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Daphne Wentworth is almost seventeen, definitely a red head, and most likely the tallest girl in her class, which is awkward to say the least when it comes to dating boys in her school. But she doesn’t have to worry about school for the next two months since she’s spending the summer at her aunt Dwill’s lighthouse in Maine.
What she does have to worry about is seeing ghosts in the lighthouse cemetery, having strange dreams, and hearing the voices of star-crossed lovers who lived two-hundred years ago. And then there’s a local boy named Zach Philbrook who works for her aunt. He’s too gorgeous for his own good. He’s also very tall, with midnight black hair, and the most beautiful indigo blue eyes Daphne has ever seen.
Zach is treated like an outcast by the local teens in town. He’s Micmac and therefore not “one of the gang”. Daphne can’t help being drawn to his strength, especially considering that he’s had to live his entire life dealing with ignorance. But the local teens aren’t the only trouble-makers in town. As Zach and Daphne get closer, the lighthouse ghost lovers begin haunting them. When Daphne and Zach try to figure out how to fight them, the spirits get bolder and more dangerous.
So how do you protect yourself from something that isn’t really there?
It wasn’t the first time a good idea had come back to bite me in the ass, but I was afraid it might be the last.
The plan had seemed harmless enough. I never intended things to get so out of hand, and I certainly hadn’t expected Zach to get involved. No, wait. If I’m going to tell this tale, write it down so it’s never forgotten, I must tell the truth—the whole truth.
I should start at the beginning . . .
I had always resisted being a redhead.
“My hair is brown,” I’d declare, “with red highlights.”
When you were one of six heads that spilled out onto the sidewalk every morning though, the sun unmercifully spotlighting the fact that you varied in shades from the red section of the crayon box, you eventually had to let that notion go. When I was twelve—we were only four heads bobbing off to Catholic school at the top of the hill by then—Mom tried to soothe me by pointing out my hair was auburn.
Auburn. I’d liked the sound of that. It wasn’t red, it was auburn.
Auburn sounded regal and refined.
So did Daphne Wentworth. That’s my name, but I can tell you truthfully I’m neither regal nor refined. I favor t-shirts and jeans and my battered sneakers. I usually have a basketball in my hands. Or a softball bat. I’m tall, always have been. Do you know what it’s like to go through school like a giraffe above the crowd? Above the boys?
But I digress.
My point is, I’m not at all what you’d expect from my name. And what happened to us last summer, what waited at the lighthouse, in that small copse of trees, well . . . you’d never expect that, either.
Not in two hundred years.
About the Author:
Jeanine Duval Spikes is a spinner of romantic tales with a touch of the supernatural. Lifelong research and experience with the paranormal infuse her stories with ethereal spirit, while her belief that love conquers all suffuses them with heart.
She is a paranormal investigator with a small local group, aspiring to help those in need by advancing this exploratory field both spiritually and scientifically. When not writing, you can find her cooking, gardening, horseback riding, or forever getting lost in secondhand shops. The mother of two grown sons, she lives in Rhode Island, the Ocean State, with her very own hero-husband Tim, and two crazy cats. She is the proud recipient of the Jo Ann Ferguson Service Award for selfless assistance and dedication to fellow writers and the craft.
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Where to by: Lachesis Publishing