Belle hastily exited her side and shouted after her mother, “Don’t you dare ask Jack to buy me a car!”
“Oh! Brilliant!” Yasmin called from the steps. “What kind of car are you going to get?”
Belle closed her eyes.
“One like yours,” Rachel called back.
Belle opened her eyes and glared at her mother.
“Brilliant!” Yasmin repeated, her happy gaze on Belle. “We can be car twins.” Belle was trying to wrap her mind around the concept of “car twins” while she walked forward and witnessed Yasmin’s face falling. “Though, Jack’s a Jag man. He’s always owned Jaguars.” Then her expression brightened. “If he gets you one of those, you should get green. I love green Jags. British racing green. Lush.”
Belle walked up the steps announcing, “Jack is not buying me a car. My car is perfectly fine.”
“No… it… is… not,” Yasmin decreed, sliding her arm through Belle’s elbow and walking her through the open door. “You’re a national treasure, a stylish national treasure. Your boyfriend is hot and he’s rich and he’s famous and you’re having his baby. This all means you need a great car.”
Yasmin, Belle decided instantly, not only liked to spend her trust fund money, she liked to spend any money, no matter whose it was.
“Can we stop talking about the car?” Belle asked when they hit the entry and Rachel, with effort, pushed the heavy door closed behind them.
“Oh yes!” Yasmin whispered with excitement. “Let’s talk about The McPherson.” Yasmin’s gaze moved to Rachel and it was dancing. “He’s here and he’s hilarious. I came out to tell you. Wait until you meet him.”
She linked her other arm through Rachel’s elbow and propelled them all to the library.
Belle liked the library almost as much as she liked the drawing room, the morning room and Jack’s study. It was also lined with books and somehow managed to be both austere and welcoming. It was austere because it too was huge with a massive fireplace. But the musty scent, the many books (which everyone knew equalled “relax and stay awhile”), the worn leather couches and comfortable armchairs with ottomans made it welcoming.
Yasmin let them go so they could walk into the library single file and Belle halted at what she saw.
A big man with lots of white, dishevelled hair and ruddy, pink cheeks was standing, arms crossed on his chest, legs planted wide, wearing full Scottish gear.
That was full Scottish gear – kilt, hose, sporran, garter flashes, knife in his sock, ghillie brogues, top-to-toe Scottish gear.
Belle had been to Scotland, she’d seen men casually wearing kilts but this was something else.
But it wasn’t just him.
The woman with him was gorgeous with a mess of rich, dark brown hair which Belle could see only because there was a lot of it. Mostly the crown of her head was covered as it was wrapped tightly in a big scarf that had moons and stars printed on it and long, ragged edges that tangled in her hair. She also had long, thin scarves, three of them that Belle could count, their ends dangling and tangled with a variety of long and short silver necklaces around her neck. She also had silver bangles on both wrists, silver earrings at her ears and silver rings on all her fingers. She was wearing a belt made out of big silver disks threaded through the belt loops of her jeans not to mention another scarf wrapped lower on her hips.
She wore so much silver, it made her mother’s copious silver, self-ornamentation seem tame.
Belle stared at them, stunned.
They looked exactly like two, crazy “Ghost Helpers” would look.
If Jack met these two, he’d have a fit.
Then he’d eject them.
Then he’d demand that Belle give up her quest to send Myrtle and Lewis to heaven.
“Holy heck,” she whispered.
“Aren’t they great?” Yasmin asked.
“Holy heck,” Belle repeated.
“I love your scarves!” Rachel shouted, moving forward and greeting them both.
Belle hung back.
Gram and Joy were also there and as Belle continued to stand frozen to the spot, her mind consumed with all the ways Jack would lose his mind when he met Cassandra McNabb and The McPherson, Gram spoke.
“My granddaughter is a little shy.”
The McPherson regarded Belle a moment, his eyes narrowed.
Then his face cleared and he grinned a crooked, mad grin.
“Get over here, lass!” he boomed. “Let The McPherson get a good look at you.”
“Um…” Belle muttered.
“Come on, come on…” he urged, moving toward her and Belle wanted to retreat, she really, really did but she thought it might appear rude.
The McPherson got close and put a big, gentle hand between her shoulder blades and propelled her forward all the while looking down at her.
“I’m Angus McPherson of The McPhersons, at your service,” he announced.
“I’m Belle Abbot,” she whispered timidly.
He stopped her close to the huddle of women that had formed in front of the fireplace.
When he spoke again, he was no longer booming. It was quiet and as gentle as the hand he’d put at her back.
“I know, lass. Know you, know what you did. Never met a hero. Been one, a number of times, never met one. Least, not a wee slip of girl like you.”
She’d tilted her head to watch him speak and as he did, she pulled in a breath.
“No, lass,” his voice was still quiet when he talked on, “we won’t talk about it. I know it makes you uncomfortable.”
She didn’t know how he knew that unless Cassandra, the clairvoyant white witch soaked up her vibes somehow and told him but Belle didn’t say anything. She just nodded.
“Now!” Angus McPherson was back to booming. “Let’s get this ghost business sorted!”
“I’m Cassandra,” the witch came forward, a smile on her face, her hand extended.
“Belle,” Belle replied and took her hand.
When Belle’s fingers closed around Cassandra’s, through her hand she felt Cassandra’s body jerk. Then the woman went still, her smile died and her eyes grew hazy.
Belle grew concerned when she didn’t come out of her sudden, weird trance and Belle’s hand gripped Cassandra’s more firmly as she lost her shyness and moved closer.
“Are you all right?” Belle asked but Cassandra didn’t answer. She just kept staring at nothing, vacant, looking lost.