someone in contact with General Lee, who was passing secret information about the town’s defenses. In light of the rumors about Lee’s probable invasion, Harris Presser was arrested in his parents’ shop. Before he was taken out to be hanged, he asked for one favor—a candle to be lighted in the window of his shop—and it was granted. That night, from the limbs of the giant oak tree in front of Kathryn’s window, Harris Presser was hanged. Kathryn was heartbroken, and she knew her father had been responsible.

“She went to see Harris’s parents and asked for the candle that had been burning in the window the night that Harris died. Overcome by grief, they hardly knew what to make of the strange request, but she explained that she wanted something to remember ‘the kindly young man who’d always been so courteous to her.’ They gave it to her, and that night she lit both candles and set them on the windowsill. Her parents found her the next day. She’d committed suicide by hanging herself from the same giant oak tree.”

On the porch, Miles pulled Sarah a little closer to him. “How do you like it so far?” he whispered.

“Shh,” she answered. “We’re getting to the ghost part, I think.” “Those candles burned all night and the following day, until they were nothing more than little knobs of wax. But still they burned. On into the next night, then the next. They burned for three days, as long as Kathryn and Harris had been married, and then they went out. The following year, on Harris and Kathryn’s anniversary, Kathryn’s unused room mysteriously caught fire, but the house was saved. More bad luck followe............