The Best of Times: A Dicken's Inn Novel by Anita Stansfield Page B

He didn’t want to admit how it calmed his frazzled nerves that were sometimes difficult to keep in check when the echoes of gunshot were still ringing in his ears, and the associated images were always in his mind. He felt relaxed enough that he laid down on the beautiful Victorian bed and gazed at the intricate plaster moldings around the edge of the ceiling before he took a short nap and got up just in time for supper.
    Chas served sirloin tips in a mushroom gravy with mashed potatoes. It was delicious, and he told her so.
    “I hope Granny isn’t driving you crazy,” she said.
    “Not at all,” he insisted. “I’m sure I could avoid her if I wanted to. She can’t very well chase me down.” They both chuckled. “I think your grandmother is a hoot.”
    “Yes, she certainly is. I would bet that the only people on the planet who know more about Charles Dickens than her are the people who run those museums in England.”
    “That’s not a bad thing, is it?”
    “No, of course not. He’s not boring; that’s for sure.”
    “But . . . Granny doesn’t really have trouble with the line between fantasy and reality, does she?”
    “Granny is sharp as a tack. She knows exactly where she is and what’s going on.”
    “So . . . this ghost of Charles Dickens thing is . . . what? A joke?”
    “What do you think, Jackson Tobias Leeds?” Before he could answer, she added, “Do you believe in angels?”
    “Angels? I thought we were talking about ghosts.”
    “It’s all relative, isn’t it? Can’t ghosts be good and angels evil sometimes? Aren’t the two terms really synonymous?”
    “As in they’re both the spirits of dead people?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Are you trying to tell me you think this house is haunted?”
    “No,” she chuckled, “the house is not haunted.”
    “But you believe in ghosts?”
    “I believe in angels. I believe they’re all around us, even if we cannot see or hear them. And I believe that some people are more sensitive to such things than others.”
    “You?”
    “No, Granny. She talks to my mother and her husband all the time.”
    “And Charles Dickens.”
    “Yep.”
    “But you’re convinced that she is not out of touch with reality.”
    “I just say that to tease her,” Chas said, and Jackson looked at her as if he were considering a phone call to an asylum. She leaned over the table and said more softly, “Listen, I can’t tell you whether or not my grandmother just has a vivid imagination or a remarkable gift. Whether she simply wants to believe it, or knows it’s true, she’s happy and she’s well adjusted. For myself, I believe in angels, even if I’ve never seen or heard one personally. And if you want to get technical, who’s to say that Charles Dickens—dead as he is—wouldn’t pop by to check in on Granny once in a while, since she is probably one of his best friends still living on the planet?”
    Jackson chuckled and shook his head. “I have no idea why, but I think that actually made sense to me.”
    She smiled more widely than he’d ever seen, and he decided he liked her smile. “There may be hope for you yet. And while we’re on the subject . . .”
    “Of hope for me?”
    “That too, but I meant . . . the subject of angels. I believe in miracles too, Mr. Leeds. Do you believe in miracles?”
    “Define miracle.”
    “An event that defies any logical explanation or coincidence; an event that blesses people’s lives.”
    “Like the parting of the Red Sea? That kind of event?”
    She chuckled. “That’s clearly one of the greatest miracles of all time. However—”
    “You believe that really happened, then?”
    “Of course it happened!” Chas said with vehemence. “It’s in the Bible. Don’t you believe it?”
    “I’ve never thought about it, to be truthful.”
    “Maybe you should.”
    “Maybe I should.”
    “However, as I was going to say, I believe there are little miracles that take place in the lives of everyday people