Page 91 of Widow’s Walk

Moments later, Amy gathered the invitations and guest list from the writing desk, all business once more. “One last thing,” she said. “You sure you’re okay with me hanging your paintings? Some guests are collectors. This could open doors for you.”

Sully rubbed his jaw where the fake beard itched. “I don’t know. The idea of people staring at my work feels like a slow-motion nightmare. They’ll see every mistake I ever made.”

“They’ll see the mansion through your eyes,” she said, tightening the clasp on her cloak. “The passion that went into it.”

He met her gaze, uncertain. “Still feels like too much.”

“Too late,” she answered lightly. “They’re already on the walls.”

A knock sounded downstairs.

Amy looked toward the sound, then back at him with a glint of anticipation. “Showtime, Captain.”

Sully took a long breath, then placed his gloved hand at the small of her back as they started down the stairs together. Outside, the first cars were already rolling up the drive, beams of light cutting through the dusk.

He adjusted his crooked beard and gave a wry smile. “Hope your guests are ready. The ghosts aren’t the only ones haunting the mansion tonight.”

She laughed, and the sound steadied him more than he’d ever admit.

Amy had imagined the gala in a thousand different ways, but none of them looked like this.

Lanterns gleamed along the patio and the pathways, swaying in the ocean wind like captive stars. The mansion itself glowed from within—open doors, spilling music, laughter echoing down halls that had been silent and dust covered.

She stood on the grand staircase in her Verity gown, momentarily breathless. For the first time since she had owned it, the house felt alive.

Everywhere she looked, people mingled. She saw locals she’d had as massage clients, reporters from Portland, the mayor in full Victorian garb, even one of the ferry captains who’d once sworn he’d never set foot in the cursed house. And somehow, right beside him, was a billionaire investor chatting amiably with the postman over crab cakes.

Amy laughed to herself. That alone was worth all the sleepless nights.

She barely had time to breathe between conversations. Guests stopped her in every room, asking about wellness packages, venue rentals, art classes. Her voice was turning pleasantly hoarse from answering the same dozen questions—yes, bookings were open, yes, weekend retreats were available, and yes, the sauna was functional.

Through the crowd, she caught glimpses of Sully talking by the staircase, striking in his Captain Blackwell coat. His fake beard was impossibly still intact. To her utter delight, he was surrounded by people pointing at the banister, peppering him with questions.

She noticed the stack of business cards slowly thinning in his pocket. Every now and then he’d hand one out, scribbling notes, laughing when someone asked if he took commissions. It made her chest ache with pride.

Throughout the house, guests followed the treasure-map tour, admiring restored rooms lined with placards that told real stories. From the laughter echoing upstairs, it was clear the Ghost Room was doing its job. The fog machine puffed gently through the air, and people stood around the paranormal equipment, half skeptical, half delighted.

Down the east hall, hushed voices drifted from the Murder Room. People spoke in low, respectful tones, moved by the care put into it. One older woman patted Amy’s hand afterward. “You gave the victims their dignity back, dear,” she said.

That nearly undid her.

Media cameras rolled quietly in the background, taking it all in—the music, the paintings, Sully’s art glowing under soft lights, the historic portraits Kaitlin had found now framed in gold leaf. Reporters asked thoughtful questions about community initiatives instead of ghosts. Even the mayor, who had once called the house a liability, stood on the front steps to give an impassioned toast about rebirth and small-town pride.

A group of people in elaborate costume, laughter trailing behind them like confetti.Amy turned, half expecting another group of donors or local reporters, but when she spotted the man leading them her jaw actually dropped.

“Christian Delaney?” she said.

Her lawyer looked faintly out-of-place amid the masks and glitter, but he’d at least given it a try—black tailcoat with an antique cravat, a thin domino mask perched crookedly on his face. His wife, radiant in emerald silk and peacock feathers, smiled at Amy with open amusement.

“I’ve been trying to reach you all day,” Delaney said, raising his voice over the music. “Figured you were up to your ears getting this thing ready.” His smile widened as he took in the crowd, the candlelight, the ghost-themed exhibits. “Quite the setup. You’ve outdone yourself, Amy.”

She laughed breathlessly. “It’s been… a night. I didn’t realize you’d gotten tickets.”

“Consider it curiosity. And a good excuse to see the restoration in person.” Then he reached into his inner pocket and produced a long white envelope. “But this is business first.”

Amy blinked. “Business?”

“The network finally wired the settlement this morning.” He passed her the envelope with a little flourish. “Final check. The agreed-upon payment, plus damages.”